Chapter 758: Miss Goth's Misfortune (Part 2) (Patreon)

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A beautiful girl weeping, a handsome gentleman passing by—the fairy-tale-like encounter took Tracy by surprise. She quickly realized it was her best chance.

She immediately covered her mouth with a handkerchief, glanced at Bruce, and resumed her sorrowful tears.

In Tracy's anticipation, Bruce, a true gentleman, should approach and inquire about her troubles. Tracy could then reveal her recent ordeal.

The initial part unfolded smoothly. Bruce indeed approached, assessed her with a glance, and asked, "What's wrong?"

"I... I..." Tracy sobbed intermittently, saying, "I was just a bit late, and that Professor... he actually forced me to stand outside as a punishment! It's my first day as a new student, and I don't even know when classes start..."

"Oh, you're in the pre-college class?" Bruce reevaluated her, seemingly skeptical. He asked, "Someone forced you to stand outside. Who was it?"

Tracy felt a sense of joy. To her ears, Bruce seemed ready to stand up for her. She promptly said, "It was the Professor who received new students earlier. I saw the signature on that application form... called Schiller, Schiller Rodriguez."

"I have something to do; I'll take my leave."

In the moment Tracy failed to react, Bruce vanished, leaving her alone, frozen like an about-to-crack sculpture.

After a while, Tracy regained her senses. She forcefully hit the wall but yelped in pain. Gritting her teeth, she followed Bruce's path.

Reaching the library, Tracy couldn't enter because the library required Gotham University student ID, and the pre-college students' IDs hadn't been issued yet, preventing their entry.

Taking a deep breath in the freezing wind outside the library door, teeth chattering, Tracy thought about how long a playboy like Bruce could stay in the library. Waiting at the door, she estimated he would come out in no more than a few minutes, ten at most.

Little did she know, it turned into a four-hour wait.

Tracy was stiff from the cold, but Bruce remained focused on his studies, not lifting his head.

Finally, at lunchtime, Bruce put down his book to go eat and saw Tracy shivering at the door.

However, he just glanced at her and walked away. Tracy caught up, somewhat unclear in her speech, "Mr. Wayne, please wait. I don't know where the canteen is; can you show me?"

It was the scenario she had planned—an average guy wouldn't refuse directions from a beautiful girl, especially one who had just cried and looked pitiable.

Perhaps Tracy lacked experience in such situations. In Bruce's eyes, he saw a girl whose hair had turned into a mess, face red from the cold, lips pale, and snot reaching her lips—a crazy girl.

Ignoring her, Bruce walked forward, treating Tracy as if she didn't exist. Nevertheless, she persisted behind him, and Bruce didn't stop her.

Accustomed to being pursued by various women, he knew that if he didn't react, they would eventually retreat.

At the canteen, Bruce walked in, while Tracy finally saw her current appearance in the glass reflection.

She screamed, grabbed her hair like a madwoman, and quickly ran into nearby bushes.

After a while, Tracy fixed her appearance. However, Bruce's shadow was long gone from the canteen.

Bruce, focused on his thesis, finished his meal in ten minutes and returned to his seat in the library.

Cold and hungry, unwilling to give up, Tracy looked around, then entered the canteen. Using prepared techniques, she struck up a conversation with an ordinary male classmate, obtaining a student ID.

Claiming the guy was her boyfriend, Tracy successfully infiltrated the library and sat across from Bruce.

Bruce, engrossed in his writing, and Tracy, constantly trying to start a conversation, coughed while covering her chest, walked over to pour water, and, during the process, lightly touched his arm with her elbow and kicked the table's beam with her toe under the table.

Perhaps most people have experienced this: when focused on something, your senses become incredibly sensitive. Any movement can disrupt your thoughts. Tracy was practically dancing in front of Bruce. Finally, unable to endure any longer, Bruce spoke.

"Could you please leave?" Bruce looked up and said to Tracy, "I have zero interest in you. You are not within my aesthetics or the scope of potential partners. Please disappear from my sight."

In order to save time, Bruce chose the most concise words to explain the current situation, but for Tracey, this was nothing short of the most terrifying humiliation.

