American comic book: Transmigrated into Dior and adopted by the Wayne family

"Is this what Gotham people are like? They're all crazy, really."

If he had known Edward could talk himself out of it, he wouldn't have wasted so much breath.

Dio shook his head, pushed open the rooftop door and walked down, bumping into a flustered Harvey.

What's wrong with you?

"I was just looking for you! Something else has happened!"

Harvey gripped the upstairs handrail, panting heavily.

"The Vic family's daughter has disappeared, and the maid was drugged with chloroform; it was the Spirit of the Goat who did it."

Dior's brow twitched slightly.

"The previous spirit of the goat would kidnap the victim, torture him for hours, and finally sew a coin into his body."

"Amber Vick is missing now." Harvey glanced at his watch. "We only have eight hours at most."

Dio lowered his eyes and tapped his fingers lightly twice on the railing.

When he looked up again, he already had an idea in his eyes.

"Let's split up. I'll go find the doctor, and you go catch the goats."

"No!" Harvey exclaimed without hesitation. "It's too dangerous, you're just a child—"

"I'll have Alfred call Chief Locke and have Gordon transferred back."

Dior interrupted him, his tone as calm as if he were asking what to eat for dinner.

"Then you'll feel more at ease if he comes with me?"

Harvey opened his mouth.

He recalled Dio's achievements, the ballistic reports from Crime Alley, and the way this blond kid killed without blinking an eye.

He swallowed hard, finally relenting, "Alright. I'm relieved to have a model student with you."

As he spoke, Xavi slammed a document into Dior's arms:

"Dr. Marcos, a 45-year-old female of Latina descent, is a psychologist and hypnotherapist."

"I healed Randall Mitch, the first Spirit of the Goat, for free ten years ago."

Dior opened the folder and glanced at it, a hint of amusement flashing across his face.

Being mixed-race and female, she's caught in the middle, clearly having faced discrimination.

Most of Gotham's psychiatrists have some kind of mental illness, so it's perfectly normal for Marcos to have some kind of goat syndrome.

"I'm gone."

Dior was not interested in any goat syndrome.

He was interested in whether this hypnosis technique could create a new personality in a person in a vegetative state.

If that's the case, wouldn't we be getting a free thug?

-----------------

The taxi stopped in front of a clinic called "Gate of Hope".

The doorplate is made of copper and polished to a high shine.

Downstairs is the most dilapidated street in the East District, but upstairs is another world entirely.

Beige walls, warm yellow lights, and an oil painting hanging at the front desk—the Alps, exactly the same as the one shown on TV last night.

After paying the fare, Dior looked up at the sign and scoffed.

"A door of hope?"

He pushed the door open and went in.

"Hello, welcome to the Hope Gate Clinic."

The curtain was lifted, revealing a well-maintained face.

He was Latino, 45 years old, with high brow bones, deep nasolabial folds, and two exquisite silver ornaments hanging from his earlobes.

The target: Dr. Marcos.

"Wait, you're Mr. Brando?"

"Hello there."

Dior bowed slightly, revealing a flawless smile.

"Dr. Marcos, thank you for taking the time to see me."

"Not at all. It's my honor that the young master of the Wayne family would come to my small clinic. Please come with me."

The two went to the examination room together, which was a little warmer than the waiting area.

The fireplace is electric, but the flames are realistically made.

But honestly, won't this luxury clinic in the East District be robbed?

Dior sat on the sofa, while Marcos sat in the armchair opposite him, a notebook on his lap, the pen cap still on.

"I heard something happened at Wayne Manor last night?"

"Yes, someone broke in."

Dior lowered his eyes, his eyelashes casting a shadow on his cheekbone, obscuring his gaze.

"The police arrived too late, and the GCPD didn't have any psychologists, so they recommended you."

"Oh?" Marcos twirled his pen between his fingers. "They recommended me?"

"You are very famous in the East District. You provide free medical care to the poor and have a very good reputation."

Dior looked up at her.

"I have checked your information."

Marcos' smile remained unchanged, but the fingers gripping the pen tightened slightly.

"Then you should have found out as well: I only treat patients and never ask about their identities."

"So I made the right choice coming here."

The two looked at each other.

The red glow of the fireplace danced on the wall, casting long shadows of the two people.

Dior suddenly laughed, a beautiful laugh that didn't seem like that of a frightened twelve-year-old boy.

"Doctor, I'm a little scared, do you have any suggestions?"

"How long has it been?"

"A few hours."

Marcos laughed too.

She placed the notebook on the coffee table and leaned forward slightly.

"Several hours of insomnia definitely needs to be addressed. However—"

She glanced at the clock on the wall and a regretful expression appeared on her face:

"I have another appointment later."

"If you don't mind waiting a bit, I'll finish dealing with that patient and come back to have a proper chat with you."

"Of course," Dio stood up. "You go ahead with your work."

He walked to the door, placed his hand on the doorknob, but didn't turn it.

"By the way, Doctor, have you heard the story of the Spirit of the Goat?"

Marcos's smile finally cracked slightly.

Dior turned his head away, backlit, and in the shadows, only his mocking eyes could be seen.

He turned the doorknob.

"Take your time with your work."

There are people in the corridor.

He was a big guy, wearing cargo pants with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing his muscular build.

He stood in the center of the waiting area, extremely strong, but his eyes were empty, staring straight at the door of the examination room, without saying a word.

Dio stepped aside to let him in.

As the burly man passed by him, he stirred up a gust of wind, carrying the smell of cheap soap and sweat, which made him frown.

The door to the consultation room was closed.

"Let's see how long you can hold out."

Dior walked over to the bookshelf with great interest, picked up a book, and sat down on the sofa to read it.

As I turned to the third page, a muffled thud came from the consultation room.

He paused for a moment, then continued flipping through the book.

The door opened.

The burly man stepped forward, his eyes still empty, but this time, he glanced down at Dio.

"The doctor would like to invite you in."

Dior closed the magazine, put it back on the table, and stood up.

"Thanks."

He walked past the burly man.

This time, the burly man made his move.

A hand as big as a palm leaf fan reached out from the side, fingers spread wide, and grabbed!

Dio didn't turn around. He calmly raised his hand, his five fingers gripping the strong man's wrist, and his thumb gently applied pressure.

"Well!"

The burly man's muscles tensed abruptly, and he let out a muffled groan.

He struggled and threw a punch.

boom.

The grappling hook gun's tip was driven into the ceiling.

The sound of the rope tightening echoed in the corridor as the winch tightened the cable.

The burly man looked down and saw that one end of the rope was wrapped around his wrist, while the other end disappeared into the tip of the gun above his head.

"Ugh! You damned mortal! How dare you mock the spirit of the goat!"

The rope snapped, pulling his fist toward the ceiling.

The burly man's veins bulged, his entire arm stretched into a straight line, constricting his wrist until it turned purple.

"Ugh---!"

With his other hand, he pulled, his fingernails digging into the rope, drawing blood.

Useless.

The rope tightened more and more, pulling him inch by inch toward the ceiling.

Heels off the ground, toes still on tiptoe, boot soles rubbing against the floor, but it was still no use.

"Mortal! You—!"

The rope snapped suddenly, and the burly man's legs kicked wildly in the air, lifting him into the air.

"The spirit of the goat?"

Dio looked up at the enormous object hanging from the ceiling, then turned his gaze to the terrified person behind the door, and slowly smiled.

"I have a friend who has a mental problem and has become a vegetable."

"I've heard that doctors are skilled at hypnosis and creating new identities for patients. So—"

He tilted his head.

"Is this method effective for patients in a vegetative state?"