The roar of the Hellcat's engine was noticeably loud on the streets of Metropolis.
Who wouldn't love an exaggeratedly styled muscle car? Especially when a handsome boy was sitting on its roof, it was sure to attract many glances.
Ian was not complacent about this, he was intently watching a tutorial video on his phone. Of course, watching the video didn't stop him from keeping an eye out for opportunities to do good deeds in Metropolis.
One eye watched the video.
One eye scanned the surroundings.
Any normal person skilled in organ management could do this. Ian's sharp right eye quickly caught a "daily mission": he saw a shy couple looking deeply into each other's eyes.
There was a sense of wanting to kiss but being too bashful.
Afraid to break through that final pane of glass.
"This is the moment a superhero is needed." Ian threw a donut at the back of the boy's head. It was originally a gift he had prepared for Dr. Hannibal.
For gourmets who consumed a lot of meat.
A vegetarian treat was surely the most thoughtful gift.
"Splat~"
This time.
Ian's throwing skill remained consistently effective. He failed to help the boy and girl, instead startling them both. But his donut wasn't thrown in vain after all.
It was an accidental success.
The donut hit two friends who were out shopping, causing the boy whose clothing was struck to think he had been shot. He instinctively ducked into his friend's arms.
"Cameron, I'm scared. Quick, check if I was hit by a bullet. I saw red," the thinner boy was genuinely trembling with fear.
After all, this was the free land of America.
"Don't worry, don't worry, Mitchell, it's just a prankster throwing cow dung—wait, this looks like a donut, a high-quality one from [John's Kitchen]."
The chubby friend's expression went from shock to surprise, then relief. He took only two seconds to react, embracing the boy in his arms and offering quiet comfort.
"You actually dared to taste it. You're so brave."
The bearded man named Mitchell expressed sincere admiration.
The two embraced tightly.
Clearly.
They had broken through the shackles of morality and prejudice. Boys and boys could also produce girls, they just had to adopt. How could this not count as Master Ian doing a good deed? This was the time management skill a superhero should possess, doing good deeds even on the way to the psychologist.
"I win again. Merit +1." Ian remained on the car roof, continuing to watch the horse riding tutorial video. There was a reason he chose to sit on the roof. It was for the sake of the world: if Ian didn't sit on the roof, how would the world know he was driving a marvelous and ingenious vehicle that darted like the wind?
A car that could kill and run away by itself.
Not everyone had one.
Occasionally showing off was very beneficial for physical and mental health.
Besides.
A Hellcat was a cat.
Cats were animals.
Therefore, the Hellcat should be called a mount. It was only by grasping this simple truth that Ian realized he shouldn't sit in the car, but on the roof.
If he couldn't find videos of people riding cats online, only videos of cats eating people, Ian certainly wouldn't choose to watch the horse riding tutorial. The instructor with a massive silicone-padded butt was too distracting.
"Riding a horse and riding a cat have common elements. You need to sit in the area where I'm sitting now..." Ian adjusted his position, and the Hellcat continued driving forward.
He knew he was sitting in the correct position because the familiar traffic cop he encountered was no longer stopping him. The officer, whom he had met for the third time, was now targeting a genuinely law-breaking driver.
He was issuing a ticket to a sedan suspected of dangerous driving.
"Look at that boy! He's not even sitting in the driver's seat. What's wrong with me and my two girlfriends sitting in the driver's seat?"
The drunk driver pointed indignantly at the passing Hellcat.
The traffic cop just glanced back.
Their eyes met.
He pretended not to see Ian.
"Precisely because he is not sitting in the driver's seat, how dare you define him as driving? I've thoroughly read the law, a car driving itself on the street is not a crime."
The traffic cop might have started balding early, but his intelligence had clearly caught up to the rate of hair loss recently. Such rigorous logic left the driver speechless.
"The officer is right. I saw it, there's no one in the driver's seat. He certainly isn't driving." The heavily made-up girl, dressed flashily, even sided with the police officer.
"Yeah, yeah, you've been drinking, so maybe you didn't see clearly. That car was definitely driving itself." Another girl chimed in. The two girls combined probably hadn't finished elementary school.
They thought it was reasonable.
The police officer also thought it was reasonable.
The drunk driver, afraid of being excluded—a childhood trauma from being an outcast—also began to feel that perhaps this was indeed reasonable.
