Chapter 781

On a dim corridor, Maggie hurried toward a room at the end, turned, pulled a key from the pocket of her thick half-skirt, inserted it into the lock, opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it behind her.

She performed all these actions without hesitation, as if they were routine in her own home—but this was not her apartment.

No sooner had she closed the door than Maggie exhaled, as if remembering something, paused briefly, then gathered her courage and walked further into the room.

She saw a photograph on the coffee table in the living room, walked over, picked up the frame, and found it showed her and Selina smiling.

It was their only photo together; she had come specifically to retrieve it. Selina had left in a rush, packing carelessly, and only realized the photo was still in the room after reaching the West Coast. She called Maggie, who came immediately.

Maggie carefully wiped the photo clean and placed it inside her cloth bag. Just as she turned to head for the door, she heard movement from the bedroom.

Maggie instantly went on alert. Suddenly, the bedroom door creaked open and a figure stepped out.

Bruce closed the bedroom door, turned around—and found a black barrel pointing at his head.

The woman across from him wore a slightly worn sweater and a woolen half-skirt, both poorly maintained and now frayed; the cloth bag in her hand was faded yellow from repeated washing.

Bruce immediately knew who she was. "You're Maggie, Selina's friend," he said. "She's mentioned you."

Maggie narrowed her eyes, the pistol still aimed at Bruce's head. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

"I'm her boyfriend. Bruce Wayne." Bruce walked toward the sofa and tossed a woman's shirt onto its back. "I saw Selina just before she left. She looked terrible. Do you know what happened?"

Maggie didn't lower her gun, but she studied the man before her, confirming he was from the wealthy district.

Men from Gotham's slums didn't wear leather shoes. The roads here were so bad that polished leather shoes turned matte by the time you got home. Most wore sturdy boots; some even welded rain boots to their feet.

And men here didn't groom their beards, never trimmed their sideburns so neatly, and certainly didn't wear a watch on their wrist—unknown brand, but unmistakably unique, one of a kind.

Maggie slowly lowered her gun. "You saw her before she left—then why didn't you stop her? Why let her run off alone to such a distant place?"

Bruce touched the scar on his face. Maggie saw the motion and understood.

But she was angry. When Selina had felt vulnerable and helpless, Bruce Wayne had probably been out partying somewhere. Now he showed up—too late.

Maggie had no interest in talking to him. She turned to leave—but Bruce stepped forward and blocked her. "Can you find the landlord? When does the lease expire?"

"What do you want?" Maggie asked. "If you're that bored, go back to your rich district. Don't come here causing trouble!"

"I want to live here," Bruce replied. "If the lease still has time left, I should be allowed to stay, right?"

"You're asking for trouble!" Maggie walked straight out. As she reached the door, she sighed and turned back. "I don't care what kind of madness you're indulging in, but this isn't your place. If you don't want to die here, get out now!"

"I'm serious," Bruce said. "I'm going to live in the slums for at least a month—starting now."

Maggie looked into his eyes. "I can't stop you from risking your life—but as far as I know, Selina hasn't moved on yet. If she finds out you're dead, it'll only break her worse."

"She never told you I…" Bruce hesitated. He knew Maggie and Selina were close—nearly inseparable. Maggie must know he was Batman.

"I know," Maggie sighed. "Every night you wear that tight suit and swing between skyscrapers. But it doesn't help, you understand? Rich man? I'm not as strong as you. I'm not even healthy. But I survive here because I grew up here."

"You? You were raised in a honey jar. You're not one of us. No matter how strong you are, you won't survive here. Leave now. That's my last warning."

Maggie left. Before stepping out, she said only one last thing: "The lease has two months left. If you want to stay, bring more bodyguards."

After Maggie left, Bruce began cleaning the apartment. As he said—he was serious. He needed to understand the nature of this trial before he could gauge its difficulty or how to overcome it.

So he planned to live in the slums for one or two months—to see what this place was truly like.

But he didn't rent a place himself. He didn't know where to look, and if he used Bruce Wayne's name, he'd inevitably end up renting a luxury apartment—no landlord would dare rent him a slum unit.

Then Bruce remembered: Selina had left in a hurry. Her lease hadn't expired. He could use her apartment temporarily. As expected, the lease had plenty of time left—more than enough.

The only problem: Selina's belongings were everywhere, making Bruce feel suffocated. It wasn't just Selina who couldn't move on quickly—it was Bruce too.

He truly loved Catwoman. She was mysterious, fiery. Often, Bruce wondered: what kind of environment had shaped her into such a complex, magnetic person?

