Chapter 789: The Deadly Joke (Thirteen)

After Gotham gradually entered summer, temperatures rose and rainstorms ceased; aside from occasional light rain in the early night, the weather improved significantly, making it more hospitable for the homeless, who no longer had to fear freezing to death at night.

Ironically, Bruce did not discard the money belonging to his archenemy, the Joker Jack—a thought inconceivable to Batman, for whom everything tied to criminals was a virus, especially money.

But now, he was neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne; neither would ever make such a reckless move: to wage war against the impoverished and the ordinary people he had never cared about.

Batman would consider this a waste of time, because in truth, he had done nothing at all during this period.

He had exhausted all his energy and strength, and the only thing he had done was survive—if the old Batman had seen this, he would have condemned it as a waste of life.

Yet Bruce was here, living in constant dread, unable to take a single step forward; he had sunk so low that he accepted handouts from Joker Jack, yet still couldn't afford rent for a better apartment.

Bruce's original goal had been Live Hell, a place he had transformed himself, and he wanted to see firsthand what it had become.

Then he discovered he couldn't afford to rent a place there.

A one-bedroom, one-living-room apartment in Live Hell cost fifteen dollars a week—an unimaginable price in the East District; Selina's apartment, also one bedroom, one living room, with bathroom and balcony, was only six dollars a week.

Unable to afford a one-bedroom apartment, Bruce lowered his standards: Live Hell had some edge-unit rooms—unused single rooms inside Live Hell, with only a bedroom, no living room or kitchen; those with windows cost three dollars a week, those without even dropped to two.

But the room was so small it could barely fit a bed, and since it was a rented room, it meant living with the landlord; Bruce asked several landlords, but none would accept him—a strong adult Ma Lei—because it was too dangerous.

Those who could afford such cheap rooms were usually frail women, like Maggie, who posed no threat to the landlord's safety, and they required a personal referral; otherwise, Gothamites would never let strangers live in their homes.

After realizing he couldn't rent in Live Hell, Bruce began looking nearby—but any housing within the water purifier range was still prohibitively expensive.

The water purifier Batman had once spent a fortune installing had now become the very reason he couldn't afford housing.

But Bruce had to rent a place with a water purifier—his digestive system could no longer endure more contamination.

After much searching, he finally found someone with connections—a child member of the nearby cigarette-smuggling gang—who told Bruce: "Basements near Live Hell are rented out; they have water purifiers, and each floor has a shared bathroom—they were built alongside Live Hell."

"But you need a gang to vouch for you. I know a gang that does this—if you can pay, they'll find you a place."

Bruce considered it, realized he had no better option, and followed the cigarette vendor's directions to find the gang's middleman.

They lived in a dilapidated house on the edge of Live Hell; the moment Bruce saw the environment, his heart sank—how could such people possibly secure good housing near Live Hell if they themselves lived here?

The middleman's boss was a woman covered in tattoos; she slapped Bruce's shoulder and said: "You're from out of town, right? We've been doing this for a year—every client is satisfied. Pay us, and we guarantee you'll get a suitable place."

"May I ask the price?" Bruce asked.

"Ten dollars for the service fee. We'll negotiate your rent, and you can view the place beforehand—but once you sign, no changes allowed."

The woman took a drag of her cigarette and added: "We can also help you find work—we have connections in kitchens and front desks. Of course, if you're willing to go to a strip club, I can introduce you—you'd be a hit."

Hearing his confident assurances, Bruce grew suspicious—he was naturally distrustful, almost never trusted anyone—so he ultimately refused the middleman and decided to find a place himself.

Then he discovered that every landlord in the area was a middleman.

Each one patted their chest, promising to find him a suitable place; with no other options, Bruce picked the one he judged most reliable.

It turned out his judgment was good—this wasn't a crooked middleman; he did find Bruce a place—but the price was steep: a fifteen-dollar service fee, five dollars weekly rent, minimum one-month lease.

Bruce's new apartment was still a basement, but fortunately close to Live Hell, so it had a water purifier system—a faucet in the room provided drinkable water, but to use the toilet, he had to leave and go to Live Hell's public restroom.

But as expected, dealing with middlemen only led to being cheated—or being cheated badly. One day after moving in, the apartment began leaking; the pipe above was poorly sealed, and the leak dripped directly onto Bruce's pillow—he caught a cold the next day.

