Another silent night had fallen over Gotham. In the hospital's deserted corridors, only the faint footprints on the tiled floor spoke of the daytime bustle and the profound stillness of the night.
In a city always made especially noisy by gunfire, the hospital remained quiet. The wounded silently licked their wounds here before returning to face the dangers outside.
One Hand gripped the doorknob and gently twisted it. The sound of the door opening did not conceal the faint hum of the machines or the rustle of turning pages. Victor, standing by the bed and reading a report, looked at the entering Schiller and asked, "What did the attending doctor say? How is he adapting to the medication?"
Schiller looked at the report in his hand. One set of drug-response data seemed familiar to him.
Connors had once told him what sort of figures indicated that the lizard serum was taking effect. The good news was that these numbers fell right within the effective range.
Schiller walked to the bedside and looked at Bruce lying there. By now, he was completely unrecognizable.
The burns from the warehouse fire had not yet healed before he was splashed with chemical agents. Then, after being exposed to the wind and sun without proper treatment, his wounds became further infected and worsened.
Even worse, he had later fallen into a vat of chemical dye. Most of the hair on his body had been corroded away, and his skin had become rough, like that of a zombie.
It was a terrifying sight. After his epidermis had been corroded away, the subcutaneous fat, muscles, and tendons had become tangled together. He looked like one of those muscle men from an anatomy textbook, only far more horrifying.
Bruce no longer possessed that handsome appearance. Youth, strength, and