"I was wrong."
The driver lowered his head in shame.
The scene was completely harmonious.
Ian drove past quietly.
He didn't wave his sleeve or take away the clouds. But the people of Metropolis were clearly beginning to adopt a more superior way of thinking, starting in certain localized areas, thanks to his positive influence.
"Vroom vroom~"
The Hellcat drifted.
It stopped directly in front of the office building where Dr. Hannibal worked. Most competent psychologists in the US have their own practices, often renting an entire floor, like Hannibal.
Of course.
Not every psychologist had the capital to rent a floor in Metropolis's bustling commercial district, as the rent was expensive. Only doctors with truly solid financial backing could afford it.
Hannibal was indeed excellent.
"The city is full of people, and the elite are everywhere."
Ian felt Dr. Hannibal had also mastered the secret of win-win. There were many white-collar workers in the central business district with high mental stress, allowing him to make money while also having a richer selection of ingredients.
For a cannibal.
Was there any better hunting ground than this?
"No."
Ian answered for Hannibal, quickly jumping off the roof of the Hellcat.
"Go find a free parking space, be a good car." After briefly instructing his mount, Ian entered the building. When he stepped into the elevator, there was already a woman in a business suit inside.
She held a five- or six-year-old boy's hand with one hand and a phone with the other.
"Listen, I'm going back to my parents' house for dinner. Yes, they're sick," the woman said to her husband on the phone. "So, you might have to pick up the child."
She finished the gentle call with her husband, then dialed another number. Her voice instantly became much sweeter: "Mr. Allen, I have the contract ready."
"Yes, I'll take you to see the house again in a bit. As long as we have a good conversation in your future new home, I believe you'll feel the charm of that house."
The woman was clearly a real estate agent.
She was using a special sales technique.
"Oh, oh, I brought Pop Rocks."
"Perhaps you could prepare a cold cola for me?"
While the woman was flirting.
Ian felt this was not a technique a child should learn, so he secretly covered the little boy's ears. Remembering that he was also a child, he covered his own ears too.
It was useless.
But he could pretend it was useful, the sense of ritual was certainly maximized.
"Hmm? What are you looking at?" Seeing the little boy constantly staring at him, Ian glanced at the woman who had her back to him, and reached out to wipe the child's eyelids.
However.
To his surprise, the infallible trick that even Superman struggled to counter failed on the little squirt. The child opened his eyes and stared at Ian again once Ian removed his hand.
"Hmph."
Feeling challenged, Ian showed his real skills.
"Ding~"
When the elevator door opened.
Ian walked out. The woman, who had just ended her call, turned around and found that her child was wearing "glasses" made of shoelaces and eggshells on his face.
It was utterly comical.
But the child, who couldn't see anything, loved it.
Giggling happily.
Meanwhile, Ian, his good deed completed, had already arrived at the reception desk. The young receptionist smiled at Ian with genuine warmth.
"Mr. Kent, you have twenty minutes before your appointment with Dr. Hannibal. You can rest in the waiting area." The receptionist gestured for Ian to proceed.
"Okay."
Ian showed no resistance this time. As a wise person, there was always a reason he arrived on time. Just like the law that domestic flowers are never as fragrant as wildflowers.
Men are the same from childhood to adulthood.
Therefore, the most fun toy will always be someone else's.
Ian was still thinking about his unfinished project, but when he stepped into the waiting area, he felt helpless. The uncompleted Gundam he was building last time had been dismantled by some little brat seeing the doctor.
"Hell is reserved specifically for people like that." Ian was secretly annoyed. He could only pour out a new box of Lego bricks and start a fresh round of building. This time, Master Ian wouldn't build a Gundam. He would build the Tiger King, the cartoon character that could crawl out of the TV and whose ultimate move was the Storm Nebula Split.
"I still love cats so much."
Just as Ian was concentrating.
"Young man, did you come alone?"
Suddenly, a gentle voice struck up a conversation beside him. Ian turned his head and saw the man who had been dozing next to him had apparently woken up and was taking off his glasses to wipe the fogged lenses. The man had light brown curly hair and tired but gentle blue eyes, and he wore a slightly wrinkled but clean plaid shirt.
"Will Graham?"
Ian asked tentatively.
His gaze fell on the Criminal Psychology textbook resting on the man's knees.
"Good observation skills."
