"In this manner, I survived the crazy night and successfully allowed my probable identity to become common knowledge. Yet, I still refuse to leave here because there is so much I have yet to learn."
"After meeting the Godfather, I became even more curious about these laws and this order. I'm not sure whether this is a product of the times or a result of certain circumstances..."
"But yesterday's experience made me realize one thing. Sometimes, you want to understand how the rules work. You don't necessarily have to become part of the rules. Breaking the glass makes it easier to see the structure inside..."
"I have seen the base level structure of the mafia, how those children survive, their masks, and now I plan to investigate the secrets of the upper levels of the Mafiosa. I have come up with a good method..."
"Wait a minute!" A voice interrupted Bruce. Harvey Dent sat opposite Bruce, picking up his wine glass, "I think you're missing a discussion between these two sections. Why not add some arguments about the theories?"
"Because I'm not sure..." Bruce paused, "I want to add some discussion about Marxism, but I'm not sure if my professor would accept it. After all, the issue of class struggle has always been quite radical, and from what I've observed, my professor is rather conservative."
"Why do you think so?" Harvey asked, leaning back in his chair and sipping his icy wine. Bruce reflected upon it, "He seems to have no interest in politics. All his knowledge of current affairs comes from newspapers and radio. I've never heard him discussing elections and I don't think he's ever voted."
"I think if I hastily express some radical views, it might lower my grades."
Harvey nodded in agreement, "Indeed, people like him mostly lean to the right, and given the current situation, it's best not to discuss such sensitive topics. Be aware that the CIA might knock on your door in the middle of the night."
Bruce gave a strange look, but he continued, "Anyway, remember the story I told you earlier about Jason successfully obtaining the house number of a suspicious individual?"
Harvey nodded, "Of course, you just mentioned it ten minutes ago. That poor kid, he got hurt for it..."
"The next day, the son of the Godfather, Evans Falcone, or should I say his other persona, Alberto Falcone, found us."
"We went to Falcone Manor. Alberto told us that at a dinner held three days from now, he will officially take over the Falcone Family and become the next Godfather."
One brow slightly raised, Harvey said, "So the Godfather has decided to abdicate the throne?"
Bruce studied Harvey's expression, "You don't seem too pleased."
"Because I can't be sure if the new Godfather will do a better job than his father. Under the rule of the old Godfather, Gotham, though unsafe, still provides some stability. If this system collapses suddenly, larger chaos will likely ensue..."
"I'm aware of that too." Bruce stroked his chin and said, "So I had a talk with Alberto."
"Of course, I didn't include the content of this conversation in the article because I was afraid my overly imaginative professor might have a bold view on the upcoming changes in Gotham."
Bruce glossed over this part of the conversation and continued, "The key point is, Jason told Alberto the house number and Alberto kept his promise. Jason showed his face in the mafia, and the boss of the neighborhood felt proud. Therefore, when Jason recommended me to join the mini-mafia, the boss didn't refuse."
"So what identity did you use to join the mafia?"
"I created a name for it, Match Malone."
"Match Malone? That's a weird name." A member of the mafia looked at Bruce before shaking his head, "However, it is the boss's order, so tonight you are to guard the nightclub next door... Oh, wait, you're a rookie, let me think. It's okay, just go to the casino to conduct surveillance."
"Kid, remember, in the casino, you don't need to know who is rich or poor, who is powerful or powerless. You just remember that when a bet is made, no take-backs are allowed, anyone who dares to go back on their words, load 'em up. Got it?"
This mafia member has obviously trained many novices before, his instructions are simple and easy to understand. Therefore, Bruce nodded to show he understood perfectly.
That evening, he went to the casino covered by the mafia. The casino was not the kind of glamorous casino city Bruce had been to before, but a dingy small gambling house with most gamblers being members of other mafia.
Bruce worked there for two days without encountering any problems. Most people were very disciplined. When they lost money, they would just moan and leave without causing trouble.
Typically, life in the mafia is rather dull. When guests come, you watch them. When there are no guests, you crouch in a corner, light a cigarette, and smoke from morning till dusk, then from dusk till dawn.
Bruce wanted to change his job not because he couldn't learn anything here but because the cost of disguising himself here was too high. In addition to smoking, he had to inhale secondhand, thirdhand, and even fourth-hand smoke...
