Chapter 25 Chapter 25 Look at this, young Mitchell...

Based on the name Elio had given, Red Robin began a systematic search of the personnel lists of major hospitals. The data was rapidly sifting through and comparing them; it was only a matter of time before he could find all the Dr. Langstroms. As for which Langstrom it was, Red Hood was already drawing a portrait based on Elio's description.

"Like this?" he asked.

A thin, middle-aged figure suddenly appeared on the paper. Elio nodded, and they uploaded the portrait into the system for cross-comparison. The Batcomputer slowly read the information remotely.

"I wasn't expecting this to go so smoothly," Elio said, leaning against the table, looking at the retrieved data strip. "If I were alone, it might have taken me a long time to find out who he was."

"You can just say 'thank you, vigilantes,'" Red Hood said, taking out a frozen burger from the kitchen and putting it in the microwave. "But that doesn't include me, because I'm an outlaw."

Red Robin, standing before the data, turned to Elio and gave him an exaggerated shrug, a look that said, "He's just like that." As if possessing eyes, Red Hood immediately turned his head and cast a suspicious glance, but only received an innocent look from Red Robin.

"Thank you, vigilantes and outlaws." Elio was amused by their laughter. "I'm serious. Alvin told me you were close friends, but I never thought..."

"Alright, alright," Red Hood interrupted. "If we keep going on like this, we're going to end up crying on each other's shoulders. Let's save this sentimental scene for when one of us finally crawls out of hell, okay?"

He pulled the burger out of the microwave and walked nonchalantly to the window, eating while looking out. Behind him, Elio looked hesitantly at Red Robin.

"That's a metaphor, isn't it?" the assassin asked. "The part about crawling out of hell?"

Red Robin was subtly silent for a moment.

"…right?" the assassin asked uncertainly.

The system retrieved the results perfectly. Red Robin breathed a sigh of relief, then vaguely passed it by, raising his hand to proceed to the next step, such as clicking on the specific information of Dr. Langstrom. But after seeing the screen display, Red Robin couldn't help but be surprised.

"No?" Elio, who came over, asked in surprise.

"We can only assume that this 'Dr. Langstrom' isn't part of the regular medical system." Red Robin leaned back. "Perhaps he's an underground private clinic. If that's the case, we'll just have to inquire more during our night patrols."

"And pray that this 'Doctor Langstrom' isn't some new villain, though I have to admit, that's nothing new." Red Hood walked over. "I remember the Batcave always keeps up-to-date with social security data, right, Red?"

"Yes," Red Robin glanced up at the assassin, who was lost in thought, "so I immediately ruled out the possibility that the search was incomplete."

From this angle, Red Robin, sitting in her chair, could see the assassin's eyes beneath his hood. Shrouded in shadow, those deep green eyes stared at the portrait on the screen, expressionless. But as she watched, Red Robin keenly sensed a slight prick in her own nerves, resonating with the reverberation of murderous intent.

Anyone who knew they were being watched like that would immediately and intelligently pack their bags and flee the city—no, the country, the planet—to a place far away where the assassin would never find them. At least, that's what Red Robin thought.

The suspicious detective's heart was filled with alarm. At this moment, the assassin noticed his gaze, lowered his head, and smiled at him.

"Don't worry," Elio said casually. "He can't get away. And thank you for saving me a lot of time. Otherwise, I would probably be going through the staff list at the hospital right now."

"That's too slow."

Standing on Red Robin's other side, Red Hood took the last bite of his burger and swallowed it. He casually dusted off the bread crumbs and salad dressing on his hands and reached for the keyboard in front of Red Robin. As Red Robin stared in disbelief, the Outlaw re-uploaded the portrait for a Gotham-wide comparison search.

"From the assassin's description of his clothing," Red Hood straightened up, snore-ing at the incompetent and furious Red Robin, "we can infer that he's a relatively respectable man. Let's hope he's a respectable citizen of Gotham, at least in his public capacity."

Templars always have a "public identity" and a "hidden identity," and in Gotham, such people are not uncommon. Compared with criminals who detonate bombs in broad daylight and walk away in blood and limbs, they sometimes give Bruce more headaches.

They are the city's true ill. Those blurred faces wear careless smiles, their hands clutching golden chains forged from power, toying with the pierced limbs of Gothamites, twisting the entire city into the shape of desire and ambition at will.

