Shiller sat leisurely in his chair, not one to eat other's leftovers, yet he manipulated his fork and knife, arranging the food on the plate into specific shapes.
Jero turned his head and thought furiously. To others, a re glance at this food could make them flee three miles away, but there he was, freeloading three als a day, and if he had more candles, he could eat a hotel out of business by himself.
Jero reclaid his seat. He had to have a talk with Shiller; he simply couldn't go to the kitchen. That was an ordeal an ordinary person like himself could not endure.
Previously, he had no real reason to venture there and naturally coaxed Shiller into taking the risk. But now that he had a compelling reason, he also had to persuade Shiller to take him along, which was exponentially more difficult.
Even if Shiller was willing to go, there was no need for him to take along such a drag like himself. It was clear to anyone that taking an injured commoner along to explore dangerous grounds was akin to courting death.
For the first ti in his life, Jero sowhat wanted to give up.
It wasn't that he completely lacked an angle for persuasion; he was just afraid that once he started speaking, Shiller would too. If he kept silent, Shiller would as well, and from that mont on, he would not utter a single word.
But clearly, Shiller had no intention of letting him off the hook.
"Actually, I'm a bit curious about your relationship with the third party," Shiller said, propping his head with his hand, "Do you really detest him that much?"
Jero's expression darkened, as if the re thought of this person made him want to obliterate the world, but it also revealed his sense of resignation, no longer bothering to hide his feelings.
Seeing his response, Shiller didn't press further. "Alright, let's talk business," he said. "You've noticed I'm not the sort to solve problems through conventional ans. If you think I can handle the trouble in the restaurant, and particularly solve your problem, you'd better tell everything."
Jero pursed his lips, but soon pushed them up defiantly, his mouth corners tugged down fiercely, almost as if he was swallowing his pride, then said, "Alright, I can tell you who that person in the kitchen is."
"Wrong," Shiller shook his head, "that's precisely the least important issue. I am not him, I understand Gotham far better than you do. I've known who that person in the kitchen is for a long ti."
"Impossible," Jero instinctively denied.
"Oswald Cobblepot, you call him the Penguin Man."
Jero's eyes widened in an instant.
Shiller said he had inquired about the restaurant, and every corner of it seed to bear his na, especially the inferiority and arrogance revealed in that cyclical ga, his simultaneous flattery and hatred for the upper class, his longing for an entirely self-sufficient satisfaction. All these bespoke how he beca the Penguin Man.
Shiller, with his elbows on the table, gently swayed the fork in his hand and then said, "His obsession with the restaurant, his obsession with power, it's more like settling for second best in a wish he could never fulfill."
"In his eyes, the restaurant did more than feed the patrons; it fed him. The fact that he produced and others consud was not a testant to his spirit of giving, but to his desire to have his value validated by society's recognition of him, which in turn translated into self-recognition. It was him feeding himself, independent of anyone else."
"The sa goes for power. He views power differently. Cobblepot isn't materially greedy. Though he once ca from a wealthy family before falling into decline, the material disparity wasn't the fundantal reason for his thirst for power."
"He saw the affirmation of self-certitude and self-identity within his grasp. The high regard of the upper class for the lower provides plentiful social validation, and if he himself is of the upper class, then the king inside his heart can validate the pauper within, as if to say, 'I've taken the throne; I have the right to declare my own nobility, and I need no one else to crown .'"
"To put it more deeply, it's not that he needs self-satisfaction, but that he's incapable of accepting other's recognition. The organ able to accept recognition and praise from others was removed from him, leaving a man forever insecure, but out of necessity for survival, inflated with a grandiose self-affirmation of everything."
"If soone were to bla for this tragedy, perhaps it was once the patrons of the restaurant, those mbers of high society. Not all of them spewed venom towards the then young and more vulnerable Cobblepot, but that's exactly the crux of the problem."
"Had they all been brutes, like so mob bosses who would order Cobblepot about, beat him, mistreat him, even wanting to kill him, it would not have led to his social recognition disorder. On the contrary, the majority of these high society mbers were quite kind to Cobblepot, at least superficially they didn't harm him."
"That was due to the norms of high society, which dictate that unless extraordinary circumstances dictate otherwise, one must always appear compassionate and magnanimous, pitying the weak to enhance one's image."
"But Cobblepot could never be tad by pity. Ambition was the first word etched in his DNA, and such pity only confounded him—'The high have recognized , so why am I still so impoverished?'"
"The mont of recognition and kindness instinctively brought him joy, content in the satisfaction that at least he had been the recipient of generosity, even if he knew it was feigned, particularly when he was among those of lower status; being chosen always made one feel special."
