Bruce left. Perhaps because of the gun in his hand, the big man didn't press the issue.
Driving the truck that was practically falling apart and chewing on tasteless bread, Bruce nevertheless felt lighter all over. Having no money was still better than being in debt. At least the consequence of having no money now was merely going hungry. If he truly owed the mob usurious loans, that would be real trouble.
He keenly realized that he was no longer the Batman who could do anything. He was in terrible shape. He had never been this bedraggled in his life.
Days of not eating enough had drained a great deal of his energy. He had lost at least twenty pounds. His cold had improved considerably, but his throat still hurt, seemingly having turned into bronchitis. His stomach still hadn't adapted to the food here, and he still got diarrhea at the slightest provocation.
Under these circumstances, Bruce couldn't fight those strong mob members, because he couldn't accept the consequences of losing to them.
When he was Batman, if he lost to mobsters—like when he had first become Batman, when lime had been thrown into his eyes and he had fallen from the top of a cage into a dumpster—the consequence was that he returned to Wayne Manor somewhat disheveled, cleaned his expensive suit, bandaged his wounds, checked his eyes, put in some eyedrops, and went upstairs to rest.
But if he got beaten up by mobsters now and fell off a rooftop, never mind the possible risk of broken bones or ruptured organs—even spraining his hands or feet was something he couldn't accept, because then he wouldn't be able to drive.
If he couldn't drive, he couldn't make money. If he couldn't make money, he couldn't afford food. If he