Batman remembered the question he had asked at the very beginning: Was there something wrong with him?
Batman snapped out of his daze and looked at Schiller. "...Is there something wrong with me?"
Schiller, who had been eating, froze. He slowly turned to Batman, his fork suspended in midair, unable to move either up or down.
Batman's question genuinely caught Schiller off guard. Like a parent casually asking whether someone had said something to their child after the child lost confidence from being bullied at school, he continued eating as if nothing had happened and asked, "Did someone say something to you?"
Schiller's reaction made Batman narrow his eyes. As Schiller repeatedly cut the meat on his plate, he gave a universally applicable answer. "There's nothing wrong with you. We're very alike."
"Then there really is something wrong with me," Batman said bluntly. Schiller's hand paused again. "If it were any other student, I'd have them describe their symptoms themselves. But if it were you, I wouldn't count on it."
After saying that, he put down his utensils, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and looked at Batman. "Although I have a psychologist's license, I've never given you a formal diagnosis. I was genuinely worried that after I handed you the report, you'd ask me what the roots of the terms meant."
Batman naturally caught the sarcasm in Schiller's tone. Just as he was about to speak, Schiller raised a hand to stop him, then rubbed his brow and said, "Wait, this won't do. I'm a Doctor. I need to be patient with my patients..."
"Fine. I'm a licensed psychologist, and you can trust my professional expertise. If you have time now, you can hear my advice..."
What Schiller had not expected was that Batman actually straightened his back and