Days as a Spiritual Mentor in American Comics

At dusk, the sky over Gotham Upper City was enveloped by heavy, dark clouds. The day's fine rain had just ceased, leaving the air filled with the moist scent of soil. Accumulated water on the streets reflected the brilliant lights of neon signs, as if the entire city was soaked in a bewildering illusion.

Carter drove a black sedan, slowly entering the underground parking garage of Carter Group headquarters. The car's tires rolled over the wet ground, making a slight "hissing" noise, almost as if reminding him that danger was never far away.

The last light of twilight, like a pool of soon-to-be-solidified blood, spread across Gotham's skyline.

Clenching the steering wheel, Carter's knuckles turned white. His face was pale as paper, and his forehead was dotted with fine beads of sweat, his eyes revealing hard-to-conceal panic and anxiety.

His suit was crumpled, and he appeared utterly disheveled. His breathing was rapid, and his chest heaved violently, as if he had just woken from a nightmare.

The car slowly moved deeper into the dark reaches of the underground parking garage. The lights grew sparse, and the surrounding shadows seemed like an open giant mouth, swallowing him whole.

Carter's heartbeat accelerated, and in his ears, he could still hear the screams of the prisoners in Arkham Asylum, along with Shiller's icy, mocking voice.

In the afternoon, Arkham Asylum received no sunlight; towering stone walls kept it out, and dim corridor lights cast twisted shadows. The air was filled with an oppressive, suffocating heaviness.

The cells were crowded with kidnapped wealthy individuals, their faces etched with fear and despair. Some whispered and sobbed quietly, while others struggled frantically to break free, but all efforts were futile.

These once-captivating prisons held their investments firmly. The robust walls and bars may have received some of their own efforts, but no one dared to mention such a hopeless fact.

Next to the railing above the courtyard stood Shiller, calmly, one hand resting on the railing and the other tucked into his suit pocket, his face carrying a faint, elusive smirk.

His gaze swept over the prisoners below, his voice low and calm, yet carrying a chilling mockery, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Arkham's special program. I know you all want to leave here, but I'd rather keep the opportunity for those who understand the cost of freedom."

The prisoners looked up, their eyes filled with fear and confusion. Shiller continued, "The rules are simple—if you agree to participate in a Death Game, you have a chance to leave."

"Of course, the game's cost is your assets."

The prison fell deathly silent, with only the sounds of breathing and heartbeats echoing in the air. Carter sat in a corner, hands tied behind his back, his forehead sweating coldly. His mind was in turmoil, his heart seemed ready to burst through his chest. He knew that Shiller's game was no joke, but he had no choice.

At that moment, a man named Bloom suddenly stood up, his voice hoarse but sinister, "I! I'm willing to participate!"

Carter abruptly raised his head to look at Bloom. Bloom's face was equally pale, but his eyes showed a hint of determination. Carter clenched his teeth and finally stood up as well, "I'm in too."

Shiller's lips slightly curved into a satisfied smile, "Very well, two warriors. Let's begin."

Carter and Bloom were taken to a special cell on the right side. There weren't many bars, just a small window on the side wall of the room, outside of which sat wealthy people watching them.

The room was dim and cold, the air filled with the smell of rust and mold. An old wooden table was placed in the middle of the room, on which lay a revolver and several bullets. Shiller stood by the table, toying with a coin in his hand, his gaze shifting between Carter and Bloom.

"The rules are simple," Shiller explained, "Each has a six-shot revolver. For every ten billion US dollars worth of assets you offer, you can add another bullet to your opponent's gun. The first to fall loses."

Carter's palms were soaked, his throat tight, almost unable to speak. As a banker, a prominent figure on Gotham's Diamond Street—this meant he had more financial assets, but he lagged far behind Bloom from Texas in real estate.

Countless thoughts flashed through his mind—the family fortune, the future of the enterprise, his own life... All seemed to teeter before his eyes, ready to collapse at any moment.

"Begin," Shiller commanded in a voice as cold as a blade's edge, cutting into Carter's ears.

"The first round, the base wager," Shiller's thumb flicked open the cylinder, dropping two .44 Magnum bullets into a velvet tray, "Now, please start with your donations."

Bloom's alligator leather boots crunched over broken glass on the floor: "I add two bullets!" The checkbook flipped out, scraping a candlestick over, its melted wax dripping onto his bulging hand veined. Carter watched five brass bullets pushed towards him, his pen's tip jittering saw-toothed ink in the check amount box: "One... Let's start with one."

The closing sound of the cylinder snapping shut was like a hissing snake.

The first shot—

Bloom hastily pressed the revolver against his own temple, the candlelight casting a flickering red dot on the whiteness of his eyeballs. This Texan wild wolf, who once blasted open striker's doors with a shotgun, now had finger joints whitening from excessive force.

"Give my regards to your damned Gulfstream plane!" he sneered, corners of his mouth tugged, the trigger pulled in an instant—

The empty chamber's dull thud startled a flock of bats on the ceiling.

Cold sweat dripped down Carter's jaw onto the equity transfer form, blurring the golden logo of "Carter Group." Bloom flicked off the dust that clung to his forehead, the gun barrel screeching across the table: "Your turn, Diamond Street darling."

