Klein pushed the door open and walked in, medical records in hand.
A two-meter-long table stood in the visitation room, bathed in white light from the fluorescent tubes overhead.
Jerome sat at one end of the table, his hands cuffed, the chain secured to an iron ring on the tabletop.
His face was painted white, with red paint at the corners of his lips, and his gaze settled on Klein.
He sounded as cheerful as someone greeting an old friend:
"Klein, how come you haven't changed a bit? All this time, and you're still working as a prison counselor."
He had known this "frail and feeble" psychology professor back when he was running around Gotham.
Klein sat down at the other end of the table. He opened the report and stared at the pages without looking at Jerome. "That's none of your business."
Jerome leaned forward and lowered his voice, as though sharing a plan he had spent a long time considering:
"Don't you want to pull off something big? Make your name known to everyone who looks down on you... teach them a lesson."
Klein didn't answer.
Jerome lowered his voice further and continued coaxing him:
"Especially that Harley Quinn who's always looked down on you. You're both in psychology, but she's a lot more radical than you."
Klein's fingers paused on the report, but his voice remained professional. "I'm here to give you counseling, not to let you influence me."
Jerome watched him, a sinister smile tugging at his lips.
When it came to breaking people mentally, he had never failed.
Half an hour later, Klein emerged from the room, his face a shade paler than when he had entered.
Without a word, he went straight to the water dispenser at the end of the corridor, bent