"Bruce... Wayne!!!!"
Schiller staggered to his feet. The moment he took a deep breath, he tasted blood in his mouth.
Looking down, he saw blood smeared across the crumpled prison uniform over his chest, sleeves, and pants, as well as the streaks of blood spread across the floor by their movements during the fight.
Schiller raised one hand and wiped his lips with the base of his palm. He clenched his teeth, bared them, and stared at Bruce before him.
Bruce had to admit that once the professor before him had completely lost his elegant exterior, he possessed both the bedraggled desperation of a trapped beast at the end of its road and a savagery born of raw instinct.
In this state, Bruce saw Schiller's true nature, as if he had never truly escaped the asylum of his memories or that deranged life.
Now, Bruce finally understood why Schiller had always pursued an ordinary life.
And what he had once said—that autism could not be cured—was not merely the delusion of a mental patient. Once they tore off their disguises, it was as though they were still trapped in that frantic, bewildered adolescence.
Yet as he watched Schiller's aggressive stance, Bruce suddenly realized that he was not afraid.
Perhaps it was because fear always came from the unknown. Now that he understood Schiller, he had the confidence to face him calmly.
Bruce turned sideways and took a large step back, clearing the direction Schiller was facing. He raised the hand closer to the door and pointed forcefully toward it.
"She did it."
Sure enough, Schiller looked in the direction Bruce was pointing and saw Amanda, who looked just as bewildered as he did.
Schiller would not be distracted so easily, but when he saw Amanda, he realized that this face