But getting out wasn't as simple as he thought. He couldn't just go to the mafia boss and say, "I'm bored with this job. Give me another one.". If he did that, he would likely fail outright.
So one day, Bruce transformed himself into the person he hated the most. He knocked out a mob member who was guarding a nightclub, allowing him to go home and rest while creating a new job for himself in the process.
Working as a security guard in a nightclub was indeed intriguing. The club attracted a mix of people from different social classes. Thus, discerning eyes were required to know who to intimidate, who to flatter, who to let in, and who to turn away.
The reason why Bruce lingered for so long at the bottom rung was because he needed to observe. He needed to study the physical appearances and differences among various ranks within the Gotham Gang, in preparation for his upcoming plan.
After a few days on the job, Bruce had established some patterns, especially in terms of the attire of the patrons.
The lowest-level thugs were just like him; wearing sunglasses, a jacket, boots, dangling a cigarette from their mouths, and carrying guns at their sides - all the while squatting on the streets.
They would glance left and right, occasionally removing the magazine from their gun to count bullets. Anytime someone approached, they would snap the magazine back in with a loud "click".
Those a notch higher were core members of the smaller gangs. Their outfits were similar, but they seemed to be more aloof from the street thugs and appeared to be busier with serious matters.
Distinguishing these two types was primarily based on their demeanor. The former loved to dart their eyes around and pouted their mouths often, adopting a "mess with me and you'll regret it" look.
The latter, given that they held some leadership positions and were often burdened with the dirty work, were usually rushing around. Even when they greeted someone, they'd be moving away before the other person could even respond. Their faces often wore an expression of fatigue they had no attempt to hide.
Small gang bosses had distinctive characteristics as well. They bore scars as tokens of the bloody struggles needed to reach their position. They might own a suit or two, but they rarely wore them, and even when they did, they looked inexpensive.
Bruce could not ascertain the exact price of these suits, but as someone who usually dressed in expensive suits, he could easily identify a cheap one. If it was indeed cheap, it would indicate a small gang boss right away.
Until this point, identification was rather simple and could be achieved by mere observation. But it became more complicated when trying to distinguish between higher-ranking gang bosses.
From small gang bosses upwards to members of the Twelve Families downwards, the attire of the higher-ranking mobsters were almost identical. They wore dark suits and polished shoes, occasionally paired with dark or brown sunglasses, and smoked cigars.
When they visited the nightclub, they would usually arrive in a big, black car. The security chief on the passenger's side would get out of the car first and then arrange his underlings by the edge of the carpet. The driver would get out last. Upon stepping out, he would first open an umbrella facing the back of the car, followed by the bosses' polished shoes.
Once planted firmly on the ground, they would stamp the right foot, adjust the tie with the left hand, and then stride forward. As they passed the entrance security, they didn't even deign to look, leaving the last of their guards to check the invitation card and register the identity.
From the big gang bosses who controlled multiple smaller gangs to the boss of the East District's Thirteen Streets, their attire, behavior, demeanor was identical, even down to their movements.
Bruce was beginning to suspect if there was some universal training for them? Even the rhythm of how they stepped out of their cars was uncannily synchronized.
After standing at the door for a few days and getting friendly with another doorman, Bruce learnt that every mob boss in Gotham emulated the Godfather, from top to bottom.
Apparently, these were habits the Godfather had when he was young. There was no reason behind these habits, other than that they were cool.
But this left Bruce feeling puzzled. What if a genius caught onto this behavior pattern and used the same playbook to blend in? How would one tell the difference then?
Bruce posed this question to his colleague, a man missing two front teeth, who responded with a mocking smile, "You're quite a greenhorn to not have thought of this before."
Bruce indicated that he was keen to learn, and flattered his colleague a bit. The man was pleased and he explained:
"In Gotham, if you aren't a mob boss, where can you get a car and bodyguards? Like us two, if we could get such a car and strong bodyguards, wouldn't we be mob bosses?"
"In other words, if you already have a car, a house, and people at your disposal, then what's wrong with letting you in? Why would anyone in your position want to give up the good life to become an assassin, risking their lives daily? It'd be insane."
Bruce thought this over and agreed. Indeed, if you had the resources to impersonate a mob boss, wouldn't that make you a mob boss?
