Tutoring a handsome young boy was a job that delighted both body and mind.
If you're a guy and can't understand, just flip the genders. Imagine a beautiful rich heiress loli holding her books, sitting obediently in front of you like a little puppy, looking up at you with big, timid, watery eyes.
You can sip tea, eat cake, scold her, train her, make her cry…
Holy shit, that thought is way too fucked up!
Gwen coughed and discreetly wiped the corner of her mouth. She had drunk that tea a bit too fast and choked.
The young master's academic performance was actually really good. She went through the textbooks and couldn't stump him once. Seeing the flash of pride in his eyes, Gwen gave him a tolerant smile.
Kid, you should know that the sea of learning is boundless and only hard work can ferry you across.
After jumping two grade levels, the young master finally hit his limit and asked a philosophical question: "Do I really need to learn all this? I mean, right now…"
Gwen smiled back. "I earned my master's degree at Cambridge University. Do you want to know how many grades I skipped when I was your age?"
Actually she hadn't. She hadn't even graduated high school yet when the Cambridge version of her died, but there was no need to explain multiversal counterparts to him.
The young master looked dejected and a little disheartened, so Gwen comforted him again. "I still think you have potential. You just haven't brought it out yet. Otherwise why would I stay and be your tutor? Just because you're rich and handsome?"
Yes.
"Of course not. I saw your potential and thought your future is infinitely bright and worth cultivating. But if you don't work hard, you're like a salmon. If you don't get sliced fresh for sashimi while you're still fresh, once you rot you'll be worthless."
Although the analogy felt a bit weird, the young master still felt encouraged. Morale +1!
After assigning the young master enough homework to keep him grinding until night, Gwen slipped outside, planning to head into the city for some shopping. She didn't expect to see gardeners trimming the lawn and maids hanging laundry in the backyard.
Where the hell did all of you come from?
One question later and she understood: the happiness of rich bastards was something ordinary people could never imagine.
They could just call a housekeeping company for on-site service.
Not a regular housekeeping company. These people had served nobility for generations. They didn't accept outside clients or hire foreign workers.
Mexican immigrants were hardworking, but could they distinguish the fabric composition of the master's clothes and choose the exact right cleaning method? Forget labels—these clothes were all hand-sewn without labels.
What good was a Chinese chef's delicious cooking? Could he handle caviar? If the master wanted it, they would fly in a master chef from Hong Kong with a towel wrapped around his arm.
As the manager put it, every employee in their company had undergone professional training. Their ancestors for eighteen generations had been clean-background servants, and they took pride in it.
All daily necessities and food for Wayne Manor were ordered. The old butler didn't need to grow vegetables in the backyard or drive to Sam's Club for bulk shopping. A roll of toilet paper or a single tomato was carefully selected by the relevant company and delivered directly, with people responsible for recycling the boxes and trash.
Don't ask the price. If you ask the price, it means you're not their target clientele. They provide VVVIP-level service. All of this was just a complimentary part of the service.
"Then can you get me an iPhone charging cable?"
The manager stayed silent for a long while, then asked carefully, "May I ask… what country's electronics brand is… iPhone?"
Gwen answered righteously, "Don't ask. Asking means your service isn't up to standard."
The manager looked extremely ashamed and apologized repeatedly. Gwen very generously accepted his apology.
Why the hell were you pretending to be so lofty with me?
She slipped out of Wayne Manor, took the small train back to Gotham City, bought a city map at the station, opened it, and immediately thought… whoever decided to build a city here must have been an idiot.
Gotham was surrounded by water on all sides.
The east faced the Atlantic Ocean, the north was a river estuary, and the southwest was also a river. The entire city was built on a huge, incomplete island, connected to the mainland by six or seven double-decker elevated bridges.
Didn't you guys feel it was troublesome to transport materials back and forth when you built the city?
But then again, Wakanda could be built like that, so what could she say about little Gotham?
One advantage of drawing comics in America versus writing novels in China was that you didn't have to worry about barrage comments and keyboard warriors. They didn't have live comments in this era either.
Gotham City was still as wholesomely violent as ever.
The moment she got off the train, more than a dozen pairs of eyes locked onto her. Every five hundred meters she could see street fights. Eighty percent of them were one-sided beatings. The attackers' ages ranged randomly from eight to eighty.
Rich people didn't take trains. Rich people drove cars. So the area around the train station was the commoner district. Gwen found a hardware store, spent half an hour picking things out, filled two shopping baskets, and walked to the checkout.
The cashier was a balding Indian man in his thirties or forties with a beard. He looked Gwen up and down, then at her basket, and casually said, "Two thousand dollars."
Gwen raised an eyebrow. You think you're selling coke?
She had bought quite a lot of good stuff… this place really had everything. A lot of chemicals and electronic components that were explicitly banned in New York could be found here easily, plus multi-tool kits, drills, welding guns, angle grinders, polishers, table saws, cutters, hydraulic shears, and all sorts of little gadgets. According to the price tags it should have been around eight hundred dollars. She knew the math.
But this Indian guy was trying to rip her off with malicious intent. He smoothed his hair, leaned close to Gwen, grinned creepily, and whispered, "Baby, I can take you to the back to check the purchase ledger and give you the cost price. Look at all this stuff you're buying. Does your daddy know you have this kind of hobby…"
His breath smelled like rotten onions. His hand reached shamelessly toward Gwen's shoulder.
Bang—!
Gwen punched him square in the face, knocking him out cold. She probably broke two teeth too.
Then she dragged him out, pulled the cash register key from his pocket, took out eight hundred dollars, put it inside, locked it, and returned the key to its owner.
"No need to thank me. I'm a good neighbor to the citizens of Gotham!"
The way Gotham people greet each other is really enthusiastic and fierce. Ordinary people might not be able to adapt. But Gwen felt she was gradually blending in.