If Wilson's acting had been polished to the level of a Hollywood star, then the woman the other side had sent was more like a pretty-faced influencer churned out by some third-rate outfit.
Tears hung on her face, but there wasn't a trace of sorrow in her eyes. Even her voice sounded awkwardly forced when she spoke.
If these two had really been actors sharing the screen in a movie, the result would undoubtedly have been a disaster that everyone cursed.
Behind the woman, the Man in Black had already raised a hand toward Wilson.
Even he knew how terrible a performance this subordinate, who was also a Dark Possessed, was giving.
It had little to do with whether he controlled her carefully. Every Gotham resident whose dark side had been awakened by the Amazo Virus became a selfish, cold-blooded sociopath without exception.
Repression and madness were the curse of all Gotham, woven into both its society and its culture.
Even a trash can on a street corner, a brick laid in the floor, or a flake of rust in a water pipe carried an indescribable psychic taint.
You couldn't expect a sociopath to genuinely care about someone.
So the woman couldn't muster much pity or regret for John, the truck driver who had died under Red Hood's gun.
Wilson couldn't see the Man in Black's palm drawing closer. The man had used some means to conceal his form within the normal curvature of light.
But that didn't stop Shane from observing the Man in Black through Rachel's magic.
Watching the hand protruding from that broad black sleeve draw closer in the image, Shane frowned and briefly described the situation to the frantic Jason.
The bone mask immediately covered Jason's face again. He hurried over to the sofa, kicked the