hotmtlnovel Chapter 3876 The Nameless Bat (46)
Chapter 3876 The Nameless Bat (46)
Chapter 3876 The Nameless Bat (Forty-Six)
The rain in Gotham tonight is exceptionally cold. The dense raindrops, illuminated by car headlights, resemble a misty white fog. The wheels of the luxury cars seem to be spinning backwards. The emblems on the hoods flash brightly. All the umbrella bearers in Gotham only carry a single black umbrella, shielding their faces, as they approach the car, gently open the door with their white-gloved hands, silently take two steps back, and wait for their expensive leather shoes to splash water on the damp ground.
First a foot, then a thin hand gripped the car door frame. When he exerted a little force, the veins on the back of his hand always reminded one of black reefs amidst white waves, like the barely perceptible bluish rust on the edge of a sharp blade.
The hand was exceptionally pale, exuding an icy chill even more pronounced than the white cuffs. With a slight exertion of force, the man who stepped out of the car was tall and slender, his black hair neatly combed back. His grey eyes were hidden behind slightly gleaming glasses.
The other side of the car looked like it was on fire. A head of fiery red hair accompanied the beautiful woman as she stood up, slowly igniting from the ground. Her smooth, flowing red silk dress swayed gracefully, a sight that shouldn't exist in this cold, somber city.
Her high heels splashed tiny droplets of water on the ground. Her long silk dress rippled like a fishtail as her legs crossed. She seemed like a siren who had swum here with the rain, her slender, pale fingers climbing up the cold, stiff fabric of her suit. Her deep red nails seemed to be recording the heart that had once beat in those hands.
“Let’s go, Professor,” she said.
They walked together up the steps of the manor's banquet hall, arm in arm, in perfect unison. They looked so close, yet they seemed like singularities at opposite ends of the world, suspended in solitude on every rainy night, yet so distant.
Two waiters pushed open the glass doors from either side. The moment one stepped into the banquet hall, everything was illuminated: picture frames, brooches, gemstone rings, and pearl necklaces instantly became dazzling. The space inside was like another world of light.
But the two people who walked in at that moment were like knives piercing through the darkness. No amount of dazzling jewels could illuminate them—the intense danger and sharp aura sliced through the crowd like butter. The Gothamites, with their keen sense of danger, instinctively made way for them.
They walked through the hall, past the dance floor, past the towering champagne tower and the ornate dessert table, until they reached the window. Natasha finally released her grip on Schiller's arm. She felt as if she would be poisoned if she touched him for even a second longer.
Of course, she's the Black Widow. Usually, she's the one poisoning others. But physical poisons are no match for psychotoxicity. Schiller's biggest weakness is that he has a mouth.
Standing by the window, Natasha finally had a chance to scrutinize Schiller. The man wore a perfectly tailored black three-piece suit. The shoulders were the classic, high-set style of an English suit, while the waistline was slender and sharp, like an Italian suit. His tie, a deep red to match her dress, was one of the few bright spots in this extremely formal, vintage suit. Even though, just half an hour earlier, he had made a ten-minute, rather unfriendly critique of the suit's color, as if trying to persuade God to erase red from the world.
Admittedly, Natasha found Schiller amusing. She didn't actually care whether a man's suit and tie matched the color of her dress, but she stubbornly insisted that Schiller wear this particular tie, and even patiently listened to all his opinions on the color red.
In fact, she found it incredible that she could get Schiller to wear a crimson tie. Schiller was the most inhuman person Natasha had ever met. He was incredibly stubborn, following a set of unchanging rules of conduct, as if no one in the world could change him.
But driven by a certain curiosity and a desire to challenge, Natasha persisted in her opinion. She believed that what ultimately defeated him was the statement, "A polite person should show respect for the other person in terms of clothing when both are present." Natasha felt the key might lie in "politeness," almost like lecturing a non-cooperative child.
Or perhaps not. Natasha carefully recalled what had happened in the dressing room. It was also possible that after they had been arguing for more than ten minutes, she couldn't help but curse in Russian, and then Schiller finally gave up and resignedly put on that red tie.
Strange things happen every year, but this year there seem to be more than usual. Why is it that no one in this universe has a red allergy, yet everyone seems to prefer listening to Russian? Some can even only understand Russian?
Natasha had never imagined she possessed such a native language advantage, but now she felt she should make the most of it. She refused to believe that the murders happening in this universe had nothing to do with the man before her.
“Schiller?” Natasha said softly, “Would you like a drink?”
Those eyes, which had been intently fixed on the view outside the window, instantly turned towards her. Natasha raised her eyes in surprise. It seemed she had found a way to deal with this inhuman Schiller.
"Champagne or whiskey? (Russian)" Natasha smiled and said, "Would you like some cheese? (Russian)"
Natasha noticed Schiller momentarily lost in thought. She immediately realized why Russian had garnered his particular attention. This reminded Natasha of what Schiller had said that day.
