Dong—dong—dong—
The dull tolling of a bell echoed above the gloomy manor. A flock of crows beat their wings before the clouds drifting across the moon, then descended in a flurry onto the ruined dark-brown roof.
Stark, Schiller, and Strange, who had been talking, immediately felt a chill run through their hearts and down their backs.
This was not normal. Aside from Stark, neither Schiller nor Strange was afraid of ghosts, yet they still felt an indescribable chill creeping up their spines from the cold ground beneath their feet, like a pair of huge hands closing around their throats.
After a momentary blankness, Schiller's gaze became barren. Strange's expression darkened as well, and a faint magical glow began to flicker in his eyes.
Schiller reached down to fasten the collar of his shirt beneath his sweater, pulled his trench coat tighter, then removed his glasses and slipped them into his pocket. Strange frowned when he saw the look in Schiller's eyes, but given the situation, he said nothing.
That unrelenting atmosphere of chilliness still hung over them like an emotional spell that could not be dispelled. One step forward led to irrational rage; one step back led to disarming fear.
Just as the atmosphere became unbearable, another figure flashed past behind the entrance to the queue.
Schiller frowned slightly and called in a low voice, "Bruce. Bruce Wayne."
The figure paused, then came around the gate. It was indeed Bruce, who had not left the amusement park. He looked momentarily stunned as he approached, clearly sensing that everyone here was on high alert.
"What happened?" Bruce asked.
"The atmosphere in the park is being continuously affected. How do you feel?" Schiller asked.
The moment Bruce saw Schiller's eyes, he knew which personality trait had surfaced. He neither questioned him nor