Chapter 785: The Deadly Joke (9)

The sky had fully darkened, and Bruce, who had driven all day, was mentally drained; all he wanted was to return to his rented apartment and sleep soundly, but in Gotham, no day ever brought good news.

He had just sat down on the sofa when he heard movement outside—the door was being pounded hard, "Bang! Bang! Bang!" Bruce moved cautiously to the door, listening to the commotion.

Soon, a man's voice called out: "Open up! Hurry up and open! I'm the landlord—open the door!"

Bruce had no intention of approaching the door, but moments later, it swung open from outside—not broken, but unlocked with a key.

Outside stood a man with a grim expression; he sized Bruce up and said, "Who are you? Where's the previous tenant?"

"I'm Selina's boyfriend…"

"I don't care what your relationship is. I only rent to people I trust. Get out, stranger!" the landlord shouted.

"But the rent isn't due yet…"

"I don't care about rent!" the landlord raised his voice. "Who I rent to lives here. Anyone I didn't rent to, get out now!"

Bruce realized the landlord simply wanted to reclaim the apartment and rent it again for double the money. Faced with such a brutal, unreasonable man, he stopped trying to reason—he raised his gun.

The landlord stared at him. "Don't think you're the only one with a gun. The rules here aren't broken by anyone. If you don't leave quickly, you'll regret it."

With that, he turned and walked away. Bruce stood by the door, watching him, a bad feeling settling in.

Back in the room, exhausted from the day, Bruce was drowsy; he was just drifting off when he heard a faint noise inside.

In an instant, he was wide awake, reaching for the gun beside him, then carrying it into the living room, where he saw someone climbing through the window. He focused— it was the drunkard he'd seen before.

The man was rummaging through the sofa. Only when Bruce's gun barrel pressed against his head did he jerk back in panic, mumbling incoherently, too drunk to form a single complete sentence.

Bruce pointed the gun at him until the man scrambled out the door, trembling and terrified. Only then did Bruce lower the gun and prepare to return to rest.

But soon, noise came again from outside. Bruce had to get up once more—and found another thief.

After driving off this thief too, Bruce knew he was being targeted. Perhaps the landlord had spread word that a wealthy stranger lived here. In just one night, Bruce was burgled four times.

The balcony door had a lock, but it was useless against these thieves. After all, this was a slum apartment—not a fully equipped Batcave. Without preparation, Batman could only fight them one by one, with no real defense.

Bruce had no choice but to sleep on the living room sofa all night. When he woke, he found his neck twisted. Clutched in his arms wasn't a soft blanket, but his gun—and he knew he'd scared off at least two more thieves that night.

After rising, Bruce planned to head downstairs for a hot dog. On the stairs, he met the Asian woman—the plump lady lowered her voice and said, "You'd better leave. Huff has already spread the word—he won't stop thieves from entering your room."

Through the Asian woman's explanation, Bruce learned the apartment wasn't owned by one person—it was jointly purchased by mid-level members of a gang, each claiming a section and deciding who could rent the rooms.

They would warn nearby thieves not to bother the tenants—or face expulsion by the gang. But if they encountered a troublesome tenant, they'd deliberately send thieves to harass them until the tenant fled.

Normally, landlords wouldn't evict tenants before the lease ended to re-rent and collect double rent—it risked angering the tenant's gang and damaging their reputation, making others avoid their area.

But before renting, they made one rule: no subletting or changing tenants. If they allowed it, they couldn't guarantee the safety of newcomers—what if someone brought in a bomber? Everyone in the building would suffer.

The landlord didn't know who Bruce was, nor whether he hid a dangerous soul beneath his appearance. To protect himself, his tenants, and his building, he declared he no longer offered protection to this apartment—and specifically told others Bruce was wealthy.

As a result, for the next two days, thief after thief came to this room. Bruce worked all day, then spent every night fending off thieves.

He was alone; the thieves were countless. Even if they didn't enter, just knocking on the windows was enough to keep Bruce awake all night.

Bruce also noticed the landlord was losing patience. The last few intruders each carried long guns. Had Bruce not reacted fast and pointed his weapon first, he might have been hurt.