Of course, there was also the possibility that a rich man might impersonate a mob boss. But why would a wealthy man want to pose as a mob boss? Why risk his life consistently when he already had a ton of money? Wouldn't staying in a luxurious mansion, driving extravagant cars, smoking cigars, and leading a life of decadence be better?
Bruce nodded in agreement, finding the reasoning sound. He then turned his attention on procuring a stretch limousine commonly seen in the mob groups and a high-end suit.
The difficulty for ordinary people in Gotham to disguise as mob bosses lies in their inability to acquire luxury cars, fine suits, and bodyguards. If they could, they would already be mob bosses themselves.
But Bruce is different; he's a mad billionaire who insists on seeking a profession outside his own class. The impossible becomes possible if he wants it to be.
Indeed, Bruce's plan involves observing the behavior, mannerisms, and appearances of mob bosses, then disguising himself and blending into the crowd.
The idea occurred to him during his many days in the slums when he realized there were simply too many mobs in Gotham, with countless big and small bosses. It was impossible for ordinary people to remember all those faces.
Given the high turnover rate in the mob world, you could rule three blocks one day and get killed the next, probably without the boss from the neighbouring block even knowing. How could the bodyguards of nightclubs and mansions keep up?
Observation is essential because Bruce had assumed there would be significant differences in appearances between mob members of different ranks, so he needed to remember each detail to recognize people later.
However, due to the mob bosses fanatic devotion to the Godfather, their appearances had become almost indistinguishable, all donning black suits and leather shoes. If members of the Twelve Families added a single red poppy, wouldn't anyone dressed similarly be able to communicate with any class of the mob?
"A plan is gradually forming in my mind, but I know to pull off this grand deceit, I'll need many other factors. There is one place that can facilitate the perfect execution of my plan, and to get there, I need to find a person…"
Another day was torn off the calendar, with less than a day remaining to hand in the assignment. However, Bruce was brimming with ideas. Among the words that he scribbled down, a familiar name appeared— "James Gordon".
"James has always been a great help, and this time, I hope he can work alongside my plan..."
"Even now, I remember the look of surprise on his face when I approached him and asked him to arrest me. I understand his confusion; he must have thought I'd gone mad. However, this is a crucial part of my plan..."
Bruce cornered his smile as he replayed James Gordon's bewildered expression. "What are you saying, have me arrest you?? You…" He stammered.
"Wait a minute, Bruce. Let's talk..." James Gordon patted Bruce's shoulder, "I know you've been through a lot, but some things need to be done gradually. You're young, don't stray off the path..."
"No, James, hear me out." Bruce calmly looked at Gordon, "If I get arrested, will I end up in prison?"
James Gordon faltered, "Whether you will or not...fine, you probably won't be locked up in prison. You're a mental patient with a diagnostic report from a hospital. You'd likely be put in a mental institution."
"Which is the most famous mental hospital in Gotham?" Bruce asked.
"Of course it's Arkham Asylum...wait, are you planning to go to Arkham? What's there for you? There aren't any of your fellow patients there, just a bunch of mob bosses that refuse to leave..."
"I'm here to find those mob bosses."
In the end, Gordon complied. Bruce successfully orchestrated his trial under a false identity and subsequently got admitted to the Arkham Psychiatric Hospital.
Standing again in the corridor of the hospital, Bruce felt entirely different from his past tenure as an intern. He had helplessly watched as Shiller turned a somewhat normal psychiatric hospital into a playground for mob bosses.
Back then, he did interact with the mob bosses, but he was adamant. There was nothing noteworthy about these criminals, and any conversation he had with them was superficial.
Now, standing in front of Arkham Asylum suited up, with a neatly adjusted tie, his shoes polished to a shine, Bruce was ready.
Stepping out of the car, dusting off, fixing his tie, walking briskly into the building, he entered his room, lit a cigar, and sat down to a puff of smoke. Before Bruce could speak, another similarly dressed mob boss approached him, "This is some good stuff, pal. Where did you get it? This couldn't be from the stash before December, could it?"
Bruce gently rubbed the side of his cigar, "It's not contraband, just a little expensive."
The man next to him raised an eyebrow, sitting down in the chair next to Bruce. Bruce wore a mask, but a healing scar on his neck hinted that he had suffered significant burns.
"I'm Harrison. The Fisherman's Wharf in the East District is my territory. Where are you from? Who are you here to see?"
