Chapter 787

Bruce left with firm resolve, but the old man still shoved a cigarette into his hand and said, "Every new arrival here gets a free cigarette from me—it might save your life at a critical moment, and it'll gain me another customer. If the pain becomes unbearable, come find me. The doctor welcomes every patient."

Bruce held the cigarette, his steps stiff as he returned to the truck. He shoved it carelessly into his pocket, sat motionless on the seat, until Gotham began to rain again.

With nowhere else to go, Bruce could only stay in the truck—it was his only shelter, cold as it was, but at least it kept out wind and rain.

Sitting in the driver's seat, Bruce kept hearing the old man's words echoing in his mind—absurd, illogical, like a cruel joke.

But the old man wasn't joking. He truly saw himself as a doctor, seeking solutions for his patients, convinced he could cure them; in his view, if the pain stopped, they were cured.

Was this absurd? Perhaps. But it wasn't without reason.

In these past few days, Bruce had come to deeply understand the importance of labor capacity—it was the only hope for everyone here.

They had to be able to work to survive here; if they couldn't even move, they were truly waiting to die.

To gain the ability to work, they tried every possible method, including using drugs to numb the pain.

There were two ways to treat illness: one addressed symptoms, the other the root cause. Bruce utterly rejected this slow suicide as a way to treat symptoms, yet he had no right to question why they didn't seek the root cause.

Because the two crumpled dollars in his hand couldn't even cover the hospital registration fee.

If you must rely solely on yourself to obtain basic survival necessities, then "life is unpredictable" is no mere lament—it's a thunderclap.

On the day the lightning struck, many had already died; the death sentence was handed down on the first, but they only carried it out on the fifteenth.

Lying on the seat, Bruce gradually drifted into a hazy drowsiness, but this time his dreams kept falling—repeating cycles of descent and jolting awakenings.

His grip on the rifle slowly loosened; the dual torment of body and mind dragged him into a deep sleep, so he didn't hear the strange noises.

The next morning, Bruce sat up and stretched, feeling slightly better—his stomach pain had vanished, his strength had returned, and today the temperature rose, so the chill faded.

Bruce felt everything was turning around—but the feeling didn't last long. Ten minutes later, he discovered the truck wouldn't start.

He got out to check and found the fuel tank's lock had been pried open.

The full tank of fuel he'd added the night before was gone—stolen. He'd slept too soundly to hear a thing.

Now the problem was: if he wanted to eat, he couldn't afford gas; if he wanted gas, he couldn't afford food.

Without gas, he couldn't work today; after eating today's meal, he'd have no money for tomorrow's. But if he didn't eat, his gastroenteritis would worsen, and his body would grow weaker.

After careful consideration, Bruce decided to fill the tank. He had to ensure sustainability, not live meal to meal.

Eventually, he reached the gas station, used his last few dollars to refill the tank, and bought a new lock for it—leaving him penniless again.

With gas, he could work. Work meant pay. With pay, he could eat tomorrow. Everything would get better.

With this mindset, Bruce set out again.

As he had for the past few days, he arrived at the gang's warehouse and began loading cargo. Today's business was unusually good—he filled the truck completely and earned two dollars in tips. Delivering this load to the distribution point would earn him another ten dollars—enough for three meals.

Bruce felt he'd made the right choice—not shortsightedly spending his money on food, or else he'd still be worrying about tomorrow's meal.

He drove onto the road, as usual took the overpass, and entered the long, slow crawl of traffic.

In the past, even during jams, the vehicles moved at least once every five minutes; the twenty-kilometer journey took hours, but it was still doable.

But today, the traffic was welded in place—not a single inch moved. By noon, the sun was directly overhead, yet he'd barely covered half the overpass. Bruce, like other drivers, got out to check.

He didn't realize how dire it was until he saw: a refrigerated transport truck carrying dense ice raw material had leaked. The substance had frozen the entire rear half of the overpass. Professionals were on the way—but until they arrived, no deliveries could proceed.

He waited on the overpass until 2 p. ., when he received word: professionals had arrived, but they weren't qualified enough—they needed to summon even more specialized personnel, who wouldn't arrive until tomorrow. The overpass entrance was now sealed. Cars stranded on it were out of luck—they'd have to wait until tomorrow.

Standing on the overpass, Bruce could clearly feel the sunlight here was better than on the ground—though still far from clear, the view was wider—but his mood wasn't.

