Chapter 759

Another gloomy morning, the cold wind brushed against her soft skirt, making Traci Goth stand out even more in the line of new students, for she was the only one wearing a dress.

There were plenty of girls registering, but most wore thick pants and windproof coats, and many had wrapped themselves in wind-resistant scarves and hats.

Traci Goth was different—she wore a white blouse with lace patterns and a woolen long skirt; though she had thick woolen socks on her feet, her leather shoes still exposed her insteps.

In the biting spring chill of Gotham, daring to go out in such attire required great courage, for it meant not only enduring the cold but also enduring the stares of others as if she were a fool.

Gotham citizens wouldn't soften their contempt just because you looked very rich; in their eyes, fools were equal for all.

Traci glared fiercely at a girl beside her, simply because the girl had glanced at her dress—Traci thought she must be jealous, jealous that her dress was this year's latest fabric, with its color-blocking and tiny floral patterns, all carefully chosen by her.

This was Traci's most prized dress; even Lady Goth had said that after wearing it, Traci could go straight to Hollywood to play the female lead.

Traci lifted her chin high, revealing its rounded curve—a feature she took pride in, one that gave her face a delicate contour, closer to the traditional image of a virtuous wife and mother.

Traci squinted, scanning the girls around her, and found they all had either sharp chins or wide jaws fit for plowing; only she possessed such a perfect jawbone, for since childhood she had paid dearly for orthodontic treatment—these slum-dwellers could never understand.

Traci hugged her arms tightly, trying to draw warmth from her own skin, for the wind by the school gate was unbearably cold.

"Damn it, how much longer do I have to wait here? Why isn't there anyone to escort me to the VIP lounge? Why must I stand among these stinking paupers?!" Traci bit her teeth and stamped her foot, furious.

Suddenly, she saw a car enter through the main gate; from its license plate, it was clearly a Wayne family vehicle.

Traci immediately widened her eyes, shoved past the people beside her, and tried to run over—but at that moment, a guard stepped out from the side gate and shouted: "Stand in line! Form up according to your class assignments on the registration list, then enter

Traci turned back and glared fiercely at the man, standing her ground, grinding her teeth and stomping her foot—she now wanted nothing more than to find a warm place quickly, rather than chase Bruce Wayne.

Over a hundred and fifty new students lined up at the door in three rows: Class One learned electrical and plumbing maintenance, Class Two learned refrigerator operation and management, Class Three learned auto repair, and Traci had been assigned to Class Three.

When Schiller had gathered all the crime bosses together, he had clearly told them what each class would teach.

But the invitation did not include Mrs. Goth, and the enrollment brochure did not specify what each class taught; Mrs. Goth had assumed the preparatory class was just about drawing together, like those art salons, so she hadn't cared which class Traci was placed in.

When Traci realized there were very few girls in her class, she felt something was off—after all, if it were an art salon, shouldn't there be more girls?

More than half the girls were in the line to her right, in Class Two; most female students chose refrigerator-related studies because the curriculum involved relatively less physical labor, with greater emphasis on knowledge and technical skills, requiring more memorization—better suited for girls.

A few girls had chosen electrical and plumbing, but they were all those who had already gained some hands-on experience; those in auto repair were either from families with relatives working in repair shops and had picked up basics through osmosis, or were truck drivers themselves and knew vehicles well.

Traci, however, knew nothing—not even how to identify truck parts and assemble them; she had never in her life come close to any truck.

After freezing for another fifteen minutes in the wind, Traci finally reached the indoors; when she stepped inside, she saw a professor in a black suit sitting behind a desk, a black umbrella resting beside him.

Traci exhaled, smoothed the wrinkles in her shirt, and sat in the chair across from Schiller with a demure posture, speaking softly: "Hello, Professor. I'm Traci Goth, a new student at Gotham University's preparatory program. The weather isn't very nice today, is it?"

"Yes, Miss Goth." Schiller didn't look up, continuing to register her information. "Miss Goth, your dorm is on the fourth floor, Room 4012. You have a roommate—let me see—Sharon Vail."

"Oh no! I don't live in the dorms! I hate sharing space with others!" Traci shook her head. "Tonight, our car will come to pick me up…"

Only then did Schiller look up at her. "Didn't the enrollment brochure say? The school doesn't allow commuting—you must live in the dorms."

Traci widened her eyes. "How can that be? How could I possibly live in a drafty room like that? I'll catch a cold! And I have a roommate—I won't share a room with someone stinking of sweat!"

