Although he had guessed that the men in black had broken into the police station to kill and silence the witnesses, he still couldn't suppress his anger and shame when he heard Sheriff George say the suspect was dead.
It was already a grave humiliation for the head of the Morgan family to be killed by two unknown assailants—and now the other side had the audacity to murder the suspect right under his nose.
This was provocation. Naked provocation!
The other party didn't take him—the heir of the Morgan family—seriously at all.
Unacceptable! This was simply too much!
If he didn't retaliate fiercely, how could he ever hope to secure his position in such a powerful family?
This was no longer just about avenging his parents; it was about defending the honor of the entire Morgan family and upholding his own dignity as its young master.
With that thought burning in his mind, he fixed Sheriff George with a dark, brooding gaze. "Any news about the other suspect?"
Sheriff George immediately nodded, his tone respectful. "Yes. We've located the other suspect—but he's in Mexico. It'll take some time to arrange an arrest."
"There's no need to arrest him," Loren said coldly. "Just give me his exact location. I'll handle this myself."
"To be honest," he continued, his voice sharp with disdain, "what happened today has left me deeply disappointed in your department's capabilities. A police station—attacked in broad daylight, officers slaughtered, high-ranking officials killed while trying to curry favor with me… You're nothing but a bunch of good-for-nothings."
"Don't involve yourselves in this matter any further. I'll deal with it my way."
Though the man before him was the father of his high school classmate Gwen Stacy, Loren showed him no leniency. Poor performance was poor performance—and it deserved to be called out.
Sheriff George knew they'd failed spectacularly. Not only had the station lost numerous officers, but several high-ranking officials who'd come to ingratiate themselves with Loren had also been killed. It was a catastrophic blunder.
If anyone was held accountable, his career as sheriff would be over.
So now, as Loren's scathing words rained down, he didn't dare utter a single word in defense.
Despite Loren's youth—and the fact that he was Gwen's classmate—his status was far beyond what someone of George's station could afford to offend.
And for some reason, whenever the young man's eyes locked onto his, a chill ran down George's spine. His instincts, honed by decades on the force, screamed a warning: This boy is dangerous. Extremely dangerous.
He might be only eighteen. He might look like a well-mannered gentleman.
But to an old cop like George, that polished exterior felt like nothing more than a carefully crafted disguise.
The real Loren… was far more complex—and far more terrifying—than anyone realized. Why that was, George couldn't say. But he knew better than to find out the hard way.
Perhaps this was related to his tragic experience during that period. It was understandable: an eighteen-year-old boy had suddenly lost his parents and become an orphan.
Such a devastating upheaval would inevitably force someone to mature quickly—but growing up too fast often drives a person to extremes. In his opinion, Loren now seemed to be showing just such a tendency.
Thinking of this, he couldn't help but say, "Mr. Loren, the mistake today was indeed ours. Our police station failed to protect your safety, and for that, I am deeply sorry.
"But according to our intelligence, the other suspect has defected to a Mexican drug lord. They're heavily armed, making capture extremely difficult. For your own safety, please leave this matter to us!"
"I'll say it again," Loren replied, his expression cold and his tone absolute. "Just give me the other suspect's information. Don't interfere in anything else. Do you understand?"
"I heard you clearly," Sheriff George replied. Naturally, he didn't dare press further and immediately provided Loren with the suspect's details.
After receiving the information, Loren wasted no time. Under 2B's escort, he returned safely to his manor.
Today's incident had made one thing painfully clear: relying solely on general-purpose combat robots for protection was far from sufficient. After all, they were an external force—and external forces were always vulnerable to unforeseen failures.
Take what had just happened, for example. Even though 2B had shielded him closely, the blast from the explosion had still grazed his cheek, leaving an ugly wound.
Fortunately, the explosion had been relatively weak. Had its force been even slightly greater, he might not have survived. Clearly, depending on others for safety was no longer enough.
True security could only come from strength within.
In fact, he'd considered this very issue when he first arrived in this world. But over the past few days, all his energy had gone into creating 2B, leaving no room for anything else. Now that she was complete, it was time to focus on strengthening himself.
The moment the thought struck him, a bold idea took shape: his life now mirrored Batman's in the DC universe almost exactly. Why not craft a Batsuit of his own?
With his current intellect and technological resources, reproducing Batman's arsenal of high-tech gear would be effortless. He could become the Batman of the Marvel world—the true Dark Knight.
Yes, the real Dark Knight—not some hero who merely locked villains away in prison.
If he was going to deal with someone, he'd send them straight to hell—not to some damn penitentiary.
Having made up his mind, he threw himself without hesitation into developing his new equipment.
At the same time, he wasted no time in action. While he locked himself in the lab to begin his work, 2B departed immediately for Mexico, following his orders to track down the second gunman.
On the Mexican border, inside a crumbling drug factory, several men sat around a table, laughing as they played cards.
Then, from the factory gates, a silver-haired woman strode in calmly—wearing a black blindfold and a gothic long skirt, a katana sheathed across her back.
It was 2B, dispatched by Loren to locate the fugitive.
"Hey," she said, her voice cool and steady. "I finally found you. You ran pretty far."
Through her military-grade goggles, her eyes locked onto one of the card players.
The men froze. This was a restricted zone—no outsider could enter without explicit permission from their superiors. Yet this woman had walked in as if the place were deserted.
Confusion turned quickly to alarm. Something about her was deeply wrong—unnatural, even.
Without hesitation, they grabbed the rifles beside them and aimed at 2B.
"Stop!" one of them barked. "What are you doing here? Who the hell are you?"