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"Why do you..." Copperpot glared at Schiller, but then he suddenly realized something and cursed under his breath, "Damn it..."

He turned back to look at Schiller, but he didn't see the usual expression of success in police interrogations on Schiller's face. On the contrary, Schiller was really looking at him with confusion, which made Copperpot feel humiliated.

Copperpot pursed his lips, stretched his neck, tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Can you please untie the strap on my arm first? It's uncomfortable for me..."

He thought Schiller would refuse, but Schiller stood up without hesitation, walked to his bed, and untied the strap on the armrest. As soon as he finished untying one hand, Copperpot eagerly moved his arm.

His right hand was tied to a splint, and Schiller reminded him, "Due to delayed treatment, your right hand fracture has become very serious. If you delay for another two days, there is a risk of amputation, so let's keep it tied for now."

Copperpot muttered under his breath, seeming to curse something. When Schiller's gaze turned back to him, he suddenly fell silent.

Schiller sat back in his seat, picked up the medical record, and said, "Let's talk about this issue. From the layout of the crime scene, I can feel that you were in a hurry. Can you tell me what happened?"

Copperpot wrinkled his nose and raised his lips, making him look fierce. He seemed to want to refute Schiller's point of view, but he felt that he shouldn't say too much to a stranger who was a psychologist.

"Let me hear about your criminal thinking. After all, you went to so much trouble to do so many things. It would be a pity if there were no audience, right?"

Copperpot's intact arm grabbed the railing fiercely. He tilted his head and stared straight at Schiller, saying, "You damn psychologist..."

Copperpot admitted that Schiller's words were more effective than any police interrogation method.

Schiller smiled at him. He knew that any criminal who appeared on the big stage of Gotham in the future was an orthodox believer in the criminal world.

They had their own pride in crime, such as the delicacy of their techniques, the presentation of results, and the misleading effect on the onlookers. They hoped to achieve perfection in every aspect.

They would consider these issues carefully with every criminal plan they implemented, and hoped that someone could recognize their genius creativity.

They firmly believed that crime without an audience was not perfect crime.

Copperpot's reason told him that it was not a good idea to reveal everything now. If Schiller really recorded the sound, he might not be able to escape trial.

But he was itching to tell his story. Another voice in his heart told him that Schiller was just like him, and he would be a good listener who could understand the subtle and exquisite criminal process that ordinary people couldn't understand. He could understand his uniqueness.

Soon, Copperpot couldn't help it. He said, "It was an accident. If it wasn't for..."

Copperpot paused for a moment, seeming to organize his thoughts, and then he relaxed, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling with his eyes, and began his narration.

"...I happened to meet The Godfather completely by accident. My father used to be a famous gang leader in the East District. After he died, the territory and property that should have been inherited by me were divided up by those wolves like gangs..."

"My mother moved back to the old house near Living Hell to protect me, but we still couldn't live in peace. My father's enemies chased us several times..."

"One night, I was washing plates in a bar in the East District, and when I came out, I was surrounded by people. They were about to shoot me when a car passed by. The person inside was His Excellency Falcone. He stopped those people and drove them away..."

"The Godfather saved you?"

"That's right. I was only 12 years old at the time, but I was skinny and looked even smaller. He probably couldn't stand those people trying to shoot a child. Anyway, at that time, I met The Godfather..."

"I don't know where he saw that I was worth cultivating. I was skinny, small, physically weak, and not likable in appearance. I couldn't make friends easily, but The Godfather secretly helped me..."

"So, when he needed you, you went to kill for him?"

Copperpot said expressionlessly, "What's wrong with that? He saved me, and I know that it's nothing for him, but killing is nothing to me either..."

"I have to say, you did very well in Edward's case. You didn't seem like a novice. Can you tell me more about that day?"

Copperpot shook his head and said, "It all depends on The Godfather's prestige. No one dares to be unruly on his territory. This is not something to be praised..."

"Alright, let's cut to the chase. You didn't do all of this just to go with the flow. What do you really want?"

"I want to break free from The Godfather's control." Copperpot's words were shocking.

"To be precise, not from the old Godfather..." Copperpot added, "I am willing to work for Falcone, to kill for him, but only for the esteemed Falcone..."

"I knew some time ago that the old Godfather wanted to step down, and hand over his power to his son, young Falcone."

Copperpot scoffed, "But he's not up to the task. Young Falcone is no match for his father, and following him will lead nowhere."

"The new Godfather will naturally inherit the old Godfather's position, wealth, and connections, including me. But I see that young Falcone is too far behind. I don't want to follow him..."

"Why do you feel that way?" Schiller asked him.

"Previously, he wanted to reform, but the territory that the old Godfather handed over to him was a mess."

"He had drive, but no goals. His methods were forceful, but he lacked thought. Simply put, he's not cut out for this."

