The man sat against the wall.
He held a gun in his hand, like a helpless prisoner waiting for the door to slowly swing open.
At a glance, no one would have guessed that this balding white man in his fifties or sixties was actually the infamous Ventriloquist from the criminal underworld. To be honest, with his trembling, fragile demeanor, he didn't look dangerous at all.
The hostages nearby were huddled together like quails, shaking uncontrollably.
They were all employees of the Evidence Bureau. One security guard lay gasping on the floor, half his body soaked in blood.
He had tried to resist, but before he could even draw his gun, the Ventriloquist had shot through the back of his hand.
"Oh, Mr. Socky…" A white wool sock was pulled over the Ventriloquist's left hand—a substitute personality he had created in the absence of his puppet, Scarface.
"Is it really right to hurt others like this?"
He cowered, speaking cautiously to his left hand:
"Look, he's bleeding."
"That's enough, Mr. Ventriloquist. You're being far too cowardly."
His mouth remained tightly shut, yet the voice came from deep within his belly. The sock-covered hand opened and closed like a mouth, as if the sock itself were speaking. The effect was chilling and eerie beyond words.
"You idiot. Without hostages, what are we supposed to trade for Scarface?"
The sock on his left hand swayed alertly beside him like a venomous snake ready to strike. "This isn't the time for compassion. That bastard brought the bullet on himself. As long as they cooperate, I won't hurt them. Isn't that right?"
"But, but…"
"Shut up! Stop wasting energy on these pointless things. Batman could come charging in at any moment…"
The Ventriloquist whimpered pitifully, not daring to talk back to Mr. Socky. Instead, he miserably apologized to the wounded security guard.
"I'm sorry…"
Thud thud thud!
A heavy pounding at the door cut him off.
The Ventriloquist immediately raised his gun toward the hostages. His voice shifted into Mr. Socky's—deep, grim, filled with a manic, violent edge, like a wild beast defending its territory.
"I told you, if anyone dares come in, I'll blow—"
Knock knock, "This is Batman."
All the hairs on Arnold's body stood on end. He knew that voice too well. It was definitely Batman—but something about the situation today felt off.
It was common knowledge that Batman never used the front door—let alone knocked on it.
Mr. Socky tensed every muscle in Arnold's body, crawling on the ground, raising the gun, ready to attack. The moment Batman dared step inside, bullets would spit like fire serpents and scorch his—
"Hurry up and open the door, let Daddy Bats pour the sweet milk of justice into you~"
"???"
The nonsensical words coming out of the normally grim Batman's mouth sent the Ventriloquist's mind into a brief shutdown. That pause gave Mark the chance to push open the door—without encountering the hail of bullets he should have.
"Batman, you—" The Ventriloquist snapped out of it quickly.
But opportunity waits for no one, my friend.
"Scarface!"
The puppet blocked his gun, locking his finger in place as if it had been fused with the trigger. He couldn't fire.
"Bastard! Let go of me!"
In an instant, a brand new voice rang out. If Mr. Socky's voice could be described as that of a frenzied thug, then this new voice was like the embodiment of darkness itself—the manifestation of the Ventriloquist's inner shadow!
Endless malice seemed to drip into the room like pools of thick, black ink.
The Ventriloquist rose to his feet. The timid, cowering old man from before was completely gone. He straightened his back, his lats flaring as if a demon had taken residence within that small, frail body.
His mouth stayed tightly shut, while the sock on his left hand opened and closed. The voice echoed and trembled within the narrow room:
"Give Mr. Scarface back to us—"
"No, don't do this. I've spoken with Batman."
The Ventriloquist froze.
That voice came from Scarface.
Mark kept his mouth closed. You think you're the only one who can do ventriloquism?
As a Drama actor, imitation was part of the basics—including voice acting.
The Ventriloquist should have shot him in the head the moment they first faced each other—but he hadn't.
Which meant—this was Mark's stage now.
He had never planned to treat the Ventriloquist through normal means.
Mr. Socky sensed the danger and shouted for Arnold to pull the trigger.
