Chapter 795

Selina took two more steps forward, cupping Bruce's face in her hands and saying, "I'm sorry, darling—I didn't believe Maggie when she told me you were having mental issues, but now I do."

"I know, I know…" Selina pressed her face close to Bruce's. "You're a billionaire who spends thousands on a single meal. Even if you don't know how much five dollars means in the slums, you should at least be able to tell this boot is fake???"

Selina shoved Bruce's head away, pointing at his boot. "Even if you can't see the details, don't you notice the upper and sole aren't the same color? Are you colorblind?!

"

By the end, Selina was shouting. Bruce had no answer, because he truly had no idea what rain boots in the slums were supposed to look like.

Bruce never wore rain boots normally. When he was Batman, he wore the Bat-suit's combat boots—things that barely resembled shoes at all. When he was Bruce, he usually wore only leather shoes.

What? You're asking what he did on rainy days?

On rainy days, Bruce would simply call ahead and have someone prepare blankets. The car would pull up to the door, and before his foot even stepped out, the servant would have already laid down a thick stack of waterproof mats and umbrellas from the car door all the way to the foyer. If a single drop of rain touched his shoes, the servant got scolded.

The rain boots Bruce now wore had a faint color difference between upper and sole—the upper was plain green, the sole military green. Bruce recalled the shop where he bought them had terrible lighting. The shopkeeper handed them to him, he examined them closely, but saw nothing wrong with the color.

Selina sighed. "My dear master, these boots are made by gluing cheap rubber uppers onto discarded soles. They're fine when new, but once soaked in water for a long time, they leak immediately. I wouldn't wear them even if you paid me five dollars to take them."

Selina wrapped her arms around Bruce's neck. "Looks like you've done a lot of stupid things in the past month. Let's find a quiet place, and you tell me everything—we can go get your money back…"

Bruce really wanted to say it wasn't necessary, but looking into Selina's eyes, he couldn't bring himself to speak.

Selina led him through winding alleys until they reached a very dark side street, then knocked on a first-floor window. A heavily made-up old woman poked her head out. "Oh? Isn't that Selina? What brings you here?"

"Madam, we're looking for a room." Selina was unusually polite to the woman. The old lady frowned. "What happened to your old place? Why aren't you living there anymore?"

Selina rolled her eyes. "Don't even get me started. I've had it with that coward Huff. I want a room in Hell's Kitchen—price doesn't matter, but it has to be safe."

The old woman pulled her head back in, then pulled out a newspaper. On the blank space, a string of words and apartment numbers were scribbled. She put on her glasses, studied it, then said, "There are two vacant rooms in North Hell's Kitchen. Good conditions, but rent is eight dollars a week…"

"Can't you make it cheaper?" Selina asked. "I'll pay protection fees on time, and I'll subscribe to newspapers and milk."

The old woman waved a finger. "I know exactly where you should go. South District has a new vacancy—newspaper and milk subscriptions already arranged. Move in, six dollars a week, no increase. How's that?"

Selina nodded. "Tell the local gang I'll be coming and going at night. Oh, and sometimes I bring men home—tell them not to make a fuss…"

"No one worries about that in Hell's Kitchen anymore," the old woman said, flipping her newspaper. "You get what you pay for. You'll see when you move in."

Selina pulled out a wallet, fished out twenty cents, handed it over, smiled, waved goodbye, and walked away.

On the way, Selina explained to Bruce: "There are many old women like this in East District. Most were courtesans in their youth, some even mistresses to gang bosses."

"When men lost interest, they still did well—familiar with every gang leader, able to slip into any mansion, fluent in social etiquette, able to meet the big shots. They hold serious sway in East District. Renting from them is always safe."

Bruce nodded vaguely. He didn't feel ashamed, because he genuinely didn't know any of this—and neither would any newcomer.

Selina pulled him to the curb. "We're catching a ride."

"A ride? What kind of ride?" Bruce asked.

"Just a ride. It's far to Hell's Kitchen—don't tell me you plan to walk? You'd collapse. Here comes one!"

Bruce turned and saw a large truck approaching—the same kind he'd driven before.

Selina raised her hand to signal, then lowered it after a glance. The truck roared past them. Bruce looked at Selina.