Carter's right hand, holding the gun, showed bruises from IV drips. As the cold muzzle pressed against his cheekbone, he heard the sound of a music box from his childhood bedroom—his father teaching him about compound interest.

Compound interest, compound interest... So alluring, so dangerous.

The resistance of a compressed trigger spring suddenly disappeared.

Silence ensued.

Carter collapsed like a deflated balloon.

In the deathly silence, all that could be heard was Shiller wiping his pen with a rustling sound.

"The second round, the time for emotional surcharge." Shiller suddenly used the barrel of the gun to lift Carter's tie, "A billion not only buys bullets, but also the right to accompany your young daughter to her piano lessons."

Carter's pupils suddenly constricted. Bloom watched the sticky sweat on the palms of his opponent who was signing the check drag out worm-like creases on the paper; Carter suddenly grabbed the entire checkbook and tore it in half: "I bet all the banks on Diamond Street!"

Among the scattering paper fragments, three bullets slid into the chamber.

The shadow of the spinning revolver twisted on the wall, resembling the noose of a greedy gambler. This time, Bloom stuffed the gun barrel into his mouth, his Adam's apple rolling up and down over his dark neck, his lungs like pumping bellows.

Carter noticed that his left hand was unconsciously stroking the Cross pendant—the most valuable possession they had on them now, and he wasn't speaking of faith.

The moment of the explosive crackling sound, Bloom's dentures burst onto the iron table with blood foam. It was not gunpowder, but the sound of molars crushing. The chamber was empty.

Carter wiped the sweat from his palm on his trouser seam, and as the gun's muzzle faced his ear canal, he smelled the scent of gunpowder mixed with the stench of incontinence urine. When the trigger reached the second safety catch, he started to scream for God.

The vibration of the firing pin striking the primer went through his skull throughout his body.

It's over, damn it's over!! Carter roared internally, but he soon started to tremble again. No... not yet.

But it was close. That damn beastly gun had four bullets left. The next shot would kill him!

"New rule, the same amount of money can remove a bullet from your own gun. Any bidders?"

Bloom roared and slammed all the checks on the table; the golden bullets jittered in the tremor.

One. The assets he could muster were only enough to buy off one. Three bullets remained in the gun. A one in four chance he could live.

As the cylinder turned, the Texan finally let out a whimper like a cornered beast. Carter counted his own heartbeats before he pulled the trigger—seven, two fewer than the first time he shorted all the crude oil futures in Gotham.

In the deafening explosion, Bloom's head splattered abstract art on the cement wall.

Carter maintained his gun-holding pose, until he saw Shiller stuff the blood-stained check into his suit pocket: "Congratulations, you are now 58% poorer than when you entered Arkham."

Carter's dazed pupils gradually regained focus; he found himself still sitting in the car, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. Shaking his head, as though that could calm him down.

He had no way out. Even though he had lost a lot, the remaining wealth was enough to sustain a stable life; but if he was caught and jailed, then he would have nothing.

He pushed open the car door, and walked staggeringly towards the elevator. The elevator doors slowly opened, he stumbled inside, and pressed the button for the top floor.

The speed of the elevator's ascent matched his heartbeat. He knew his fate was sealed, but he had to give it his all to survive in this game.

The elevator doors opened, and he walked out, heading to his office. The dim, cold lighting of the office greeted him; he glanced outside the window, the city lights were still dazzling, but behind this glamorous facade, blood was slowly dripping from the giant's proudest crown.

Carter adjusted his tie, walked to his desk, and booted up the computer, his fingers furiously tapping the keyboard, a determined look in his eyes. He knew he had to win, otherwise, it would be all over.

Carter Group main server room, 23:47 PM.

The monitor cast greenish ripples on the cement walls as Carter ripped open his sweat-soaked shirt.

He pulled out a DVD-R disk, recording offshore transactions from 2003-2006, and shoved it into an industrial-grade shredder, the fragments falling into the incinerator like snowflakes.

"Transfer the wire transfer records from the Bermuda subsidiary to the RAID array!" he yelled into the encrypted satellite phone, his left hand lighting a fire to the list of shareholders of a shell company.

The cell of Financial Director David suddenly vibrated on the metal cabinet: "The IRS discovered our transfer pricing agreements in the Virgin Islands… They're too fast! No time to destroy it!"

"Activate the backup plan," Carter said through gritted teeth, "Hang the difference in licensing fees at the subsidiary to the tax-exempt projects in Puerto Rico manufacturing! Hurry!"

GTO Headquarters IRS temporary office, 00:29 AM.

Agent Martha Coleman's canvas shoes crushed over the brass-colored wires scattered on the ground, workstations suddenly emitting a sharp beeping.

"This guy is too crafty, the data streams we just caught have already vanished, if you ask me, we should just blast his server to end it!"

"Good idea. I'll have Lake handle it."

As Carter directed David to break his last cash holdings of 320 million dollars into hundreds of service fees to be sent to a European trust fund, suddenly all the fluorescent tubes in the building went off. In the darkness, only the emergency lights at the top floor of Carter Group flickered through the rain.

"That hell-bound mongrel!" Carter grabbed a cup and threw it out.

"Power's out, Boss. Backup is not working, likely someone tampered with it."

"No, I must go to the vault. I have to manually format the system operation logs, otherwise I'm as good as dead!"