On the poster, Bruce wore a suit and stood among a crowd of children. His smile was as standard as if it had been cut straight out of a charity brochure.
The Wayne Foundation: Letting education shine into every corner of Gotham.
When the homeroom teacher walked in, the noise in the classroom died down slightly.
She was a female teacher in her forties. Her hair was tied back tightly, and two heavy, dark circles hung beneath her eyes.
She held a stack of documents in her arms, while her other hand held a half-full cup of already cold coffee.
From the moment she stepped through the door, Chen Mo smelled a miserable stench--a blend of chronic sleep deprivation and cheap instant coffee.
The top note was exhaustion.
The middle note was overtime.
The base note was the paycheck.
It was a scent that brought tears of sorrow to anyone who witnessed it, a smell so strong it choked the throat and stung the eyes.
The female teacher slammed the documents onto the lectern.
"Quiet."
No one went quiet.
She raised her voice.
"Quiet!"
Someone in the back row was still laughing.
The female teacher suddenly grabbed the blackboard eraser from the lectern and slapped it against a storage locker in the back row with a sharp crack.
Dust exploded outward.
The classroom finally went quiet.
The female teacher swept her gaze across the room, her voice as cold as a knife that hadn't been sharpened in a while but had seen long use.
"My name is Helen Morris. You can call me Ms. Morris. Today is our first time meeting. I don't want to call the police, and I don't want to write an incident report, so you'd all better not force me to do either of those things before nine in the morning."
No one spoke.
She continued, "The school joined the Wayne Foundation's pilot program this year. There will be a new lunch system, new vocational courses, and a new psychological counseling program."
A boy in the back row raised his hand.
Ms. Morris looked at him. "What is it?"
The boy asked, "Will the new lunch system let us eat our fill?"
A few low chuckles echoed through the classroom.
Ms. Morris paused for a moment.
In that instant, a very faint trace of weariness flashed across her face.
"The school will do its best."
The boy lowered his hand and muttered, "Which means no."
Someone next to him piped up, "Wayne will do his best."
Another person said, "When they dragged us here to go to school, they promised to provide lunch and dinner."
"You actually believe what the gangs say? I'd rather believe Bruce Wayne."
"Young Master Wayne is at least handsome. His smile looks so good. When my mom watched the news yesterday, she even said he looks like an angel."
"Your mom has just never seen an angel go hungry."
"What the hell does Bruce Wayne know about going hungry? When he's hungry, his butler asks him if he wants to eat truffles. When we're hungry, the cafeteria lady asks us if there's any money left on our cards."
The classroom began to fall into chaos again.
This time, Ms. Morris didn't stop it immediately.
It was as if she had already grown used to it.
Or rather, she had heard this kind of talk too many times before.
A blonde girl sitting near the window frowned, finally unable to hold back from speaking up.
"Can you guys stop blaming Mr. Wayne