After seeing Maggie off, Bruce continued cleaning. Not only to make space for his own life, but to understand Selina's daily living conditions.

The apartment's location was decent—close to downtown in the East District—but the orientation was poor. The bedroom and living room windows faced east, receiving decent light only for a short window around 3 p. .

The one-bedroom layout was simple: entering through the door led to a small living room, to the left was the bedroom, and straight ahead was a tiny bathroom. The living room even had a small balcony for drying clothes. No kitchen—but still, a small place with all essentials.

But Bruce had never lived in such a tiny space. Standing in the center of the living room, he felt he could touch the walls with a single arm's reach. What was the difference between this and prison?

He thought perhaps Selina, being petite, had deliberately chosen this size. He was nearly twenty centimeters taller than her, and his build was vastly different. Discomfort was natural.

On the balcony, Bruce looked down. Below stretched rows of low, cramped houses, so tightly packed he doubted they ever saw sunlight. Well—in Gotham, sunlight was the least important housing feature. There was no sun here anyway.

As Bruce turned to go back inside, he heard noise from the balcony above. Instinctively, he stepped aside—then heard a wet "pukk!" as a stream of vomit splattered onto his balcony railing.

He looked up. A drunk man leaned over the railing, vomiting, clutching a bottle. It slipped from his hand, crashed against the railing with a "crack," shards landing at Bruce's feet.

Bruce opened his mouth to speak—but the drunk began shouting curses. Many words Bruce didn't recognize, but the intent was clear: he was cursing Bruce.

Bruce had been taught since childhood: if a dog bites you, don't bite back. You can sue the owner, call animal control to take it away. No need to fight a dog.

So Bruce just stared at the drunk for a moment, then turned and went back inside.

As he was tidying the living room, he heard a loud "thump" from outside. He picked up the broom and stepped out again—only to find a large bag of garbage dumped on his balcony. It had burst open, spilling soup, grease, and debris, reeking foully.

When Bruce looked up, the drunk was grinning at him, giving him a vulgar hand gesture. Bruce reached for his waist—then remembered: he hadn't brought a gun.

He had come here alone—no Batman gear, no weapons, not even money. Realizing this, Bruce decided he had no time to waste on this man. More important things to do.

Fortunately, the drunk seemed passed out—he lay sprawled on the balcony, asleep. Bruce returned to the living room and resumed cleaning.

Under the sofa cushion he found about twenty dollars. At the bottom of the closet he found the front door key. Beneath the rug he found another.

More importantly, in a hidden compartment of the TV stand he found a small lady's pistol—the kind that fits in a delicate handbag. Of course, its power was weak. It needed to be pressed against the target's head to kill.

Bruce handled the tiny pistol. At least now he had a weapon. With his skills, basic safety was assured.

Sitting on the sofa, Bruce surveyed what he now owned: twenty dollars, a small pistol, two door keys, an ink bottle, a few of Selina's unclaimed clothes—and nothing else.

He stared at the twenty dollars. He had no sense of slum prices—didn't know what it could buy. But comparing it to his own spending, he realized: if he didn't earn money today, he'd go hungry.

Bruce Wayne's usual restaurants cost at least a thousand dollars. Just the tip for a waiter exceeded this amount. He wasn't even sure this money could buy a single vegetable.

Living here for one or two months wasn't like a couple of days. He needed proper nutrition—carbs, fats, vitamin C—or he wouldn't truly survive. Bruce's goal was to find out just how hard it was to survive in the slums.

After thinking, Bruce decided he needed dinner first. He could cook—but there was no kitchen. So what did Selina eat? Did she buy meals every day?

With only what he carried, Bruce locked the door and headed downstairs.

Then he smelled a rich, savory aroma. Following the scent, he looked toward the window at the end of the corridor—and saw an open-air kitchen set up on the second-floor terrace.

A plump Asian woman was stir-frying. Bruce hesitated, then descended the stairs and approached her.

Seeing a stranger, the middle-aged woman tensed, reaching into her bag. Bruce immediately raised his hands. "Don't pull a gun. I mean no harm. I'm Selina's boyfriend. Just moved in. I was wondering—do you all cook here?"

"Selina? The girl on the sixth floor?" The woman sized him up. "Why are you living here? You don't look like a local…"

"Uh, I've had some… problems."

"Oh, I get it. You pissed off a gang in your district, right? Lots of debt-dodgers live here." The woman set down her spatula. "Yes, this is the kitchen. You can cook here—just clean the pots."

She walked off with her dish. Bruce glanced at the stoves and utensils—thick layers of grease caked on every surface. Just looking made him lose his appetite.