Chapter 796: The Deadly Joke (Twenty)

Of course, the steak in front of Bruce wasn't a full cut—just scraps—but the meat quality was excellent, clearly the kind rich people ate regularly.

What followed stunned Bruce even more: a bowl of clam soup, two oysters, two large sandwiches, and even a small piece of cake.

Selina rubbed her hands and said, "The West Coast has everything going for it, except the food—it's terrible. Home-cooked meals are still the best."

Then she picked up her fork, speared a piece of beef, and shoved it straight into her mouth.

Watching her chew with obvious delight, Bruce felt hungry himself. He picked up his knife and fork, cut off a small bite, and put it in his mouth. Rich broth and abundant fat burst open, filling his senses with an intoxicating aroma that left him entranced.

This solved a long-standing mystery: when he first took Catwoman to a high-end restaurant, she hadn't shown any surprise at the exorbitantly priced steak.

Now the tables had turned, and Bruce realized he must have failed to control his expression—because Selina was smirking at him.

Selina laughed and said, "You don't think we all ate garbage in the slums, do you? Not at all!"

"Gotham is rich—we've known that for a long time. Sure, the common folk aren't wealthy, but as long as the rich have money, we can still sip some of their soup," Selina shrugged, then added,

"Because restaurants are busy, with high customer traffic and heavy ingredient use, their bulk purchases are cheap. So owners don't mind waste, and kitchen staff are mostly from the East End."

"The boss turns a blind eye—chefs and helpers take the scraps home. But because so many high-spending customers come in, there's always plenty of leftover material. The staff can't eat it all, so they sell it."

"Of course, scraps can't compare to the main dishes—they're much cheaper. These steaks you see? They're leftovers from upscale restaurants. Remember when we ordered at those places? We only picked the best cuts. But a cow has so much meat—there's always some left over."

"Sometimes, a dish uses only the finest piece from the best cut, and the surrounding meat is chopped into tiny bits. That's what you're eating now—excellent quality, but too fragmented to command a high price."

Bruce looked down at his plate. Selina was right—the beef was already pre-cut, no knife needed. This kind of minced meat would never appear on any table in the South District.

"These seafood items? All frozen. Usually stolen by drivers on cold-chain transport. There's always spoilage in transit—overreporting losses is no big deal. That's why everyone wants to be a cold-chain driver; it's the easiest way to make extra cash."

"And these vegetables? Mostly for garnish. High-end diners never eat them. When staff clear the plates, they keep them back and sell them too."

Selina nodded toward the restaurant window and said, "Don't be fooled by how lively it looks outside—their ingredients aren't nearly as good as what we're eating. Many owners grind up inferior meat into patties, drown it in sauce to mask the smell. You probably ate that kind, which is why you got sick."

"Of course, restaurants with this quality of ingredients require connections—and they're expensive. I usually only come once a month. But since I just got back, today's a celebration."

Bruce listened to Selina while continuously shoveling beef into his mouth. He hadn't eaten anything this delicious in a long time.

Selina ate slowly and said, "I think you imagine the people in the slums are too stupid. Do we not know the rich exploit us every day? If so, why shouldn't we take more?"

"Thank them for their extravagance," Selina clasped her hands together. "I hope they waste even more every day—ideally, they only bite one piece of steak, and their rice and flour bags sprout bugs. Oh, wait—that one doesn't even need praying for. Even without bugs, warehouse managers will make them sprout. After all, they don't care about a little grain…"

As Bruce ate, he thought: in the past, he would have scolded Selina for this—because it was theft, illegal.

Selina brushed her fingers over Bruce's injured face and said, "You're being overly anxious, darling. You think you're too smart and we're too foolish. But human adaptability is strong."

"I was born here and grew up here. I've never thought it was bad. You don't need to come here for a month as some outsider and decide we're pitiful. We're not pitiful—we're doing fine."

"But those…" Bruce paused, "those lying in basements waiting to die, only able to numb the pain with marijuana…"

"There are always people like that everywhere. Pain is fair to everyone," Selina lowered her eyes to her plate. "If you go to Gotham's best hospital, you'll see plenty of rich people cranking their morphine doses to the max. Aren't they waiting to die too?"

"True, our medical care is poor. Many injuries that could be cured in the rich districts end up fatal here. But if everyone got healed, and no positions opened up, wouldn't healthy people starve too?"

Bruce had no reply. Selina looked at him and said, "Gothamites die young—not from accidents, but from gang wars. The more who die, the more chances open up for others. You replace your dead predecessor, and you too might die. Everyone knows this."

"You think you're too strong and we're too weak," Selina's eyelashes glowed gold in the dim light, mesmerizing Bruce. He heard her say, in a reflective tone,

"Death isn't frightening to us. It's everyone's destined fate. We've seen too much of it since birth. So we're stronger than you rich people. We don't like crying at hospital bedsides, and the dying don't want to hear us cry."

"Better to go out and have fun, have a drink—I know you think it's frivolous, that we don't take life seriously," Selina lifted her glass to her lips. "But honestly, we think you take things too seriously, too solemnly."

Selina wiped the wine from her lips and looked at Bruce. "I don't like bringing this up, but have you noticed—in the East End, having no parents is normal?"

"Not just normal—it's lucky. If you open your eyes and find yourself abandoned in a house, with your biological parents gone, you should thank God."

Though Bruce had grown used to many things, hearing this still struck him as absurd. Selina smiled at his expression and said, "I knew you'd be shocked—but it's true."

"First, if you have no parents, no one abuses you, forces you to earn money, or sells you to filthy places…"

"If you're in a house instead of on the street or in a trash bin, it means your parents still had some sanity. If you can hold on until someone finds you, you usually won't die."

"And if your mind is clear too? That's incredibly lucky—it means you didn't inherit your parents' addictions. You won't be born a junkie…"

Selina shrugged and extended her hand. "Sometimes, I wish I'd never had a mother. Then I wouldn't have to go out in the rain to buy cat food for her."

Bruce sat silently in his chair. Selina reached out again, stroking his face. "Sweetheart, it's been over ten years. Even if you're rich enough to sit around grieving forever, doing nothing, you'll only miss more."

"Do you think I've done nothing?" Bruce asked.

Selina opened her mouth, hesitated, then gave an awkward smile. "Well… not nothing. You've done a bit, like… uh… you've written a lot of papers?"

"I mean Batman," Bruce stared at Selina. She looked away, but Bruce pressed on. Selina sighed. "Honestly, I don't even know what Batman does…"

"From what I know, besides walking with me, you just stand on rooftops staring at the view… Wait! You've done something! You installed a ton of cameras and dug a hole in the hills outside the city—you've made yourself so busy with papers you can't finish them…"

Seeing Bruce's expression darken, Selina quickly scrambled for a better answer. "Oh! Wait! I remember! Commissioner Gordon told me—the traffic light at the central roundabout? You turned it into a Bat-Signal. It's blinding. Every night, it scares the hell out of me…"

"Hmm, and…" Selina's eyes darted faster, but after over a minute of thought, she spoke again: "Recently, the papers reported someone's paying top dollar for your photo. If you don't have a photo, even your whereabouts will do…"

Bruce's gaze grew colder. Selina shrank back slightly. "Okay… I admit, I was tempted. But I knew you'd be furious, so I didn't do it."

"Oh come on, let's drop it. If you're done eating, let's go for a walk?" Selina began pouting—she knew Bruce was angry.

But to her surprise, Bruce spoke up:

"How much do they pay for my whereabouts?"

"Hmm…" Selina hesitated. "Five dollars per tip…"

"What?!?!"

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