"But after such satisfaction faded, Cobblepot felt an emptiness far greater than others, for he was never content to live that way; he felt validated, therefore special, but upon reflection, this specialness did not improve his lot one bit."
"Could all that praise have been false? Was even the special treatnt I received a lie? Then what is real?" He couldn't help but think this way, plunging into a profound self-doubt that caused him unbearable pain.
Gradually, the ability to accept others' recognition wore thin, because whenever he was acknowledged, his instinct was to doubt—Can this recognition be real? Am I the only one receiving it? Did you choose randomly? Does recognizing bring you any benefit?
Afters and afters of contemplation, it still wasn't for him. He began to reject it all because as long as he did not seek fulfillnt of his worth from others, he could bear his current life. People at the bottom in Gotham always had to learn to endure.
Eventually, this skepticism towards others' recognition turned into a curse that haunted him; Cobblepot was unable to genuinely appreciate soone's acknowledgnt. A shadow of doubt always lurked in his heart. In his years of unpolished acting, this cost him many opportunities and could even lead to his downfall.
What's even more terrifying is that he remained skeptical instead of thoroughly dismissing it. If he had embraced everything with open arms, understanding the principle of judging by deeds, not intentions, he certainly wouldn't have turned into a villain. If he had been disillusioned early on, completely indifferent to others' recognition, then he would undoubtedly have beco the most outstanding villain.
But sadly, he couldn't be extre. Upon being recognized by others, his first reaction was disbelief, the second that the other person had sothing to gain, the third that they couldn't possibly be sincere, and the fourth that they seed so earnest. He was always disappointed, yet always tempted.
Even in seeking self-acknowledgnt, he layered his inner King with the facades he'd seen from the upper-class society.
Even if it ant fantasizing for self-fulfillnt, anchoring others' recognition of him, he would deny his current self, adding layers of socially desirable qualities, convincing himself that this ti they must be sincere.
Jero's eyes rolled upwards, he had long realized that the nerves on the ceiling had stopped moving.
Jero felt like he was about to burst.
If his own psyche were dissected and laid bare on the table for others to scrutinize, he couldn't imagine what he might do. Yet the man across from him had really done so, even while facing a monster devouring an entire restaurant.
Jero felt a chill coming from the direction of the kitchen, not an adjective, but a description of physics; the restaurant was getting colder and colder.
"I don't think the Penguin figure holds any special aning for him," Shiller was still speaking, "It might be because he slightly resembles a penguin, maybe it's his wobbly walk, or perhaps sobody mocked him for it, but that's not important."
"But the iceberg is symbolic; he prefers cold to heat, although I don't find that quite fitting. Cobblepot's ambition is like a roaring fire; perhaps he wanted to cool himself down, which is why he envisioned encasing himself within an iceberg."
"If he is still of sound mind, he should understand that keeping oneself calm is a tendency to shy away from weakness, and it solves none of the ridicule. In the face of insult, maybe it's better to cool down the other person instead."
Jero suddenly had an ominous premonition.
Shiller snapped his fingers lightly, a gesture that always seed frivolous and out of character for him, but with the appearance of a flash of firelight, the world changed dramatically.
Shiller stood up, took the fla in his hand, and walked straight towards the kitchen. Jero hurried after him, but Shiller stopped at the kitchen door, where the floor was already covered with a layer of ice.
Shiller threw the fla inside.
The fla was actually small, just a bit larger than a lighter, probably enough to burn a piece of paper, but the troubleso part was it couldn't be extinguished. Jero watched as the kitchen alternated between icing, frosting, and raining, yet the fla remained unmoved.
Shiller leaned against the door of the kitchen and peered inside; soon ca a cacophony of crackling and banging noises.
Finally, there was a change in the ceiling.
The nerves began to twist, no longer adhering to the laws of science, but resembling the capillaries beneath the skin, the entire ceiling turned into the pallid skin of a human.
Several bulges ford on the skin, then gradually shaped into a face, as if a living person were struggling to break free from underneath, making it especially grim and terrifying.
Yet Shiller and Jero both imdiately recognized the prominent eagle hook nose on the face. Jero turned to Shiller and silently conveyed with his eyes, "You've really done it this ti."
"Without mathematics, physics, and chemistry, the world is full of myths, and it's the sa without psychology," Shiller said with disdain, as he sat back down at the table, seemingly addressing the face on the ceiling.
"Does my behavior remind you of those from your past? They could never truly hurt you, but like that fla, you tried everything to extinguish them to no avail."
"It keeps burning, up to the point where even revenge loses its purpose, indestructible, inescapable, unforgettable, like an Ouroboros of Eternity severed in the middle."
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