Chapter 848

A knocking sound came—"bang, bang, bang." Savage turned and saw his door being pounded. When he opened it, he saw no one at first, then looked down to find a child with baby fat still on his face, clutching a stack of newspapers, gazing at him with hopeful eyes.

"Sir, would you like to subscribe to a newspaper? Eighty percent of the residents here have subscribed. I'll deliver today's latest daily to your door at 6: 0 a. . If you order milk, I'll deliver that too. Other breakfast items and daily necessities will be delivered at 8 a. . and 5 p. ...."

Savage frowned, but the child wasn't afraid. He stepped closer, handing the papers to Savage. "You can take a look first. We partner with the Gotham Daily. We guarantee the ink quality on your papers is the best—even without ironing, you can read it clearly!"

"Of course, we also offer free newspaper ironing—but you must subscribe to at least a year's worth of newspapers and milk to receive this service."

"Believe me, sir, we, the Marlowe Gang, are the most professional paperboys in the Living Hell. The milk we deliver is the best—fresh from outside the city. If you subscribe to everything, I can even negotiate a discount for you..."

The child pushed hard, but Savage's gaze had settled on the newspapers.

He realized the construction site information he'd sent the Piper to collect was now plainly printed on the front page—not just the locations, but also start times, completion dates, daily work hours, and even renderings of the finished projects.

Savage snorted. He thought: Wayne Group is just a private corporation, clueless about the value of intelligence. Such critical information, laid bare for anyone to see in a newspaper—if someone wanted to cause trouble, they could just walk in and take it.

"Sir, will you subscribe? Please, just one copy. Our sales have been terrible—if I don't meet my quota, my boss will beat me. Please..."

Amid the child's pleading, Savage handed the papers back. "How do I subscribe?"

The child immediately beamed, pulling a notebook from his pocket. "Just write your name and address here, pay the fee, and you'll receive your papers every week."

"Newspaper alone is ten dollars a week, but with milk, it's sixteen. If you subscribe for a year, you get a discount. If you want long-term delivery service, you can pay monthly—sixty dollars a month..."

Savage snorted. "You think I don't know you deliberately set a high price? And the black gang's rent for my apartment? At least ten times higher than outside."

"Of course, sir." To Savage's surprise, the paperboy didn't flinch or deny it. He simply said seriously: "Outsiders pay more for newspapers here because we pay extra to deliver them."

He held up his fingers. "If something happens to you here—if you break the rules and hurt someone—we're all dragged in for questioning by the bosses above us..."

"If something big goes wrong, we all suffer. Minor cases mean days off work. Major ones? We might lose our lives. So our service fee is higher. It's fair. All outsiders pay this."

He smirked. "But some poor outsiders? They can't afford it, so they make up excuses, beg us to sell them cheap..."

"Last month, some old foreigner got drunk, smashed a vase, and cut a patrol lieutenant with the shards. I got dragged in for questioning two days straight—couldn't work. Had to borrow money just to eat."

"The drunkard had no money to pay. My boss yelled at me for not warning them he was drunk."

The boy stared at Savage with wide eyes. "They said you're rich. That's why I came. If it were those low-class beggars, I wouldn't even knock."

Savage blinked, surprised. He hadn't expected a child here to be so logical.

The boy's words made sense—and even stirred sympathy. Savage said: "Money isn't the issue. The question is: if I pay you so much, what can you actually do for me?"

The boy's eyes widened. He glanced around, then lowered his voice. "Holy hell, sir—you're not actually planning to do something here, are you?"

Seeing the boy had more to say, Savage pulled out a dime and handed it over. The boy took it and continued: "For the first month after arriving, kids like me watch outsiders closely. If anything's wrong, we report it immediately. Don't do anything here."

"If the gangs can't handle it, they call the cops. Gotham's police are terrifying. Few here live to make it to court. Fewer still walk out with all limbs intact. And that bat guy who wanders around? They say he eats children..."

Savage narrowed his eyes. "No, I don't plan to do anything here. But you know I'm new. I don't know the rules. If I subscribe to your newspapers and milk, will you tell me about recent major events?"

The boy scratched his head. "But the big news is all on the papers. Just subscribe."

"I mean major events inside the Living Hell."

