Chapter 11: Smiling Face

. It was midnight.

Barbara Gordon stood on the edge of the rooftop. She had a high nose bridge, a perfect jawline, delicate features, a well-proportioned figure, and flaming crimson hair. She wore a dark police uniform and clutched a document.

Her father, James Gordon, was about to retire as sheriff. He stood aside, his arms crossed, his brown windbreaker rustling in the wind.

"Whoosh!"

a sound echoed through the air.

Batman landed on the other side of the rooftop.

Hearing the noise, the two men turned around. Gordon breathed a sigh of relief and spoke first:

"Thank you for coming, Batman. This should be our last meeting before I leave office."

"Penny One has already informed me."

"That's good," Gordon nodded, put his hand on Barbara's shoulder, and said, "I'm here to complete the last mission handover."

Barbara looked at Batman and took the initiative to explain:

"Yes, starting tomorrow, I will succeed my father as the commander-in-chief of the Gotham Police Department. I will not deny your influence in this city, but I hope you know that the way we will cooperate in the future will not be the same as in the past."

Batman asked calmly:

"How do you want to cooperate?"

"Actions need to be filed, and special operations require advance notice." Barbara answered concisely, "I need to be informed of any action involving the people of Gotham."

"You want the police department to control the order of the city, rather than relying on people like me."

"That's right." Barbara nodded, "I respect your current deterrent effect on criminals in Gotham, but that doesn't mean I will acquiesce in this system continuing to exist without limits."

Batman was silent for a moment and said:

"I won't interfere with the police system, but I won't wait for administrative approval before taking action."

"Reporting to the police first is essential," Barbara said calmly, her demeanor at ease. "The police won't pursue your past record of lacking law enforcement authority, but you'll need to accept our new system going forward."

"It seems you don't trust me."

"I won't unconditionally trust any individual who oversteps their authority."

The two stared at each other in silence for several seconds.

Gordon, standing by, didn't interrupt. He knew very well—Barbara was committed to ensuring the police department's proper role. She wanted to maintain law and order, replace chaos with order, and eradicate the city's evil.

Therefore, she wouldn't acquiesce to Batman's ways like he did.

Batman withdrew his gaze. "If your decision-making is efficient enough, I will cooperate."

"Thank you," Barbara nodded, smiling. "From today on, I will review Gotham's major crime files from the past ten years and develop targeted measures against various criminals. I will then realign police deployments and constantly prevent crises."

Batman nodded, adjusting his headset and whispering,

"Good luck. I hope you can do everything I've just said."

Barbara smiled faintly and replied,

"You too."

"Everyone falls... but not me."

With that, he raised his hand, unleashing his grappling hook, and vanished into the night.

...

"He sounds very confident that he can always control Gotham."

Barbara watched him retreat, a change of expression on her face.

Gordon tugged at the collar of his trench coat, suddenly chuckling.

"You actually admire Batman, don't you?"

"Of course," she admitted frankly. "I appreciate everything he's done to fight crime, but as the new sheriff, I can't always rely on him... plugging holes in the department night after night." "Yes

, you're doing a great job," Gordon said, unstinting in his praise. "You two will develop a whole new model of cooperation."

He took a few steps forward, surveying the streetscape below, a hint of emotion in his tone.

"I never thought I'd uncover the secret of Batman's 'turning around' just as I'm leaving office," he said resignedly. "Today is the first time I've truly seen how he leaves..."

Barbara curled her lips and quipped lightly, "Perhaps he's trying to make a good impression on his new colleagues."

——————

Backstage at the Gotham Theater, the air was slightly hazy, carrying the smell of dust.

Jack Napier sat on a high stool in the dressing room, humming a tune as he revised the script.

"Jack!" the assistant director poked his head in. "Stop changing your lines! Rehearsal's about to begin!"

"It's not really a change," he winked. "It's just... a re-interpretation."

"Then you'll have to give it two minutes less. Come on!"

"Right on, John."

He raised his hands, stood up in surrender, and draped a towel over his shoulders.

A new actor poked his head in from behind and asked, "Mr. Napier, did you add that line 'The crown hides the devil's tongue' yourself? It wasn't in the original script, was it?"

"I don't think Shakespeare would mind. It just fits Gotham's class dynamics," Jack replied with a smile, his eyes twinkling. "And don't you think it sounds particularly appropriate for someone wearing a bow tie and being well-dressed?"

The dressing room erupted in laughter.

He walked to the stage, wiping the bulb for the lighting technician. "I just saw a bat hit our outside window. Is this a sign of a special audience tonight?" "There

you go again, Jack. Batman doesn't have time to come to our theater," the lighting technician muttered with a smile.

You're wrong. He's my most consistent audience member, he thought.

By the time rehearsal officially began, Jack had completely sunk into character. He stood before Macbeth's throne and chanted,

"Stars, shed your flames! Let not your light shine upon my dark and deep desires!"

There was a moment of silence.

Someone whispered, "He's acting so emotionally, it's as if he had spoken the words himself."

The assistant director adjusted his glasses and called to the lighting technician backstage, "Cut the lights here!"

Jack practiced his positioning with the lighting technician. As he reached the front of the stage, he quipped to a few prop crew members sitting in the audience, "This crown is too small. I suspect it's for the mayor's tiny head—it can hold wisdom, but not conscience."

A few chuckles echoed from the audience.

...

During the break, he was leaning on the sofa backstage, flipping through the script, his finger sliding over a line:

"A treacherous heart must be covered with a hypocritical smile."

"I don't like this sentence," he said to himself in a low voice, "a smile should not be hypocritical."

He turned the page, but turned it back and stared at the line for a while.

The lights flickered.

"A fake smile..." he repeated in a low voice, suddenly revealing a strange smile. "What on earth is that? A mask uglier than crying?" 

He hooked his hand around the corner of his mouth, widening his smile.