"That truck won't pick us up," she shrugged. "It's loaded. Driver's doing night runs—too busy to bother with hitchhikers."

Another truck passed. Selina didn't wave. "Nope. Female driver. Won't take Ma Lei passengers."

"Oh, this one… nope. Driver's too skinny. Not even as strong as you. He'd get suspicious seeing you."

"Oh! This one!" Selina finally waved hard. The truck stopped. Two burly men sat in the cab, covered in tattoos, faces menacing.

But Selina wasn't afraid. She leaned in, two bills pinched between her fingers. "Hey, boys, need a ride to Hell's Kitchen? You got room?"

One man leered, but before he could speak, Selina said, "I've got time tonight—I could keep you both company. But…"

Selina smiled sweetly. The other driver gave his partner a look. The partner coughed. "You ride in the back. Get out when we arrive. Pay me."

Selina tossed the bills into the cab, then pulled Bruce into the cargo area. It carried frozen beef. The air reeked of something strange. They found a crate to sit on. After a bumpy ride, they arrived.

After getting out, Bruce asked Selina: "They were just about to…"

Selina shook her head. "They only talk big. They wouldn't let me into the cab."

"No woman in East District is easy prey. They'd rather pay for a prostitute than risk picking up a woman hitchhiking at night—paying a hooker costs money. Letting her in your truck might cost you your life."

In Hell's Kitchen, Selina carried nothing. She walked straight into the apartment. Moments later, loud knocking echoed. Selina didn't open the door—she slid the rent under the gap. The knocking stopped immediately.

Bruce surveyed the room. It was far better than his previous one—single bedroom, living room, south-facing balcony, toilet, kitchen, even a shower. It barely belonged to East District. It could pass for a mid-tier apartment between North and South.

Selina pulled Bruce onto the sofa, lit a cigarette, and said: "Now, you can finally tell me what happened these past few days."

Bruce finally opened up, recounting his experiences.

He emphasized every trap he'd fallen into, every scam, every setback that dragged him back into despair. But Selina showed no surprise—she simply listened quietly.

When he finished, Bruce said: "That's why I feel this is absurd. People here have zero margin for error. One wrong step, and…"

"Who told you that?" Selina narrowed her eyes. "Bruce, how did I never realize you were this stubborn?"

"Why didn't you think—you weren't born here, so you have no family or friends. You didn't join a gang, so you have no brothers. Here, you're an orphan. Of course you're struggling."

Selina rubbed her forehead and sighed. "I never thought you were stupid. But today, I have to say—how can your brain be so rigid?"

Seeing Bruce's confused expression, Selina said: "Take me, for example. My father's dead. My mother doesn't care. I joined a thieves' gang early. Sounds bad, right?"

"But the girls I knew as a child? Still in touch. The apartment I rented before? One of them found it for me—even got me a discount."

"The thief-mother who trained me? Yes, she made me steal for her. But through her, I met fences—people with connections to every gang, who could sell my stolen goods. Right next to my old place was a market. I bought everything there—familiar faces, no scams."

"Later, I became a cat burglar. I know all the famous ones in East District. Sometimes we hang out, exchange intel, share tips."

"And I do gymnastics. I teach little girls from the gang theft techniques. Their gang pays me, helps me out. Even my newspaper and milk subscriptions get discounts."

"And cooking? Your stomach upset at first? Not because your gut couldn't adjust—it's because you ate at places that specifically target outsiders."

"You know what I usually eat?" Selina asked, locking eyes with Bruce. Bruce shook his head. Selina glanced at her watch. "Well, a late snack won't hurt. Come with me."

Selina took Bruce out of Hell's Kitchen again, caught a ride the same way, and arrived at a bustling part of East District. Many restaurants lined the streets, packed with truck drivers dining in lines.

But Selina didn't join the queues. At the end of an alley, she found a pitch-black little shop. She pulled Bruce inside. Bruce looked around and said:

"You better make sure this place can treat my gastroenteritis—or I'm afraid I'll end up worse after eating…"

The next second, steaming food was set before him. Bruce was stunned—the beef on his plate had marble-like veining. Yes, the kind that costs hundreds of dollars a meal.