In New York's wealthy suburbs, the sky was always exceptionally blue. Without the light pollution of glass skyscrapers, the low villas stood in rich colors, complementing the lush shrubs and brilliantly blooming flowers.
Arkham Asylum's activity room was a separate building. The first floor was one vast hall, with the second floor open to it below. Only at the far right was there a loft with a glass floor, furnished with two streamlined armchairs and a modernist coffee table.
Seated in one of the chairs, Schiller glanced at the file in his hands and said, "Mr. Brock, please forgive me for addressing you so formally. We're discussing matters related to mental health, and I need to avoid personal connections as much as possible."
"Unfortunately, the most basic psychological examination Dr. Owen conducted for you, along with Miss Rhode's comprehensive mental-state assessment, indicates that you really aren't doing well right now. Can you tell me what happened?"
Eddie Brock, seated in the other chair, did indeed look haggard. He wore a somewhat dusty dark-blue plaid shirt beneath a black leather jacket. His hair was a mess, and the untrimmed beard on his face had nearly spread down to his neck.
Though he looked like a homeless man, the black-framed glasses on his face at least reminded others that he was a journalist engaged in desk work. Yet his sun-bronzed complexion became rather hard to explain.
"Mr. Brock, I don't think the ultraviolet amplification from a newspaper office window could be this obvious. Or did something happen while you were vacationing at the beach?" When Eddie remained silent, Schiller pressed further.
"I quit."
Eddie's voice was extremely hoarse when he spoke. He closed his eyes, swallowed the nauseating taste of alcohol in his mouth, and said, "I had a conflict with my