This is a problem that Gotham cannot solve by killing, and it is also Gotham's real deep-rooted and complex chronic disease. Even if the entire Brotherhood were to come in and bloodbath Gotham, the city would not be better - of course, Batman would not allow them to do so - Gotham does not need more blood.

What Gotham needs is hope.

When a rare ray of sunlight shone through the clouds, Bruce's attention could not help but drift away. The Wayne chairman, who never took charge of things, looked away, his beautiful blue eyes longingly at the rare sunshine in Gotham, as if the board of directors was confining him to this office was a cruel torture.

"...Mr. Wayne," the board member called him persistently, "Mr. Wayne?"

"Oh, sorry," Bruce managed to come back to reality, "Is it over already?"

He stood up impatiently, his movements so swift that one wondered if Bruce Wayne's chair, the most comfortable in the entire conference room, and perhaps even the entire company, would bite. The board members he had left behind raised their eyebrows and tried to draw back the chairman's attention by discussing today's topic, but they only received the same response as at the beginning of the meeting.

"No, not Abstergo," Bruce blurted out before walking out of the meeting room. "Their game is too slow."

Is that all? The board members in the meeting room exchanged bewildered glances. As they exchanged glances, CEO Lucius feigned a helpless shrug. After a few pleasantries, he also stood up and left, following Bruce who had already left.

"I thought you were interested in Abstergo," Lucius said.

"I'm interested in them," Bruce admitted, "but in a different way. Be careful, Lucius, they're just like any other business in Gotham."

"Like Cobblepot?"

They passed the secretary's office. An assistant stood up to greet him, and Bruce trailed off, offering a frivolous smile. His passionate blue eyes held an intoxicating gleam, and even the assistants, constantly forced to carry out their boss's baffling orders, would admit that Bruce Wayne possessed an overly elegant and beautiful appearance.

It was not until they walked into the elevator and were isolated from the sight of outsiders that the famous Gotham playboy's expression changed rapidly.

"Like Cobblepot," the Gotham Knight said gravely, "but his influence is far greater and more deadly than his family's."

The young Templar, Leopold Mitchell, understood the first half of this statement well.

He knew about Abstergo's global expansion, and the Templars' worldwide influence through this expansion. He had once believed it was part of maintaining the Templars' "rule," part of establishing order... He had once been proud of his Templar identity.

Until he saw his former friend walk away in blood. Until he received that anonymous email, which brought the shocking evidence of the crime to his eyes.

The email was accompanied by a note: "This is not all. If you want to know more, if you dare to know more, come and see me 'alone'."

Leopold knew he shouldn't have gone to the appointment. He shouldn't have listened to this inexplicable email, shouldn't have risked his own safety to go alone. Worse still, he shouldn't have been so easily swayed by evidence that might have been fabricated, and started to doubt the Templar ideals—the ideals of the Father of Understanding, the ideals he had once believed in so firmly and was so proud of.

He shouldn't have gone.

If he didn't recognize the place.

Leopold subconsciously stroked the address displayed on the screen. He had discussed group assignments there with his classmates and roommates countless times, clicked the mouse and keyboard countless times in the aroma of coffee and chocolate, and brushed each other's shoulders and fingers while delivering books and mugs.

He really shouldn't have gone.

"Father of Understanding," the Templar muttered, closing his eyes, "please guide me."

"What did you say?" asked the waiter.

"As usual," Leopold opened his eyes again. "Thank you."

The waiter, as usual, ordered a mocha and a black coffee. Leopold gazed toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, a look of worry on his face. Students of all stripes passed by, the colors of the sunset draped over their shoulders. Leopold couldn't help but think that if Elio hadn't joined the Assassins, perhaps they would still be two ordinary students playing around with each other.

A gentle breeze blew by. By the time Leopold realized what was happening, a familiar companion had appeared in the booth. Hooded Elio sat there, taking a sip from the cup of black coffee in front of him.

"You're here," Leopold said softly.

"I thought I should be the one saying this." Elio put down his coffee. "To be honest, I didn't expect you to actually come."

"And just like you requested, I didn't bring anyone." Leopold spread his hands. "I told my father that this was just an ordinary book discussion and there was no need for bodyguards."

Beneath the assassin's hood, the Templar's familiar lips curled up into a mocking smile for a moment. But then, the smile faded.

"Book discussion, yes." The assassin pulled out more materials and pushed them onto the table. "Please look at this, young Master Mitchell."