Chapter 760: Miss Goth

A beautiful girl weeping, a handsome gentleman passing by—this fairy-tale encounter was unforeseen even by Tracy herself, but she quickly realized it was the perfect opportunity.

She immediately pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, glanced at Bruce once, then resumed sobbing bitterly.

In Tracy's expectation, Bruce should have approached with gentlemanly grace, asked what was wrong, and then she could naturally recount her recent ordeal.

The first part went smoothly—Bruce did walk over, sized her up, and asked: "What's wrong?"

"I… I…" Tracy sobbed intermittently: "I was just a little late, and that professor… he made me stand outside as punishment! I'm a new student, I don't even know when class starts…"

"Oh, you're from the preparatory class?" Bruce looked at her again, seeming skeptical. "Who forced you out to stand?"

Tracy secretly rejoiced—his tone, to her ears, promised retribution. She immediately said: "The professor who greeted the new students. I saw his signature on the application form… Shiler Rodriguez."

"I have other business. I'm leaving."

In an instant before Tracy could react, Bruce's figure vanished, leaving her frozen in place like a statue about to crack.

After what felt like an eternity, Tracy finally snapped out of it. She slammed her fist against the wall—then screamed in pain. Clenching her teeth, she sprinted after the direction Bruce had gone.

At the library, she couldn't enter—it required a Gotham University student ID, and preparatory students' IDs hadn't been printed yet; none of them could get in.

Tracy took a deep breath, standing in the icy wind outside the library, her teeth chattering. She thought: this playboy Bruce Wayne won't stay in the library forever. If she waited by the door, he'd emerge within minutes.

She waited four hours.

Tracy was now frozen stiff, but Bruce remained utterly absorbed in his studies, not lifting his head.

Finally, lunchtime arrived. Bruce put down his book to eat, and only then noticed Tracy shivering at the door.

But he merely glanced at her and walked away. Tracy chased after him, speaking haltingly: "Mr. Wayne, wait— I don't know where the cafeteria is. Could you show me?"

This was her carefully planned chance encounter. Normally, no man would refuse a beautiful girl asking for directions, especially one who had just been crying—she must look utterly pitiful now.

Perhaps Tracy had no experience with such situations. To Bruce, she looked like a madwoman: hair blown into a bird's nest, face crimson from cold, lips pale, snot dripping onto her mouth.

Never mind that he was fully focused on studying—even in normal circumstances, if he encountered such a woman on the street, he might have sent her to a psychiatric hospital.

Bruce said nothing, walked straight ahead, treating Tracy as if she didn't exist. Yet she still followed him. He made no effort to stop her.

He was long accustomed to being pursued by women. If he ignored them, they'd eventually give up.

After all, for these socialites, reputation was everything. If they chased a man and ended up looking foolish—even if he was Bruce Wayne—their standing in the circle would plummet.

At the cafeteria, Bruce walked straight in. But Tracy finally saw her reflection in the glass—and realized her appearance.

She grabbed her hair in a frenzy, screamed, then bolted into the nearby bushes.

After a while, Tracy finally tidied herself up—but Bruce was long gone from the cafeteria.

Bruce, eager to return to his paper, finished eating in ten minutes and was already back at his library seat.

Cold and hungry, Tracy refused to give up. She glanced around, entered the cafeteria, used her prepped tactics to approach an ordinary Ma Lei student, and obtained his student ID.

Claiming the student was her boyfriend, Tracy successfully slipped into the library and sat directly across from Bruce.

Bruce wrote his paper without looking up. Tracy kept talking—coughing into her chest, walking over to pour him water, brushing his arm with her elbow while pouring, and lightly tapping the table leg under the table with her toe.

Most people have experienced this: when deeply focused, your senses sharpen, and even the slightest disturbance can break your train of thought. Tracy was practically dancing in front of Bruce—and finally, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Could you please leave?" Bruce looked up at Tracy. "I have zero interest in you. You're outside my aesthetic and romantic preferences. Disappear from my sight."