She stood frozen in place, then erupted into a sharp scream. At this moment, the library administrator approached, saying, "No loud noises in the library, miss. What's going on?"

Pointing at Bruce, Tracey exclaimed, "This jerk! Damn, unreasonable scum and rogue!"

Her vocabulary for cursing, shaped by her upbringing in the church, was quite limited. Due to educational deficiencies, Tracey lacked logical expression, appearing more like a madwoman, purely emotive.

The library administrator repeated, "Please leave, miss. You're disturbing the normal order of the library."

"I'm not leaving! You and he are in cahoots, you bunch of jerks!"

Suddenly, Tracey seemed choked, staring at a black hole muzzle now pointing in her direction. The library administrator held a long-barreled shotgun, aimed at Tracey's head, subtly gesturing for her to leave with eye contact.

In Tracey's entire life, she had never been so close to a gun barrel. The instinctual fear engulfed her in an instant.

Her overly privileged upbringing made her forget that this was Gotham, the most dangerous city in the U.S. and possibly the world. Almost everyone here, even those in seemingly ordinary professions, were ruthless criminals. Tracey rushed out of the library, completely losing her noble and elegant image, with her hair in disarray, accessories lost, and her face covered in tears and mucus, looking utterly pitiful.

But all of this was just the beginning, more terrifying things awaited.

Tracey returned to the vocational college building, where she saw a teacher leading Class 3 students in practical exercises.

Today, they were learning the most basic skill: how to change a tire on a truck. Although this skill was simple, it was highly practical. Mastering it could at least earn some pocket money from truck drivers.

Everyone was enthusiastic about learning, including a few girls. Even though the truck tires were almost bigger than them, they formed groups, with one person holding a wrench while the others transported the tire to the back of the truck, then rolled in a new tire.

Tracey stood idly by the side of the field. Schiller walked over and pointed at her with an umbrella, saying, "What's going on? Why are you still standing here? Have you cried enough? Get to class if you're done crying."

Schiller seemed unusually patient, not because Tracey was likable, but because her background was unique. Rich girls always needed an adaptation process; he could understand that.

Tracey continued crying in place, and Schiller could only say, "You've already missed two classes this afternoon. If you continue like this, I'll have to talk to your mother to see if it's necessary for you to continue."

"No... no!" Tracey immediately denied, saying, "You can't bring my mom here; she'll be very angry!"

Tracey swallowed some saliva and slowly walked toward the nearest large truck.

However, no one wanted to take her. Anyone with eyes could see that Tracey probably couldn't even lift a wrench, let alone screw in a screw or lift a tire.

Finally, the teacher came over to mediate. The two strongest boys and a girl were assigned to Tracey's group, and all she had to do was collect screws.

Tracey, with her hair scattered, squatted on the ground picking up screws, crying while doing so. But she had to pick up screws while crying.

After all, her teammates were the strongest new students, and in Gotham, strength meant a place in the gang, definitely not presenting a friendly image.

Two of the boys had elaborate tattoos, one with a full sleeve and the other with a half sleeve and back tattoo. The black girl had braided hair, a lower lip piercing, and four or five studs in her ears. She wielded a wrench, easily twisting off a massive screw in just a few moves, and Tracey, looking at her muscular arms, silently swallowed her complaints, realizing she couldn't voice them.

She had heard many legends about the slums—gang shootouts with dozens dead, corpses piling up. Serial killers targeting women. Elopements ending in dismemberment...

In her blurred consciousness, these tragic stories kept playing in Tracey's mind, making it unclear whether her trembling was due to the cold or fear.

To shake off this emotional state, she could only find something to do to shift her attention. Now, all she could do was pick up screws from the ground.

Even though the screws were not heavy, and the work required no technical skill, after squatting on the ground for over three hours, Tracey was almost exhausted to the point of collapse.

Back in the dormitory, she had completely forgotten about bathing. She just wanted to lie down and sleep.

In the snores of her roommates, with a heart full of despair, Tracey lay on her bed and everything went black before her eyes.

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Next Chapter>>Chapter 759: The Marvelous Adventure of Catwoman (Part 1)