Bruce realized he couldn't stay here anymore. He decided not to argue further with the landlord.

This was the old saying: a powerful dragon can't overpower a local snake. Even if he defeated this landlord, he couldn't defeat all the landlords here—or the gang they belonged to.

More importantly, even if he defeated them all, what about the other tenants? Without the landlord or gang protection, they'd have no peace.

Bruce decided to leave—but he didn't know where to rent next. Luckily, after days in the East District, he had some leads. He found the head waiter from his old restaurant and asked for help.

The waiter admired Bruce, but shook his head. "In the East District, you need a referral to rent. No landlord will let you in without one."

"If you move in and start killing people, setting off bombs, or running illegal businesses, your landlord and his gang could be ruined. Without a referral, you'll only end up in the Can District."

"The Can District? Where's that?" Bruce asked.

The waiter pointed. "Go straight out another three kilometers—you'll see a landfill. South of it, toward the sea, you'll spot a cluster of shacks made of sheet metal. That's the Can District."

"People there scavenge discarded construction debris—bricks, metal sheets—and build their own homes. From afar, they look like cans. Hence the name."

The waiter sighed. "I advise you not to go there. Many who enter never leave."

"Never leave? Why?" Bruce asked.

The waiter shook his head and said nothing. But Bruce decided to visit the Can District—his description reminded him of the little girl's home.

The girl had lived in a shabby shack made of sheet metal at the end of an alley—that had been Bruce's baseline for squalor.

But arriving at the Can District, he realized he'd underestimated it.

The girl's home had at least three walls; only the roof and door were sheet metal. Here, every shack was built entirely of scrap and discarded materials.

Located in southern Gotham East, this was the landfill zone—and the dumping ground for most factory effluent pipes. In Gotham, where every inch of land was valuable, this area had been abandoned because it was a tidal flat.

The soil was too poor to build foundations—you'd have to reclaim land from the sea. Too expensive. So it was left behind. But it became someone else's home.

As Bruce walked in, he saw most of the people hiding among the debris were elderly, disabled, or gravely ill.

Some, like him, had nowhere else to go—no referrals meant no rental, so they came here temporarily.

Bruce found an unoccupied sheet-metal shack. Its previous occupant seemed transient—he didn't know where the owner had gone, but he knew he had a place to sleep tonight.

Calling it a "house" was inaccurate. One wall was a broken triangular panel of steel, still embedded with rebar—clearly torn from a demolished apartment building. Another wall was a metal balcony door without glass, covered with plastic sheeting.

Together, the two walls formed a triangular space. Outside, wooden planks and storage boxes served as a door. Calling it a house felt archaic; calling it a tent felt too modern.

Standing on the beach, Bruce gazed far out—and realized this wasn't a residential area. It was a graveyard. Within his line of sight, he saw three corpses lying inside sheet-metal shacks.

Wading through the sand, he realized his rain boots weren't just overpriced—they were utterly defective. The seams looked sealed, but sand and water seeped in with every step. Soon, his feet were ice-cold.

The chill spread upward from his feet. Bruce knew he had to warm up fast—or he'd die of hypothermia, like the little girl.

Wood was plentiful here, but useless for fire. Left on the beach too long, moisture had soaked into everything. Too damp to ignite. Nothing here was dry—not even his clothes.

As night deepened and temperatures dropped, Bruce grew colder. Crouched inside the shack, he felt like a slab of meat inside a can—cold from head to toe.

Bruce thought this was the worst—until he moved the floorboards and saw a human skeleton in the crack.

Now he knew where the previous occupant had gone.

In his old life as Batman, he would have ripped up the floor and performed an immediate autopsy. Now, Bruce quietly replaced the boards—and even found a cloth to seal the gaps. Not from fear. From cold.

The next morning, Bruce discovered he had a cold.

Headache, cough, weakness—he felt terrible. All he wanted was to lie down all day.

This bat that had descended upon him was anything but gentle. Sometimes too stubborn. But fittingly, Gotham had never known a good night—only cold nights.