The man was surprised. He looked down at the professor's ID badge still pinned to his chest, likely thinking Ian had read the name from the badge.
"It really is you."
Ian was slightly surprised. He had watched the Hannibal TV series and even the movie, and knew Will was the one who would be locked in a love-hate struggle with the cannibal, Hannibal. This was a character with the ability of Empathy, who could step into the victim's perspective and recreate a crime scene. He wondered if this counted as a superpower in this current world.
"Hmm? Have you heard of me?"
The man named Will was even more surprised.
He was a criminal profiler who occasionally taught criminal analysis to new FBI recruits. Logically, a small boy shouldn't look so familiar with him.
Ian offered no response to that.
"If I told you I came with my best friend, would you think I was mentally ill?" He only answered the first question Will had asked him.
Will paused for a moment.
Then he offered a gentle smile, as if he could deeply empathize with such a thing, "No, because everyone has their own imaginary friend when they're young."
These words made Ian put down his Lego bricks.
"Did you have an imaginary friend when you were young?"
He suddenly seemed interested, staring intently at Will.
"Uh..." Will scratched his head.
"Of course."
He gave an affirmative response.
This should have been an extremely heartwarming reply.
However.
"Then it seems you really are mentally ill." After a moment of contemplation, Ian delivered a devastating blow with a conclusive tone. This single sentence made Will choke on the water he was about to drink.
Ian was still staring at him.
Feeling the atmosphere grow awkward, Will quickly changed the subject, "Actually, I just wanted to know how your parents treat you, because I smell blood on you."
"I'm quite sure it's not animal blood."
His nostrils flared slightly.
Looking exactly like a police dog sniffing for evidence.
"What a dog nose." Ian looked down at the dark red stain on his cuff. It was a drop of #666 demon fuel that had dripped on him when he was carelessly playing with the demon head this morning.
"If I told you I was on my period, would you believe me?"
Ian countered with another question.
"Huh? You can't be, right?"
Will's expression instantly froze. He involuntarily scrutinized Ian's overly delicate features, beginning to wonder if he had mistaken a girl for a boy.
Seeing Will's stunned and uncertain expression.
"Heh."
Ian let out a light chuckle.
"I have a mental illness, and you believe what I say? You must be quite sick yourself."
He, of course, knew he wasn't mentally ill, but claiming to be mentally ill was incredibly useful at times like this. It completely dumbfounded Will with a single sentence.
The air fell silent.
Fortunately, the sweet voice of the receptionist rescued the speechless Will.
"Mr. Kent, Dr. Hannibal is ready to see you now." The receptionist wanted to take Ian's hand, but Ian didn't let her feel him up.
"Okay, thank you."
Ian remained polite.
He stood up and first washed his hands with hand sanitizer.
"Oh, by the way."
Ian looked back at Will. He hadn't been making Will maintain that shocked, open-mouthed expression for no reason. "You have a curly hair stuck in your teeth."
"I'm also sure it's not animal hair." The boy grinned, showing two rows of neat white teeth. After leaving that chilling implication, he turned and walked toward Hannibal's office.
"..."
Will remained seated on the chair.
His gaze flickered as he watched Ian's retreating back.
As the office door opened and closed, Ian stepped into the consultation room. Dr. Hannibal's office was immaculately tidy, looking like a carefully composed still life.
Dark brown solid wood bookshelves covered an entire wall, neatly lined with professional works with gilded spines. Two leather armchairs faced each other across a small tea table, on which a set of exquisite tea ware sat. Soft wall lamps illuminated the room, making it warm yet gentle on the eyes. An antique gramophone was placed in the corner.
It was currently playing a very tranquil piece of music.
"Welcome back, Ian." Hannibal was sitting in a genuine leather office chair, legs crossed, holding a notebook, his expression composed and possessing an aristocratic elegance.
He looked up.
And offered a smile.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Lecter." Ian glanced back at the door. His mind was not calm, he wanted to bring up Will but wasn't sure how to approach it.
Should he just go straight to the point?
Ian had initially thought so, but now he was less certain.
Just as Ian was weighing the possible consequences of a misstep in "apprehending a criminal."
"Would you like something to drink?"
Hannibal stood up and walked toward the refrigerator.
"Cola is fine."
Ian spoke and pulled out his gift—an already peeled egg in an exquisite small box. After losing the donut, he had repurchased a new gift.
