Chapter 783

The next morning, Bruce knew he had to find a job today—his twenty dollars were nearly gone, and if things continued like this, he would truly go hungry.

But was work easy to find? It was far from the docks, so working as a stevedore was out of the question; yet to become a gang enforcer, you needed a letter of introduction—the gang had to be certain you were trustworthy before taking you in, and they wouldn't hire someone with no known background.

If you were the son of a gang member, your parents might introduce you to their own gang, or perhaps to another gang on a different street, one with no conflicting interests.

Distant gangs also accepted such members; some even lacked manpower and would reach out to farther gangs to ask if they had any promising next-generation recruits.

But where did Bruce Wayne have any gang connections? Without a referral, he couldn't even get inside a gang.

Not becoming a full member wasn't the end—he could still be an external hire. Many were like this; not every bartender or security guard in every bar was a full gang member—many simply worked for the gang.

Bruce considered becoming a security guard—after all, his physique gave him an advantage, and his combat skills were excellent—but unfortunately, East District guards didn't need combat skills; they needed observation.

You had to determine within three seconds whether a guest was normal, a thief, a troublemaker, or another gang's spy—but Bruce had only been here two days, and the only thing he could tell was a person's gender.

If guarding didn't work, what about being a server? Bruce did find a similar job—as a server at a nightclub, though not one serving dishes; he cleaned and swept.

But Bruce had an extremely handsome face, which led to situations he couldn't accept—he worked there three days and encountered seven gang bosses who wanted to keep him as a kept man, six of whom were men.

Covering his face didn't help—customers thought he was a bomb-wielding lunatic, which hurt the nightclub's business. In the end, the nightclub owner tried to refer him to the opposite strip club; Bruce quit.

If you wanted to survive on looks, the best job was standing at the entrance of a mansion.

Generally, mansions under the protection of major gangs were safe from trouble—but the problem was, the heads of those major gangs all knew Bruce Wayne. He'd barely stepped inside when two doormen escorted him to the top-floor office, where he was served fine tea and wine. Bruce drank so much expensive liquor he returned home full.

If low-level jobs wouldn't do, what about becoming a skilled worker? Gangs were desperate for skilled labor. Bruce didn't plan to do anything too difficult—it would stray from his purpose. After all, his knowledge depended on his privileged education, something ordinary East District people simply didn't have.

Bruce targeted truck driver positions—driving wasn't a highly technical skill. Most East District kids, once they reached a certain age, were taught to drive by elders or minor gang leaders—even if they didn't haul freight regularly, they could occasionally substitute as drivers for errands.

Since gangs were truly short-staffed, when Bruce said he could drive, they immediately gave him a truck and assigned him to haul cargo from downtown to the docks.

It seemed simple—just a year ago, a high-rise bridge connected downtown to the docks; enter the bridge, exit less than three minutes later, and you reached the distribution point.

Bruce thought, how could anything go wrong with this job? The city haul was under twenty kilometers, he didn't have to load or unload, and the gang provided lunch—surely this was stable now?

But reality proved him wrong—driving a truck was hard, and everything else beyond driving was harder.

First, this truck wasn't employed by a single gang—usually, a region's gangs used trucks within that region, and each gang had its own style, requiring careful discernment.

Some gangs liked overloading, pointing guns at your head to force you to carry more cargo, ignoring whether it would pass inspection; others liked smuggling contraband—if caught at the distribution point, the driver got tangled in trouble too.

And if you didn't know the people at the distribution point, you'd struggle to find a good spot to unload, with no one to guide your reverse maneuvers—efficiency would plummet.

Others would casually cut the line, then make a second run; Bruce sat outside gripping the wheel, waiting two hours.

And because he was young and unfamiliar, many laborers liked to cheat—knocking on his window to demand bribes; if he didn't pay, his cargo would mysteriously get dented or damaged, and he'd face trouble back at the gang.

Gotham's traffic had improved slightly, but not enough—most times, when traffic conflicts arose, a shotgun would appear out a window. Bruce had barely earned some money when he had to spend it all on a gun and a riot shield.

