The streets, the entirety of Gotham, were filled with raining paper shreds, and according to reliable sources, another batch of paper was being sent to other cities. The story about going to Hell was about to spread throughout America.
Could Bruce not lose his composure?
During his usual night patrols as a vigilante, Bruce mostly encountered villains who hated him, and victims who hated him slightly less.
However.
When that damned manuscript was stolen for unknown reasons, everything changed. Not only were victims asking him about it, but villains, too, asked him when he beat them half to death and sent them to jail or the asylum.
Everyone.
Yes.
The final wish of all the bad guys and big bad guys he encountered tonight was surprisingly consistent, they all pleaded with Batman to let them see those magnificent twenty-four pack abs.
Not only that.
"Losing to the man with the twenty-four pack abs! I! Have no regrets! After all these years and all these fights, and being caught by you so many times, I feel like everything makes sense now."
"Batman! I know your secret! You are a trans-spatial Bat-Monster that reincarnated as a human for love! I heard that when you weren't human, you always picked fights with Godzilla?"
"Batman, do you really have a two-thousand-meter-long bed at home? Did you really build a farm on Mars and only eat alien chicken and alien beef and mutton?"
"I texted the Joker, and the Joker said it's true, all true, and documented in historical records."
...
Bruce truly understood the meaning of a night that felt like a year. Although he had anticipated that such things might happen, he had overestimated his ability to cope with them.
He couldn't help it.
Since similar situations had never occurred before, this was undoubtedly a form of "first-time kill," which led a man known for his composure to take two extra anti-anxiety pills.
"Before I decide I want to hit a child, give me that manuscript that belongs in hell, quickly!" Seeing Ian still deep in thought, Batman immediately raised his voice again.
He was genuinely distressed.
Ian dared not delay further.
"The manuscripts for both books are here. Actually, I haven't continued writing much of either. I've been busy drawing comics these past two days." Seeing the situation, Ian didn't dare to blatantly test him anymore.
Of course.
He still couldn't resist his curiosity.
"Have my works started selling?"
The boy primarily hoped to hear the editorial department praise his talent.
However.
Bruce merely gave him a sideways glance, then replied with a deadpan, truthful answer. "Yes, they've started selling. They're being sold in the most widespread distribution method possible."
They gave it the resources!
At least, that's how Ian understood it.
"Good, good, good! I knew it would be a hit!" Ian quickly handed all the manuscripts to Bruce. However, Bruce hesitated for a moment, then handed half of the manuscripts back to him.
"Tomorrow, mail it—no, have your father personally fly to Gotham to escort this portion to me." Bruce didn't dare to open and look at the manuscript. He just stared intently at Ian, giving him instructions.
"I understand, I understand."
Ian had heard that even Coca-Cola's formula was heavily guarded during transport. The value of a manuscript that required the Earth's strongest combatant to escort it needed no further explanation.
Clearly, the value of his manuscript far exceeded that of Coca-Cola's formula.
"What do you understand?"
Bruce was slightly surprised.
"That I'm going to make a fortune?"
Ian tested the waters cautiously.
"..."
Bruce remained silent.
Ian took the respectable boss's silence as assent.
"That's fantastic! Once I become a billionaire, I'm going to set up a football team for Jonathan and buy Jordan the best geek-comfort cup."
"And Mom, I'll buy her ten wineries so she has enough wine to drink for the rest of her life. Dad doesn't need anything, so I'll buy the newspaper agency he works for and send him on business trips to alien planets every day."
"The universe is vast, there are always strange stories to film. He'll definitely become an even better star reporter than Mom because of it." Ian's heart was full of his family. He also knew that Mister Wayne was emotionally detached, so he stopped there, showing high emotional intelligence and IQ.
After all, the other party definitely couldn't empathize with him.
"You don't want your father staring at you every day, do you?" Bruce mercilessly exposed Ian's secret thoughts. He didn't want to tell Ian that he needed this manuscript to lure the Joker.
Mainly because he wasn't one hundred percent certain it would work, and he was afraid of losing face. As for the payment Ian was fantasizing about, money was money. Bruce considered liking money to be a good thing.
Of course.
Having a correct view of money was also important.
"Yesterday during the day, six or seven wealthy individuals died in Gotham. All the assets in their safes were completely looted, totaling about fifteen million."
"I think someone is in desperate need of money?" Bruce's gaze fixed on the boy in front of him. He knew the boy hadn't done it, but he also knew where the money had ended up.
Ian felt guilty about this, too.
But he didn't avoid eye contact.
"Something like that happened? Someone must hate the rich, but what did the wealthy people of America do wrong?" Ian pretended to be heartbroken, putting on a show.
The Maxwell acting method was put into practice again.
It definitely wouldn't work.
But he had to do it.
"They did a lot wrong. The ones who died were all wealthy scumbags who were up to no good." Bruce might have been insulting himself implicitly, but it was somewhat unlikely.
In any case.
Bruce avoided Ian, who was about to stomp his foot, once again proving himself to be the King of Predictions.
"Oh? The ones who died were all wealthy scumbags up to no good? And not just the regular kind of rich scumbags in Gotham? That's quite ironic for Gotham City." Ian failed to hit Batman's chest muscle, and he didn't want to hit his own, as his fist was now like a sledgehammer.
He was genuinely stunned.
Although everyone knew the rich people in Gotham weren't good people, and if ten died, eleven of them wouldn't be missed, he truly hadn't expected the famous Mister J to be so principled?
This clearly involved careful selection.
All the money was "meritorious money" that could be spent with a clear conscience? Mister J truly... Ian was incredibly touched. He felt he should forgive the other party for withholding the remaining five million of his "tip."
"Who do you think would do something like this?"
Bruce opened his mouth, presenting Ian with a difficult question.
To this.
Ian didn't hesitate.
"That's simple. It must be Two-Face! Penguin! Riddler! Scarecrow! Poison Ivy! Mister Freeze! Clayface! Mad Hatter! Professor Pyg... one of them!" He rattled off the names of all the super-villains active in Gotham over the years, carefully refraining from betraying his most generous fan.
This, too, was a perfect answer.
Ian could always turn a win-win into a triple-win.
"Very good, very honest." Bruce looked deeply at Ian, seemingly quite satisfied with Ian's answer. He turned and walked toward Ian's desk.
"Don't let me find out that you are writing more absurd stories about superheroes." Clearly, Mister Wayne didn't intend to investigate this matter further. He just wanted to guard against Ian's literary attacks.
"I have completed my ultimate evolution and become a more qualified author. I am no longer the person I was yesterday. I've received an epic buff, but with no sign of balding." Ian confidently showed his manuscript, speaking earnestly, and casually touched his hair to check.
"What is this?"
Bruce's attention, which was supposed to be on the manuscript, was drawn to another object on the desk. He picked up the faintly glowing metal ring, his eyes narrowing sharply.
"A nuclear reactor?"
Ian answered honestly.
He knew he couldn't fool the tech mogul.
"Hmm, that's what it looks like."
Bruce was unusually calm. He held the reactor up to the light to inspect it. With his other hand, he pulled out his phone and quickly dialed a series of numbers.
"Clark."
He dodged Ian, who suddenly lunged toward him.
"We agreed that your son wouldn't blow up the Earth, and that should include Metropolis..." He paused, the rapidly calculating billionaire seemingly reaching a judgment.
"And the entire United States, right?"
His emotion was much more stable than before.
His voice remained deep and husky.
***
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