"So, what did you do?"

"I know that the old Godfather is not dead yet. It's impossible to get rid of him by force, or I'll die."

"I have received his favor, and have killed for him. Maybe it seems like we're even."

"But every Gotham citizen knows that once you've done this kind of thing, you can never go back. You either die or go down a dark path."

"But I don't want to be a part of his inheritance, to listen to the new Godfather's orders. Or rather, the new Godfather's foolishness will not only kill himself, but also me. I don't want to die, so I have to leave."

"When The Godfather sent me to Living Hell to watch over this place, I realized that my chance had come..."

"My first target is Mooney's gang." Copperpot raised his voice, "I need to establish myself here, understand the situation, and formulate a plan. So I joined Mooney's gang, following Fish's orders. In a short time, I learned everything about this place."

Copperpot's words gradually became fluent, and when it came to this aspect, this future penguin spoke endlessly.

"When I finished the preliminary investigation, Mooney's gang was no longer a good base because Fish's territory was compressed layer by layer, and the range of activities began to become very small. I couldn't collect enough information. At this time, I couldn't let The Godfather think that I wasn't working hard enough."

"So, I found an opportunity and hooked up with Kevin, yes, it wasn't him who picked me, but I picked him..."

As Copperpot continued to speak, his words echoed in the hospital room, and his recent life had become a drama, unfolding before the two of them.

As his words fell, the red curtain opened, revealing the narrow corridor of Living Hell behind it.

Copperpot and Kevin stood in the corridor. The short and hunched Copperpot flattered Kevin, saying, "Mr. Kevin, please do me a favor and visit my business..."

The tall Kevin looked up and took a pack of cigarettes from Copperpot. He opened it and said, "You're a new cigarette seller? I haven't seen you before. You must be from that crazy woman, right?"

"Yes, yes..." Copperpot eagerly nodded. Then he hesitantly rubbed his hands and said, "I'm also forced to do this for a living. There are too few cigarette buyers in the south, or else I wouldn't take the risk of coming here..."

"How much do you sell a pack for?"

"Seventy cents, sir, just seventy cents."

Kevin was surprised and raised an eyebrow. "Seventy cents? What's going on? The little cigarette sellers here usually sell for ninety cents or a dollar. Why are you selling so cheap?"

Kevin looked at the pack of cigarettes again and picked out one. Copperpot eagerly went up to light the cigarette for him and then said, "Actually, I can still make a profit. I operate in both the south and the north, and it takes about one hour and twenty minutes to make a round. I can sell six to seven packs of cigarettes, even if the profit of each pack is only ten cents. I have thirteen hours a day to operate, so I can sell on average..."

Kevin took a puff of the cigarette and blew out smoke. He looked up and down at Copperpot and said, "You can even do calculations? That's really interesting. Those little brats I've met who sell cigarettes can't even count their change."

Copperpot still nodded and smiled flatteringly. Inadvertently, he revealed that he had attended school in the wealthy southern district. He continued to chat with Kevin, who smoked two cigarettes. Finally, feeling a little dizzy, Kevin pinched the cigarette butt and said, "You're not bad. But following that crazy woman, Fish, won't get you anywhere."

"Go get me two good cigarettes, and I'll let you work at the shipping outlet on the second floor. You get three cents for every ten items sold, which is much more profitable than selling cigarettes."

Copperpot looked ecstatic, and Kevin sneered, "You little punks with weak arms and legs can only do errands like buying newspapers and cigarettes and counting a few numbers..."

"Those little bastards count wrong every day. Their brains are rustier than the door bolts, and they cause me to lose money. Don't you dare be lazy or slippery with me..."

As the cigarette smoke in Kevin's hand gradually dissipated, the curtain slowly closed. Schiller turned to Copperpot and said, "I can tell that so far, you've done well."

"Using your advantage of being small and thin, you disguised yourself as one of the most common cigarette runners in Living Hell. Inadvertently, you showed your ability to calculate, and you successfully jumped to Kevin's side."

"But that's not all I want."

The curtain opened again, and boxes were stacked higher and higher. Bills flew out of Copperpot's hands, through the narrow corridor of Living Hell, past the door of the shipping outlet, up the staircase for transporting goods, and through the kitchen of the restaurant. A small figure shuttled back and forth among them.

The last bill "slapped" onto Copperpot's face. When he took it off, his eyes reflected the dazzling neon light of a restaurant sign.

"You didn't lie about this part." Schiller commented, "I can tell that you really want to open a restaurant."

Copperpot's lips moved as he lay on the hospital bed. He was silent for a moment before saying, "Yes, but it's not what I should be considering now."

"What I need to think about now is how to become a manager as a runner. I've reached the end of the road in the lower level. Next, I have to figure out how to move up."

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