The boy looked puzzled, but said: "Alright—if it gets you to subscribe, fine. But I can't write long reports. How do I tell you?"

"If you can't write, I'll find someone who can." Savage narrowed his eyes, stroking his arm. "There must be many paperboys who deliver here."

The boy shook his head. "Mornings and evenings are our busiest times. No one will waste time writing essays. If we don't write it ourselves, we have to hire someone—and that costs money."

"I already said money isn't an issue." Savage stepped back. "I'll pay you fairly—but you must guarantee the timeliness and truth of the information."

The boy hesitated for a long time. "Fine. But you have to pay me an extra ten dollars a week... Ah, no—five. Five is enough. I'll leave the written notes under your vase every night at five."

"But..." The boy raised his voice, emphasizing: "You must subscribe to a full year of newspapers and milk. Pay the difference for this month's shortfall—or this isn't worth my effort..."

After prolonged bargaining, Savage paid. The boy took the order.

Savage believed he'd found a breakthrough. These kids were greedy, but at least they were reasonable—far better than the mindless, trigger-happy gangs.

High prices? Fine. Even treating him like a lamb to be slaughtered? Fine. As long as they agreed to his first condition, everything else would follow.

Yes. Savage's thinking matched Shiler's. He believed: once a group here opened a door, once they made even a small concession, the rest would flow naturally.

The boy sprinted down the corridor, squeezed through the narrow footbridge, and reached the South Zone.

He knocked on an office door. Before anyone answered, he burst in. "Boss Cobblepot! It's done! You're a genius—he actually asked me to deliver intelligence!"

"How much did you charge him?" Cobblepot asked from behind his desk.

"I wanted ten dollars, but I settled for five. Is that too high?" the boy asked. "I told him the newspaper is ten a week..."

"Not high. Perfect." Cobblepot smiled darkly. "That price makes him feel cheated—but not enough to matter. That's exactly what Professor Shiler called: blurring his sense of loss."

"Ten dollars a week for a newspaper in the Living Hell? Ridiculously high. He knows it. But since he's rich, he thinks, why not try? Now we slowly raise his costs, test his limits..."

"The show is about to begin."

As Cobblepot smiled, several flyers on his desk fluttered out the window, drifting down to land in front of Savage's door.

Every apartment door in the Living Hell had a mailbox. Savage had noticed before moving in that most were stuffed with ads. He hadn't expected the businesses to welcome him so enthusiastically on his second day.

Food, daily goods—even weapons—bars, restaurants, and sketchy pharmacies—all the businesses in the Living Hell had flooded these corridors with advertisements.

Savage wouldn't shop and cook like the locals. He dined only at upscale restaurants. The food here wasn't expensive—but the extra fees were outrageous: 30% service charge, 20% tip, and even takeout containers cost over ten dollars.

But Savage had always dined at the Sokovia Grand Hotel. Even with all these added fees, restaurants in the Living Hell cost less than half of what he spent there.

Comparing the two, Savage thought: they charged more, but it was worth it. Total cost was low, and service was far better than at Sokovia.

Every shop in the Living Hell followed the same style: the moment Savage entered, the owner and staff lined up in two neat rows, bowing and smiling. One gesture, one glance—and someone rushed over to ask what he needed.

When it came time to sign the tip slip, the best server approached, smiling. Savage just signed boldly—it was only a few dozen dollars anyway.

After seeing the ads, Savage wanted to check out the bars. That's where gang members gathered most frequently—plenty of intelligence to be found.

Entering a bar meant ordering drinks. Basic whiskey and water cost dozens of dollars. But add a bit more—over a hundred—and you got a truly good drink.

Savage had paid roughly the same at Sokovia Grand Hotel. He wasn't surprised.

Sitting at the bar, a group of gangsters beside him, drunk and loud, bragged about their bosses. Savage listened, sipping steadily. A night's worth of drinks easily cost hundreds.

These were mere hundreds—Savage didn't care. A meal cost two hundred. A supermarket trip, a hundred. A night at a bar or club gathering intel? Five hundred? Not much.

But after two weeks, when Savage checked his spending statement, he froze.

In two weeks, he'd spent nearly three thousand dollars. This was the 1990s. Even for Gotham's middle class, this was a fortune.