Scarface: "Don't shoot. I talked to Batman. You're a good man. All the bad things you did were because I forced you, weren't they?"
"No, no! That wasn't me—Scarface—saying that just now! I want you to shoot! Shoot!"
"That's right, listen to Scarface. Fire—!"
"No! I'm ordering you as Scarface—you have to listen to Batman—!"
"Stop—!"
Four voices blended into chaos, as Mark's ventriloquism clashed with the Ventriloquist's own. Both fought fiercely to take control over the Scarface puppet.
This was the Ventriloquist's greatest weakness: his split personalities bred confusion and doubt. Ventriloquism tricks were nothing to Mark. He mimicked the enemy's speech patterns, mixing his fake Scarface voice with the real one. The Ventriloquist was completely thrown off.
Amid the heated shouting, Mark reached into his duffel bag with his other hand and pulled it open—inside was a collection of hand puppets (the kind where you insert your hand to control the toy's movement), all kinds of styles and characters.
Arnold's eyes were drawn to it, and he asked instinctively: "What… what does this mean?"
Mark suddenly thrust his hand forward.
"Damn it!"
In a flash, the Ventriloquist's gun snapped up like a spring, aimed right at Mark's chin.
But it was still too late. Scarface's voice gave a conflicting command at nearly the same moment.
By the time the Ventriloquist managed to untangle his scrambled thoughts, the sock was already in Mark's hand.
Weapon disarmed.
?
"No! Mr. Socky!" the Ventriloquist screamed, his voice shrill and echoing.
"What are you going to do to Mr. Socky?!"
Without the sock persona to support him, he reverted back to a completely ordinary old man.
Mark ignored him and gave the poor old man a swift kick into the corner. "You're all safe now. Get out."
"Eeeek—"
The hostages exchanged glances, then all screamed in unison and bolted. Even the security guard who had been lying motionless on the floor somehow got up, shrieking and holding up his wounded hand as he sprinted away faster than a rabbit.
"..."
Mark maintained his stoic Batman expression until the hall was completely empty.
Then he walked over to the Ventriloquist, held up the reeking sock puppet without a word…
…and tore it to shreds right before his eyes.
"Nooooo!!!!"
The Ventriloquist lunged forward like he'd just lost his parents, clutching at the shredded remains of the sock: "What have you done!! No! Socky! How am I supposed to live without you—Socky! Take me with you, take me with you, Socky—!"
But before he could even finish wailing, Mark grabbed him off the ground and slapped him twice across the face—smack smack!—"Quit crying. Look, what's this?"
"Scarface!"
Arnold was just about to pounce when—crack—Mark twisted the Scarface puppet in front of his eyes like wringing out a rag, then crushed it underfoot until it was nothing but splinters.
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
"Get up!" Mark yanked the old man to his feet just as he was about to start howling again, and with a barrage of left and right slaps, beat the mental breakdown right out of him. The incoming personality episode was smacked back into submission on the spot.
Once he had forcibly redirected his attention through sheer physical trauma, Mark tossed him onto the duffel bag full of puppets. "Stop clinging to the old ones. Try a new one. There's dozens in here—pick whichever you like!"
Dazed from the "personality correction smacks," the Ventriloquist stared into space, still reeling from the loss of both his personas.
In a trance, he picked up a random puppet. The next second, a brand-new voice echoed from deep in his belly…
Due to his severe dissociative identity disorder, the Ventriloquist had a tendency to create new, twisted alternate personalities. At their core, all of these personas were "protectors," meant to shield the fragile primary identity—Arnold.
But in just those few brief seconds, both of his protector personalities had been violently destroyed by Mark.
As a result, he was now in an extreme state of fear—without a protective persona to shield him.
Under normal circumstances, the Ventriloquist would instinctively seek out an object, assign it a personified identity, put it on his hand, and create a new personality to protect himself—just like how he had previously used an ordinary wool sock to manifest the sinister "Mr. Socky."
But… what would happen if, at that exact moment, he were suddenly handed dozens of puppets all at once?