"Why do I feel like you're doubting yourself?" Schiller asked as he took out the complimentary tea bag from the meal box and read the information printed on it.
"That's not self-doubt." Though Jason still rather rudely draped an arm over the back of his chair, he awkwardly picked up the chopsticks, seemingly curious about this unusual utensil. He shook his head and continued, "Your consultation fees are outrageous, but Batman is rich too."
"I heard he's funded by Bruce Wayne. Does Bruce Wayne know he's spending that money on psychological counseling for his adopted son?"
Jason choked for a moment, then muttered, "That's his business. Besides, I don't need psychological counseling. This is completely unnecessary..."
Before Schiller could speak, Jason cut him off. "I don't know whether Batman told you... Forget it. I know how he describes me—a poor little thing who came back from the dead, tortured beyond endurance and full of grievances. Give me a break. I forgot all that a long time ago!"
"Over the past few years, Batman has taken me to see a lot of people, including plenty of so-called experts and scholars like you. The moment they hear I was abused by some lunatic, they start throwing around terms I can't understand—trauma disorders, stress responses, and all that..."
"The way they look at me really pisses me off. You outsiders are ridiculously delicate. Why don't you give every single thing that happens to everyone in this world a name that sounds like a mental illness? Before long, you'll be richer than those bastards on Wall Street!"
"You mean we manufacture illnesses?" Schiller brought over a cup of hot coffee and placed it in front of Jason. Jason nodded. "Most of your diagnoses are just worrying over nothing. I'm doing fine, and I'll do