If you parked the truck overnight at the distribution point, locking the fuel tank wasn't enough—you either had to leave someone to guard it or rely on a contact; to have a contact, you had to spend money on meals to build relationships—true in every country.

After a week of this work, Bruce's savings dropped from dozens of dollars to just a few—had the gang not provided lunch, he might have lost weight unintentionally.

Life at the bottom was like this: if you didn't join the system, the more you worked, the more you lost; no matter how long you lasted, it was the same. To join, you had to lower your pride, seek advice from insiders, and do things you once found repulsive—become the very person you once despised.

The words "survival" weighed too heavily—no one knew what burdens lay on the shoulders of those who uttered them.

In these days, Bruce realized that more terrifying than violent crime was the quiet, endless, unrelenting poverty.

Gotham's people weren't poor—at least not compared to other cities, they had money—but this daily grind of exhaustion drained their spirit, leaving them no time to think, slowly dying.

When Batman stood high atop a building, gazing down at all this, he didn't understand why these people had no strength, no courage to escape this life.

But now that he was trapped within it, he realized that on Gotham's cold, rainy nights, the fire of revenge could barely light a cigarette.

In less than two weeks, Bruce first felt the urge to retreat—he thought he'd gathered enough material—but a voice inside told him this was far from enough, he hadn't hit bottom yet.

So he set out again, and he wouldn't change jobs—he knew ordinary people here couldn't afford many mistakes; they didn't have strong bodies to starve for a week, nor skilled combat abilities to escape gang retaliation.

Among all the hardships Bruce endured, at some point, ordinary people could only, in lonely corners, write one word in blood—resignation.

One day, Bruce was driving again on the high-rise bridge, stuck in traffic, when he turned and saw a familiar face.

The driver beside him was pale, with bright red lipstick, chewing a loaf of bread with a gaping mouth. Bruce fumbled to roll up his window, but the other driver had already turned his head.

Seeing Bruce behind the wheel of the truck, the Joker froze—his bread suddenly lost its flavor. He pulled the half-bitten piece from his mouth, leaving crumbs behind.

He bent down, scooped up the crumbs, and shoved them into his mouth, then rolled down his window and reached out desperately to grab Bruce's window.

Bruce turned the wheel to avoid him, but traffic was jammed—there was no space to escape. The Joker climbed out of his own truck, one hand gripping the edge of Bruce's window, the other pounding on the glass.

When pounding didn't work, the Joker crawled back into his truck, rummaged through the seat, and pulled out a large bomb.

Bruce immediately rolled down his window. "Put that down! I warn you—this cargo is critical, rush delivery, must arrive in two hours. If you blow up the bridge, I'll throw you off!"

The Joker, bomb in hand, froze. He scratched his ear. "What?"

"I said! If you! dare blow up the bridge! I'll—"

"No, I meant the previous line!" the Joker shouted.

Bruce paused. "This cargo is critical. It's a rush order."

The Joker's mouth twisted downward. He glared at Bruce with a dark gaze. "Why are you here? Why are you driving a truck? Why aren't you standing on top of Wayne Tower, breathing the wind?"

Bruce didn't answer. He tried to roll up his window, but the Joker climbed out again, placed his hand on the window, and stuck his head into Bruce's cab.

Bruce frantically searched the cab, pulled out a bottle of mineral water, and smashed it against the Joker's head—but the Joker didn't flinch. Instead, he grabbed Bruce's arm. "Damn it, why are you here? Answer me! Answer me, Batman! Are you insane?!"

Bruce took a deep breath and glanced out the other window. The traffic ahead was still completely jammed—cars moved forward once every five minutes. Unless something changed, he wouldn't get off the bridge for at least half an hour.

He looked at the Joker. "I'm driving a truck because I need to earn money. Because I'm human. I have to eat."

The Joker froze, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. He stared at Bruce. "What? Say that again. That's the funniest thing I've heard all year!"

"I said—I'm human. I have to eat. How do you eat without money?"

The Joker laughed harder, pounding the window until tears streamed down his face. Then, through watery eyes, he looked at Bruce and said:

"How do you eat without money? Hahaha… Hahaha!

That's right! How do you eat without money?"