Gotham's upper society was gradually collapsing.
The Death Gamble scandal had made wealthy people from other regions avoid them like the plague. Public opinion had nailed them to the pillar of shame, and Gordon's arrests had driven them into dark corners.
If they had once been able to hide in safe houses, cautiously peering outside and hoping to ride out this storm, then the utterly insane Death Angel had sounded their final death knell.
The social rules they had established were both rigid and fragile. To ordinary people, the law was a blade hanging over their heads. But to a complete madman like Paul, the law was nothing at all.
The elites, long accustomed to using the law to protect themselves, had long since lost their savage fangs and claws. They believed that as long as they used their tools properly, they had nothing to fear from crazed beasts.
But now, they had placed themselves back in the jungle, bare-handed against a rabid beast. At last, they would pay the price for underestimating their enemy.
Schiller watched it all unfold with cold eyes. But he knew this was only the beginning.
For a condemned prisoner, the most terrifying thing was not death itself, but the time spent waiting for death to arrive.
They would feel rage, demanding like madmen to know how things had turned out this way. But no one could give them an answer.
They would feel remorse, reflecting on every single thing they had done, yet deep down, they still would not believe they had done anything wrong. They would only feel wronged and aggrieved.
They would feel despair. The final days of life should have been precious, yet there was nothing they could do but waste away as they marched toward death.
All these emotions would