"You can call me Match Malone. My turf isn't far from the Wayne Building. Of course, it's also a tad related to the south district. I'm not here to find somebody, but to discuss a business transaction..."
Everything Bruce said was true, thus his demeanor and tone carried no hint of deception. The person named Harrison squinted: "Close to the Wayne Building..."
Bruce didn't elaborate further, leaving ample room for Harrison's imagination. Harrison certainly couldn't guess that the man before him was Wayne, but he knew that the areas surrounding the Wayne Building were directly under the control of the Twelve families.
Harrison figured that this man must be revealing his identity by implication, but also expressing a standpoint—he only needs to know that I belong to one of the Twelve families, not specifically which family.
If this is his attitude, then it implies that the business he wants to negotiate might be a bit peculiar. Harrison surmised all the reasons, then looking at Bruce, he said, "You should understand the rules here. This is lawless territory. Many businesses depend on sincerity, and it depends on how much earnestness you're willing to show."
"I thought that anywhere in the world, when discussing business, we should first negotiate the returns." Bruce was utterly unafraid of probing. After all, he wasn't a squandering playboy. The Wayne Family had grown to its current status, and much of it was due to him. Gaining an edge in a negotiation was simple for him.
Harrison rubbed his fingers together. He found he was dealing with a tough candidate, certainly deserving of being a member of the Twelve Families. So he smiled, softened his tone and said: "Indeed, it is. But the situation here is special. You should know that as long as you can get into this hospital, you have a chance to have a fair dialogue with everyone."
"Before this, you might not have the right to meet certain people, and they had no rights to meet you. We all need to obey the rules and not create chaos. But, in this hospital, we all have only one identity—that of a patient."
"If it's your first time here, I need to remind you about this. We're all just patients. If you still consider yourself a mob boss, terrifying things can happen. There's a doctor here who doesn't appear often, but you better not provoke him. If you were to fire a gun in here and put a hole in the wall, you'd be in big trouble."
"I've been here before." Bruce said bluntly, "At that time, that professor was still working here. I made some like-minded friends here, which has been very beneficial to my business. So, this time I am here to find some more trustworthy partners..."
Hearing this, Harrison changed his stance, he said, "So you've been here before, then there's nothing more to say. Whatever business you want to discuss, feel free to do so."
"But it's been a long time since then, I'm not sure if the situation here has changed. If you're willing to guide me, perhaps I can get ahold of that professor's medical report?"
Harrison's eyes brightened, he put his hands on the table and said, "Everyone knows that there are two unusual places in Gotham - Arkham Asylum and Gotham University."
"In these two places, no matter who enters, they each have only one identity. If you're in Arkham Asylum, you're a patient. If you're in Gotham University, you're a student."
"And because of this, we have the opportunity for equal exchange. Many people choose to admit themselves or send their children to the school to discuss some matters that are otherwise hard to discuss."
Upon hearing this, Bruce hesitated. Arkham Asylum and Gotham University had become the two most unique locations in Gotham, and they both had one thing in common—both were influenced by Shiller.
"Thinking about this, I became skeptical: is this a coincidence? Or did someone figure out the inherent problem with this rule long ago, deliberately break the regulation, create a platform, strengthen communication, and alleviate the issues caused by a rigid rule system?"
"What confuses me is, the professor who's influenced both locations doesn't seem to care about saving Gotham at all."
"However, I don't think it's a coincidence. If I remember correctly, the Godfather established the rules of the mob and demanded everyone to obey them. Yet, this hospital breaks the norm. Why hasn't the Godfather expressed any objections?"
Bruce put down his pen and paused before writing:
"Or is it like he once said, the mob rules were the only solution he could find in that era, and today, everyone must realize that these rules can't sustain anymore?"
"Perhaps, Arkham Asylum and Gotham University are just preludes for the Godfather to loosen the reins. But why, after three years, has Gotham remained the same, and why hasn't this kind of platform developed more widely?"
"What are the Godfather and the Professor waiting for?"
As this line was written, Bruce's pen suddenly paused. A conjecture crossed his mind that felt absurd. His penstroke across the paper blurred with a hint of disbelief.
"...Are they waiting for me?"
"Since then, have they been waiting for someone to awaken from within the rules, realize the problem, gather the courage to overthrow everything, and have the wisdom to establish new rules?"