He felt anger, frustration, regret—but didn't know who to blame.

After asking around, Bruce learned the driver of the raw material truck had been driving all night without sleep. When he checked the valve this morning, he didn't notice anything—by mid-journey, the entire load had leaked.

The first professionals said the material couldn't be recovered. That meant one small oversight by the driver had saddled him with at least $300, 00 in debt. Bruce now understood: $300, 00 wasn't just a few meals.

Most drivers dared not leave their trucks—they'd all experienced what Bruce had. Just stepping away to use the restroom or grab a bite, and their fuel vanished. With the road blocked, they had no choice but to stay.

Some children came onto the overpass selling food. Many truckers bought it. Bruce didn't—he had no money.

Another day and night without food, and Bruce felt his body fat rapidly depleting—but his spirit improved slightly. The constant, all-consuming hunger no longer tormented him.

The next day, after the road cleared, Bruce drove to the distribution point. But when he went to collect his pay, half was withheld.

The reason: the delayed cargo missed the last ship, and the next one had raised prices. The gangs had to recoup their losses from the drivers.

Bruce no longer had the strength to argue with the gang. He just wanted his money to buy food—his body warned him: if he didn't eat, he'd risk hypoglycemia.

With his few dollars, he found a roadside bakery, bought two cheap loaves of white bread, two baguettes, and some shelf-stable biscuits, piled them in the truck, then paid a high price to a newsboy for several bottles of purified water, which he also stored in the truck.

Meat was scarce—he could only buy processed sausages, which mostly contained offal and failed basic hygiene standards. But Bruce had no choice. Without fat, his body temperature would drop faster.

The only remaining problem was vitamins. Vegetables didn't keep well, and he had no way to cook. Bruce needed to find a more stable place to live as soon as possible.

With food replenished, Bruce felt somewhat at ease. If he could save some money, he could rent a better apartment. Only with a stable home would his journey through the slums truly begin—and next, he'd find a way out of the East District on his own.

But Gotham was Gotham: whenever someone set their mind to something, disaster always struck.

After dark, Bruce planned to find a place to park. But as he started the engine, he noticed the steering felt off—something was wrong with the steering system.

After testing it for a long time, Bruce confirmed the truck had a problem. He had to crawl underneath to repair it. After inspection, he realized this wasn't a brand-new truck at all.

Though its exterior looked pristine, once he saw the internal structure, Bruce knew it was a secondhand truck cobbled together from old parts.

He'd suspected the gang wouldn't be so generous as to lend him such a good truck for free—but the extent of the parts' deterioration was worse than he imagined.

The next day, Bruce returned to the gang. They were polite, willing to repair the truck. But after they fixed it, before he'd even driven a full day, the tires failed again.

Bruce realized the gang's repair method was simple: swap faulty parts from one truck to another, and hope for the best.

Or rather, if they managed to install the parts at all, that was already a win. With the first batch of students from the vocational college still not graduated, most truck repairs relied on instinct.

Bruce knew this approach wouldn't work. He needed new, functional parts to make the truck run reliably—not break down halfway. But he had no money to buy them.

Bruce realized every problem he faced in the slums ultimately came down to two words: no money.

No money was no money. If you lacked even one cent for what you needed, you had no money. "A single coin can defeat a hero" wasn't hyperbole—especially since Bruce didn't lack one cent. He had only one cent.

And just then, a group approached him, claiming they could solve his problem of having no money.

Looking at the burly leader, Bruce asked, "You say you'll lend me money. What's the interest?"

The big man waved his hand. "We don't talk about that. We just tell you how much you pay each period. Minimum loan here is $300. For the next year, you pay us $50 per week."

Bruce didn't need to calculate it—he knew this was loan-sharking. Seeing Bruce's lack of interest, the big man clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Our terms are generous. Believe me, those who demand you repay thousands all at once? That's extortion."

"Look—you take $300 when you're desperate, then pay us $50 a week. $50 isn't hard for a driver like you. You might even have a few dollars left over for your family."

Seeing Bruce still refused, he added, "Fine. If you prefer the traditional method: we lend you $300, you pay us $800 next month."

Bruce knew $800 was a fortune in the slums. Even $80 was a fortune to him now.

Bruce looked at the big man and asked, "What happens if I can't pay back?"

The big man smiled. "Don't worry. Right now, the gangs are short on hands—you'll find a good place. Especially since you're such a pretty boy."