After two more days, Bruce discovered his neighbor was engaged in illegal transactions; customers came and went constantly, and at night he heard noises he didn't want to hear but couldn't avoid.

Just as he completed his first week, a gang showed up demanding protection money; Bruce assumed it was extortion, but his neighbors had all paid, so he paid too—after chatting with them, he learned the rent was cheap precisely because protection fees were excluded: five dollars weekly.

Bruce's patience had reached its limit—he could accept hunger, could accept being blocked on the street—but he could not accept being cheated.

Batman was a forgiving man, the most forgiving person besides Shiler.

Bruce wanted to punish these middlemen, but he knew he could only outwit them—he couldn't afford injury, and to outwit them, he needed to set one predator against another, use their strength against them.

At that moment, he heard the area's top boss was cracking down on illegal rentals; he paid a child to point him to the investigator.

That night, Bruce encountered the informant and successfully became a witness, identifying the middleman who rented him the apartment and the gang that collected protection fees twice a week.

Identifying the middleman was simple—but proving the gang broke the rules was harder.

The investigator said their boss wanted to meet him; Bruce went without hesitation—and found himself facing a familiar face: Cobblepot, waiting in the restaurant.

When Cobblepot saw Bruce, he thought he was hallucinating; he reopened his medicine bottle, swallowed a pill, and made Bruce wait in the reception room for half an hour before re-entering.

Then he realized his mental state was deteriorating further—medication could no longer fix his hallucinations.

The man before him had Bruce Wayne's face—Bruce Wayne's face, perhaps.

But now he was thin, his cheeks sunken; his beard was untrimmed, his sideburns unshaved, no watch on his wrist, his boots caked in mud.

He stared at Bruce for a full minute, then confirmed: his memory was fine—the problem lay with the man before him.

"What the hell happened to you?" Cobblepot asked Bruce.

"You don't need to know." Bruce sat on the sofa, brushing dust off his sleeve. "I can tell you how many crooked middlemen operate around Live Hell, how many gangs illegally collect protection fees, how many children take money from middlemen to lure customers—I can even tell you how many pimps operate here and where their businesses are."

Cobblepot found the situation fascinating. The man before him was Bruce Wayne—the famed Batman—but what was fascinating wasn't that—it was that Batman had just offered to give him intelligence.

"Are you insane, Wayne?" Cobblepot glanced outside. "If you're mad, go take your medicine. Doesn't this city have enough lunatics already? You can't fix them, so you're joining them?"

"I'm not insane." Bruce's eyes were sunken deeper than usual, yet his gaze burned bright.

He had completely abandoned his former Riddler-style speech: "I can help you increase the efficiency of restoring order around Live Hell by over fifty percent. The question is—how much are you willing to pay?"

"You're truly insane." Cobblepot sat across from Bruce, staring into his eyes. "I'll call Professor Shiler for you right now—he can take you to Arkham Asylum for treatment. How much are you willing to pay for that?"

"I said I'm not insane. If you want to call that professor, go ahead—I'm confident I can write an excellent paper and graduate from him as an outstanding student," Bruce said.

Cobblepot covered his forehead with his hand and told his subordinate: "Go to my office, bring me the second bottle of pills from the right side of my desk."

After a moment, the subordinate brought the bottle; Cobblepot waved his hand at his bulky bodyguards, who immediately pinned Bruce down—it was easy, for Bruce had grown thin and weak, barely able to resist.

Cobblepot poured out one pill and said to Bruce: "This is a sedative. You weigh more than me, so one pill should be just right."

Then he ordered his men to force the pill into Bruce's mouth; Bruce struggled, but it was useless—he had lost at least thirty pounds in the past month.

He had always been lean; after a month of extreme poverty, his water and fat reserves were depleted, and his muscle was beginning to waste—now, claiming he could fight Cobblepot evenly was exaggerated, but he certainly couldn't defeat a gang bodyguard weighing over eighty kilograms.

Fortunately, Cobblepot had no intention of tormenting him; he wasn't a madman like the Joker—he knew Bruce Wayne's value, and he wasn't doing this to humiliate Batman—he genuinely feared Bruce might do something reckless and hurt himself.

People could die, but never in my restaurant, Cobblepot thought—if Wayne truly died here, this place would never attract another elite patron.

After talking with Bruce for a long time, Cobblepot was certain: he was truly insane—he wasn't even afraid of Shiler anymore; he feared nothing now.

But Cobblepot was afraid.