“There is a great tombstone in your heart.” Schiller’s voice echoed. The first time she heard it, Natasha focused too much on the content of the words and missed the complex emotion that flashed across her tone.
"Got you?" Natasha thought to herself.
"What are you thinking about now?" Schiller suddenly asked. "Using your supposedly superior psychological skills, you've managed to glean something different from my past words, and then think you've found my weakness?"
Natasha held out a hand in a gesture of obstruction, then said, "Turn off your mind-reading ability first, and listen to me."
"Isn't the saying 'You can't expect anything good to come out of a dog's mouth' more impolite than not wearing a red tie, Mrs. Romanov?"
“Be quiet for a moment,” Natasha said. “Give me a chance to guess. If I guess wrong, you can correct me. How about that?”
“If you’re really bored, go upstairs for a stroll.” Schiller took a wine glass from the waiter and looked up at the building. “The Penguin should be showing up soon. He’s determined to get rid of that audacious copycat who dared to kill on his turf. He’ll definitely use this party to find him.”
“I have no interest in the Penguin or the Copycat,” Natasha said, her Adam’s apple bobbing. “Right now, I just want to know what’s going on with you.”
"You want to shoot me? Or rip my heart out?"
“No, no, no, that’s too boring. How could I respond to your mind-reading in such a mundane way?” Natasha knew very well how much she resembled a beautiful, venomous spider when she laughed. Although she was terrible at reasoning and had no talent for psychology, people can always overcome any obstacle when they’re doing something bad.
“You have a Russian friend,” Natasha said. “To be precise, a Soviet friend? No, judging from your expression, it’s not just a simple friendship. He has a certain degree of control over you. Your adoptive father or mother?”
Natasha carefully observed Schiller's expression, but couldn't glean much. She had no choice but to say, "I'll have to use exhaustive search. Foster father? Foster mother? Siblings? Teacher? Doctor?"
Schiller's expression remained unchanged. Natasha pursed her lips slightly. "Comrade?" (in Russian)
Schiller remained silent. Natasha also remained silent.
The wine and light that had stood between them suddenly transformed into a single, colossal tombstone. The summer of St. Petersburg, the spring of Lake Baikal, the autumn of Minsk, the winter of Moscow—these few syllables became a long, monumental work. Natasha dared not ask further, afraid that on the page following her own name she would see the name Schiller remembered.
"Father." (Russian)
Natasha was stunned the moment she heard Schiller speak Russian. She knew Schiller spoke many languages. English was, of course, fluent Chinese, and he also spoke French and Italian, with a smattering of Spanish. But Russian? She had never heard it before.
Even though Greed claimed in Congress to be a Soviet remnant, and many speculated that he might have a Soviet lover, Natasha never genuinely believed that Schiller had any connection with the people of this country. The female agent knew that it was merely a position used to confront Congress.
But now Natasha is certain that she has seen another part of Schiller's soul, from someone who has had a profound influence on him, and who has intricate connections to his homeland, so much so that she is momentarily lost in thought when she hears a familiar accent.
This is something only people from that era would know. Old Russian was a language with very little information content, and precisely because it was not very advanced, it was often distorted during its transmission, resulting in a wide variety of accents, which led to the emergence of Ukrainian, Belarusian, and even Polish-Russian hybrid languages.
When the young nation was first established, the accents of people from all over the country were very different, making communication difficult for many. So they introduced a "standard language" based on the northern Russian accent and required all personnel within the organization to learn and use it.
Natasha learned this accent in the Red House during her lifetime and still uses it today. The vast majority of government officials and intellectuals of her time used this "official accent."
However, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, seemingly in an effort to escape the shadows of the past and to highlight individuality in democratic elections, Russian government officials tended to use different regional accents, and Mandarin was no longer emphasized in education. This led to the Mandarin accent becoming a unique hallmark of that era.
“That person’s accent sounds a lot like mine, doesn’t it?” Natasha asked.
Schiller nodded. "Yes." (in Russian)
Natasha scrutinized Schiller again, seemingly trying to find more traces of his past in him. But he seemed to have hidden them very well. Natasha couldn't find anything.
"Can you speak in a longer sentence? (Russian)"
Schiller fell silent. Natasha was certain he understood, he just wasn't saying anything. She glanced back at the center of the hall. The band wasn't all there yet, which meant there was still plenty of time for socializing. She could strike while the iron was hot.
“I’m very interested in psychoanalysis. Perhaps you can see something more in me,” Natasha said. “The Penguin probably won’t be here anytime soon, so you can talk more. I promise I won’t interrupt you this time.”
"Are you really just getting revenge for me poking you?" Schiller said, bringing his glass to his lips. "It may be impolite to say this, madam, but you're acting like a betrayed madwoman desperately trying to dig up her dead husband's grave."
Natasha was silent. After a long while, she spoke: "To punish him for not loving me?"
"To confirm that he is really dead."