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The Ventriloquist sat huddled against the wall, gun gripped tightly in his hand, trembling like a helpless prisoner. The room felt suffocating, each minute stretching on like an eternity as he waited for the door to open slowly.
At a glance, he appeared no more threatening than a frail, balding old man in his fifties or sixties. His physical appearance, with shaky hands and a weathered face, betrayed nothing of his notorious reputation as a ventriloquist in Gotham's underworld. If anyone had seen him, they wouldn't have suspected a thing.
Nearby, the hostages cowered in fear. They were all employees of the Bureau of Physical Evidence—helpless, shaken, and terrified. One of the guards lay on the floor, half his body soaked in blood. He had tried to resist, but was shot through the back of his hand before even drawing his weapon.
"Oh. Mr. Socks..." the Ventriloquist murmured, as he slid a wool sock onto his left hand. The sock became his new personality—the one he turned to when he couldn't find his real puppet, Scarface.
"Is it really right to hurt others like this?" the sock voice trembled, its soft, innocent tone contrasting with the surrounding tension.
"Look, he's bleeding," the Ventriloquist added softly, his gaze flicking over the injured guard.
"Enough, Mr. Ventriloquist. You're too cowardly," the sock voice hissed.
The sock's tone sharpened as it flailed, "This bastard asked for it. We need to keep him here, so we can get Scarface back. As long as they cooperate, they won't get hurt, right?"
"But... but..." the Ventriloquist stammered, hesitant.
"Shut up! Stop wasting time! Batman could show up any minute!" Mr. Socks barked.
The Ventriloquist froze in fear. His body trembled, but he dared not argue with the puppet's harsh commands. Apologizing to the injured guard, he muttered, "I'm sorry..."
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The sound of heavy knocks on the door shook the room. The Ventriloquist's gun swung in the direction of the hostages. His eyes widened in alarm, his voice now switching to Mr. Socks' dark, twisted tone: "I said, if you dare come in... I'll shoot you down!"
The reply came through the door, punctuated with mock confidence: "Knock knock, this is Batman."
Amold's blood ran cold. He recognized that voice all too well. But something was off today. Batman never knocked on doors.
Mr. Socks tensed, preparing for a fight. His grip on the gun tightened, ready to shoot the moment the door opened.
"Hurry up and open the door, let Bat Daddy infuse you with the sweet milk of justice~" came the strange, almost playful voice from behind the door.
For a moment, the Ventriloquist's mind went blank. Batman didn't speak like this. What was happening?
After a second of hesitation, the Ventriloquist realized it was time to act.
"Batman, you—" he began to protest, but his words were cut short.
"Scarface!"
Suddenly, a voice blocked the Ventriloquist's gun, halting the trigger pull. The room seemed to freeze, and for a brief moment, everything stood still. It wasn't just the sock's voice anymore—it was a deeper, darker tone. The voice of Scarface himself had emerged, a terrifying new presence in the room.
The Ventriloquist rose to his feet, the small, timid old man replaced by someone more dangerous, more monstrous. His chest swelled, muscles rippling with power. His mouth clamped shut, but Scarface's voice came from the sock-covered hand, trembling and eerie: "Give Mr. Scarface back to us."
"No! Don't do that. I'm talking to Batman!" the Ventriloquist froze mid-sentence.
The voice of Scarface shifted into something even darker, like an incarnation of pure malice. It echoed through the small space, the puppet's presence now overwhelming the room.
"Stop it! You're only making it worse! Let me talk to Batman!" The Ventriloquist's pleas were drowned out by Scarface's command.
Now, two voices, each louder and more commanding, battled for control. Mr. Socks barked his orders while Scarface's deeper voice took the lead. The Ventriloquist's fractured mind couldn't cope. His grip on reality faltered as the puppets argued inside him.
"Listen to Scarface! Shoot!" Mr. Socks demanded, desperate to stay in control.
"No! I told you, I talked to Batman. You need to listen!" The voices merged into a chaotic symphony of confusion.
Amidst the cacophony, Chen Tao—Batman—moved swiftly, his actions far more deliberate than the madness around him.
With a sudden, precise motion, the Ventriloquist's gun was wrenched from his grasp. Mr. Socks had been disarmed before the old man even realized what was happening.
"No! Mr. Socks!" the Ventriloquist screamed, watching helplessly as his protective personality slipped away. The sock was gone—disbanded, reduced to a simple, useless object.
Chen Tao stepped forward, holding the disheveled sock up in front of the Ventriloquist. Without a word, he tore it into pieces, the ragged remains fluttering to the floor.
The Ventriloquist's world collapsed. He staggered toward the remains, sobbing like a child, "No! Not Socks! I can't live without you—take me, too. Please! Let me go with you!"
Chen Tao slapped him, twice, hard. The old man stumbled back, stunned. Chen Tao's voice was cold, unfeeling: "Enough. Look."
Before the Ventriloquist could react, Chen Tao twisted the Scarface puppet in his hands, warping it into a grotesque shape. Then, with one swift motion, he crushed it underfoot.
"Ahhhhhh!" The Ventriloquist's cry of anguish echoed through the room.
"Get up," Chen Tao ordered, hauling him back to his feet with a firm grip. "We're done here."
Dazed, the Ventriloquist barely registered what was happening as he was forced to grab one of the remaining toys from the satchel. In his state of shock, his hands moved automatically, reaching for something new, something to create a new protector.
But this time, there was no protector to come. Without the old voices guiding him, he was lost, empty. As the puppet spoke in a broken voice, a new pers
onality was about to be born—but the Ventriloquist could no longer control it.