"Good Lord, who are you?!"
Schiller was not surprised to hear a scream. Turning around, he saw a red-haired woman, but he could barely recognize her. Compared to the photograph, she had aged far too much.
Although only ten years had passed, the woman seemed to have aged thirty years out of nowhere. The neatly tied red curls in the photograph now hung messily around her cheeks. Her cheeks beneath her cheekbones had completely hollowed out, making her nasolabial folds especially pronounced. She looked nothing like someone in the prime of life, but rather like a crone.
The man pushing the wheelchair was nothing like the healthy, strong figure in the photograph either. He was so thin that his shoulders formed right angles. His skin was not wheat-colored but deathly pale, and his thick brown hair was gone as well.
Schiller was briefly at a loss for words. The man seemed about to rush into the house to get a gun, so Schiller had no choice but to say, "Don't be afraid. No burglar breaking into a home would choose to wear a suit. They'd get heatstroke."
Only then did the man notice Schiller's suit. He had clearly once been a member of the elite; with a single glance, he could tell that the suit was expensive.
"Are you with the mob?" He was still wary. Being a Gotham local, his first reaction upon seeing a man in a suit inside his house was that he was mobbed up.
"I don't think the mob would recruit someone like me. I'm a terrible shot." Schiller sat down on the sofa and placed his business card on the coffee table. The man hesitated, but it was far too hot outside, so he could only push his wife into the house.
He pushed