Schiller knew Traci was a wealthy girl, so he felt no anger toward her remarks; after all, a spoiled girl raised in a convent school would naturally struggle with communal living—initial discomfort was expected. He said:

"This building was funded by the Luthor family. You don't think the Luthers built a drafty structure, do you?"

Traci covered her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry—I didn't know… But why would the Luthor family invest in a classroom building?"

"Because the current head of the Luthor family, Lex Luthor, is currently a freshman here… Oh, right—if you enroll now, you'll be in the same year. You might even see him on campus."

Traci's eyes flickered. She nodded. "Alright. Then who will make my bed? Where do I bathe? And I don't want the bathroom to smell at all…"

"You'll make your own bed. Bathe in the private bathrooms in the dormitory building. The teaching building has shared restrooms." Schiller answered patiently, but Traci's face grew darker by the second.

"Alright, Miss Traci. If you have no other questions, take this paper and report to your dorm. First class begins at nine. I expect you not to be late."

Schiller handed the paper to Traci. She had more questions, but the person behind her had already grown impatient. When Traci turned around, she saw a huge man standing behind her, covered in tattoos, clearly not someone to be trifled with.

Knowing she had no bodyguard, Traci gritted her teeth, stomped her foot, and left with her small suitcase.

Arriving at the single teaching-and-dormitory building, Traci felt even worse. She hadn't known she'd have to live on campus, so she'd brought only the barest luggage—half the suitcase was books, the rest were collectibles meant to display her taste.

Later, she'd have to use the public phone to call her mother and ask her to send more luggage. Right now, her biggest problem was how to get the suitcase upstairs.

Her dorm was on the fourth floor, but no servant was there to carry her bag. Every student had brought bulky luggage; no one had a free hand to help her. Traci had no choice but to grit her teeth and carry it up floor by floor.

Traci had never exercised before; her most vigorous activity had been playing polo or taking walks in the park. Carrying a suitcase up four floors nearly killed her.

When she reached the dorm, she was even more despairing: the dorms were temporary, converted classrooms. Each room was small, holding two beds with no partition between them, no private bathroom or shower. Besides the beds, the room held only one desk, two chairs, and not even curtains had been installed.

Traci finally dragged her suitcase inside and was about to sit on the bed to rest, but discovered the mattress was harder than her family's floor—it hurt her bones.

She couldn't sit. She stood up. Soon after, her roommate entered, making the room feel even more cramped.

Traci had no desire to speak to this girl, clearly from the slums. She shot her a furious glare, crossed her arms, and walked out, deciding to use this time to search for Bruce.

More than an hour remained before class. Traci wandered aimlessly around Gotham University. She found the student lounge, the cafeteria, the gym. She thought these were the best places to run into Bruce—but in truth, Bruce had already been writing his paper in the library for three hours.

Finding nothing, Traci felt deeply defeated. Checking the time, she strolled back slowly, thinking a few minutes late wouldn't matter.

At 9: 6, she finally reached the classroom. The room was already full; the teacher had already begun lecturing.

Traci walked in boldly, found an empty seat, and sat down. The instructor at the front said nothing, but the teacher sitting in the back tapped his pen on the desk.

Instantly, the classroom fell silent. Traci glanced left and right and realized everyone was staring at her. She coughed lightly, turned her head away, refusing to speak to them—when she heard a voice from a seat behind her:

"Miss Traci, you're late."

Traci widened her eyes and turned to Schiller. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was busy praying and lost track of time."

Traci knew this trick worked well. At her convent school, whenever she said she'd been praying, she could skip any class she disliked—and the teachers never punished her.

But Schiller stood up and pointed to the door. "Lying is a bad habit. God did not hear your prayer. Now, go stand outside. If you're late again, you'll be expelled."

Traci stared at Schiller, eyes wide, as if she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. But Schiller showed no sign of joking—he simply pointed to the door, and everyone was watching Traci.

Never having faced such a scene, Traci's face flushed crimson, tears welling in her eyes. She stomped her foot and fled out in a blur.

Traci didn't stand outside as punishment. Instead, she ran straight to the public phone she'd seen earlier, intending to call her mother and complain about how rude this professor was.

Mrs. Goth comforted her daughter but told her to endure it—for her mission was to attract Bruce Wayne's attention. Before finding this wealthy magnate, she could not give up.

After hanging up, Traci burst into tears, sobbing against the wall. Then she heard a series of footsteps coming from the staircase beside her.

Traci turned her head—and saw Bruce Wayne's face.