To save time, Bruce used the most concise words possible. But to Tracy, it was the most horrific humiliation imaginable.

She froze. Then screamed. At that moment, the librarian approached and said: "No loud noises in the library. Miss, what's going on?"

Tracy pointed at Bruce: "That bastard! A vile, rude lecher and thug!"

!

Raised in a church school, her vocabulary for insults was meager. Lacking proper education, her speech lacked logic—she merely vomited emotion, appearing like a lunatic.

The librarian repeated: "Please leave, Miss. You're disrupting the library's order."

"I won't go! You're in cahoots with him! You all are scum!"

Suddenly, Tracy froze—like she'd been choked. Because she saw, directly before her, a dark gun barrel.

The librarian pointed a long-barreled shotgun at Tracy's head, then gently shifted the barrel, signaling with his eyes for her to leave.

In her entire life, Tracy had never been this close to a gun. The primal fear overwhelmed her instantly.

Her privileged upbringing had made her forget: this was Gotham, the most dangerous city in America—and the world. Almost everyone here was a vicious criminal, including ordinary people in mundane jobs.

Tracy fled the library in a panic, utterly shedding her noble, elegant image. Her hair was completely disheveled, her hairpins lost somewhere, her face streaked with tears and snot—she looked utterly wretched.

But this was only the beginning. Worse was yet to come.

Tracy returned to the vocational college building and saw her instructor leading Class Three through a practical session.

Today, they were teaching the most basic skill: changing a truck tire. Simple, yet supremely practical—master this, and you could earn pocket money from truck drivers.

Everyone was eager to learn, including the girls. Even though the truck tires were nearly as tall as they were, they worked in groups of three or four—one holding the wrench, others hauling the tire to the back, then rolling on the new one.

Tracy stood dazed at the edge of the field. Then Shiler approached, pointed his umbrella at her, and said: "What's wrong with you? Why are you just standing there? Have you cried enough? If so, get to class."

Shiler was unusually patient—not because Tracy was likable, but because her background was exceptional. Rich girls always needed time to adapt. Understandable.

Tracy kept standing there crying. Shiler could only say: "You've already skipped two classes today. If you keep this up, I'll have to call your mother. We'll see if you even belong here…"

"No… no!" Tracy immediately denied it. "You can't call my mother—she'll be furious!"

Tracy swallowed hard and slowly walked toward the nearest big truck.

But no one wanted to pair with her. Anyone with eyes could see: she couldn't even lift a wrench, let alone twist bolts or carry tires.

Finally, the instructor intervened, assigning her to a group with the two strongest boys and one girl—her job: collect the bolts.

With her hair loose, Tracy squatted on the ground picking up bolts, crying as she worked—but she still had to keep picking.

After all, her teammates were the strongest new students. In Gotham, strength meant a place in the gangs—and their appearances were far from friendly.

One boy had a full sleeve tattoo; the other, a full sleeve and half a back tattoo. The Black girl wore braids, a lip ring, and five or six ear studs. She shouted Black slang insults at another Black kid in the neighboring group, her voice echoing across the yard.

The Black girl swung the wrench—three quick turns, and a massive bolt came loose. Watching her bulging arms, Tracy swallowed hard and swallowed her complaints.

She'd heard many tales of the slums: gang wars leaving dozens dead, bodies piled too high to carry away; serial killers targeting women; lovers who dismembered each other…

In her hazy consciousness, these horrific cases replayed endlessly in her mind, leaving her unsure whether she trembled from cold or fear.

To escape these emotions, she had to find something to do—to distract herself. Now, that meant picking up bolts.

Even though the bolts were light and the task required no skill, squatting for over three hours left Tracy gasping for breath.

Back in her dorm, she forgot entirely about bathing—she just wanted to collapse into bed.

Amid her roommate's snores, Tracy lay on her bed, filled with despair, and her vision went black.