No one cared about where the young kitchen hand suddenly disappeared to, or perhaps everyone already knew, just remained silent, as life was worth next to nothing.
Besides Marina, the acerbic supervisor, who was going berserk in the kitchen over her missing valuables, the restaurant's operations continued as usual.
The restaurant staff knew Marina was also a thief. She would pilfer the silver cutlery brought by wealthy patrons and blame it on the children in the kitchen. She would even cruelly beat them in front of the guests, most of whom would show magnanimity and not make an issue of it.
Rich people always have ample benevolence. Marina knew this, and Bruce, who had once been the wealthiest man in the world, knew it even more. So when he saw Marina discarding a body at the corner of the street, he knew she was using the child as a scapegoat for her crimes against the rich because children are the best candidates for eliciting mercy in the presence of the wealthy.
It took Bruce another day to replace a boy named Ben as a kitchen hand. On the same night, he found Marina's poorly concealed treasury, emptying it and vanishing from the face of the earth.
His method of profiteering was not ingenious. He just possessed the basic intelligence of an adult turned into a child and the motivation stemmed from the long-lost fear of flunking exams. Thus, Bruce made his first pot of gold.
Melting silverware was extremely simple, but the difficult part was how to sell it as a child. Given Gotham's lack of good people, he would likely be killed and robbed the moment he revealed that he had a piece of silver.
Silver items were not worth much, at least from Bruce Wayne's perspective. However, the Children's Gang from the lower class would be willing to fight tooth and nail for a mere piece of scrap metal, able to trade for a small piece of bread. Why wouldn't it be worth the effort?
The small piece of silver in Bruce's hands, obtained from melting around thirty to forty silver utensils, could at least feed all the children in the gang for one full meal.
But Bruce planned to keep it for himself.
Life in the slum had equipped him with ample experience. He knew where to sell these items. Put simply, he would follow the Flying Thief and couldn't go wrong.
After all, his girlfriend was a top-notch thief. Bruce still clearly remembers the two or three black markets he passed by every day on the way home when he lived at Selina's place. The bosses there only accepted items with dubious origins.
Of course, Little Bruce wouldn't just take the item to the boss and ask for a price. He took a more subtle approach and pretended to be a runner for a big shot.
While waiting for the silver to melt, Bruce staked out a spot on the neighboring street for two days. He had figured out the lifestyle and routine of the leader of a small mob there.
So, Bruce stood in front of the stall, tossed the piece of silver onto the board, crossed his arms, snapped his tongue, raised his chin slightly without batting an eye, and pointed at the item he'd thrown.
The boss was an elderly black man wearing sunglasses. He pushed the glasses down his nose a bit and looked at Bruce over the top of the lenses.
Being a kitchen hand had its perks, one of which was being allowed to steal some food as long as you were quick-witted. Bruce had not been starving recently as he managed to fool the cooks. Although he was not tall and remained skinny, his vitality indicated that he had not been hungry recently.
"Paul sent me. One of his boys pulled off a big job and specifically asked me to find you."
"You new here?"
"Not exactly new. Must be a few months since you last went there, right?"
The old black man put his glasses back on, spat on the side, then said, "Who would want to go there? That stingy bastard won't even offer a drink... How much did he say you should ask for?"
"He said that's up to you. But you can't say he sold it."
The old black man raised an eyebrow, picked up the piece of silver with his gnarled finger and said, "So he's been stealing in other people's territory again. He's asking to be killed, isn't he?"
He scrutinized the silver piece and weighed it in his hand before saying, "This is well made. Not at all like that rough man's style."
"I made it." Bruce patted his chest proudly and said, "Why do you think he took me in?"
The elderly black man removed his sunglasses completely, looked Bruce up and down, and asked, "Did you go to school?"
"No, but I've learned some craft. Don't ask too many questions."
"Were your parents in the mob, disposing of bodies?"
"I don't have parents."
"Tight-lipped, huh?" The elderly black man sneered, but his tone obviously softened, as if he were teasing his own grandson. He weighed the silver piece in his hand again and said, "I can only offer five dollars."
"You already know he's a tightwad. You know he wouldn't agree to that price."
"Seems like you're not exactly afraid of Paul, huh?"
"Stop asking so many questions, ten dollars, final offer."
The elderly black man snorted softly and muttered under his breath, "That Paul is nothing more than a petty thief. And now he's started stealing people... I'll add another fifty cents."
"No. Ten dollars, or face the risk of him coming over here, drunk and causing trouble."