"Is this for me?"
Hannibal's expression was normal. He returned with a bottle of cola and a glass.
"That's right. I initially prepared a donut, but I used it to save a romance," Ian began to reveal the few remaining truths of the day.
"That's very good."
Hannibal poured the cola into a glass with ice and handed it to Ian.
"And the eggshell from this egg? Was that also used for a good deed?" He asked Ian while casually placing the remaining cola bottle on the table.
"No, I only used it to benefit myself."
Ian took the cola and naturally sat on the sofa opposite Hannibal. He temporarily revised his original statement, after all, he wanted to be a great leader whom neither men nor women could fathom.
Leader LV1 [1/10]
The system panel proved Ian had the aptitude.
"You can take off your colored contacts." Hannibal also sat back down, picked up his pen, and turned his patient record book to Ian's page.
"I can't take them off."
Ian sighed helplessly.
He missed his clear blue eyes, but apparently, he couldn't change them back now.
"Mm."
Hannibal didn't press further, merely beginning to record information in the notebook. The scratching of his pen on the paper blended strangely with the music from the gramophone.
"I've been in contact with both of your parents," he suddenly continued. "Your mother feels you've become much more cheerful, while Clark believes you require more therapy."
With that.
Hannibal looked up.
"I'm quite curious, what changes occurred in you after your last session?" His tone held a hint of curiosity, as if Ian's situation was somewhat unexpected for him.
"I've become a cheerful, sunny boy, completely transformed." Ian kept in mind the need to be sufficiently honest with his psychologist, so he even started using tomorrow's quota of truth today.
"I feel I've completely recovered, without any sign of anxiety disorder." This was also the truth, yet Hannibal simply stared at him with profound eyes.
"You're speaking what you believe to be true, but it isn't real." Hannibal's eyes were as sharp as a scalpel. His diagnostic process was still very much straight to the point.
Hearing this.
Ian quickly took a sip of cola to settle his nerves.
"Alright, I admit it. I think I'm beyond saving. You know what? My cousin gave me Penguin Cola to drink. That's Gotham wastewater. I'm definitely infected with the Joker Virus."
If there was anything else that could cause anxiety, Ian thought hard and could only come up with this, even though he had already confirmed he wasn't infected with the Joker Virus.
But who could say for sure with that thing?
"Joker Virus? An interesting turn of phrase." Hannibal subtly rotated the cola can on the tea table, hiding the "Penguin Cola" label.
This was to prevent Ian's anxiety from worsening.
Penguin Cola.
Hannibal occasionally drank it too.
He didn't believe there was any virus added to it.
[Persecutory delusion.]
The fountain pen scratched the paper.
Hannibal circled the symptom Ian had exhibited before.
"I don't find it interesting. Of course, if you enjoy finding happiness in my suffering, that's another matter." Ian was secretly observing Hannibal's expression.
He took another few large gulps of the iced cola in his hand.
"When I said it was interesting, I wasn't mocking you. I was thinking of something else," Hannibal's voice was deep and strong. "One of your elders came to see me recently."
His words surprised Ian.
"Perhaps because of my professional competence, your elder asked me to analyze an audio recording... and I heard a similar statement to yours in it."
Hannibal lowered his voice.
"Bruce Wayne?"
This was the name Ian settled on after a moment of thought.
"Yes, the wealthy man. I hadn't realized your family had that connection," Hannibal nodded, confirming Ian's guess, but this only made Ian more confused.
The boy's eyes flickered.
It was already strange enough that Superman hadn't discovered Hannibal's issue.
Now even Batman had let this cannibal go?
This was too illogical.
It was hard to explain even with Ian's twisted logic.
"What are you thinking about?"
Hannibal stared at Ian and asked.
"Can I listen to the recording?"
Ian merely made a request, not revealing his internal thoughts. His words brought a smile to Hannibal's lips, clearly having anticipated Ian's request.
"In principle, I wouldn't do that, but... rules sometimes need to be broken." Hannibal stood up and walked to the back, rummaging through a filing cabinet.
"After all, although your elder seems quite mentally ill to me, he is not my patient. He also didn't request confidentiality for this recording of unknown origin."
Hannibal returned with a cassette recorder.
He emphasized that he was still very compliant with doctor-patient confidentiality.
Which was slightly unnecessary.
Because Ian didn't care about confidentiality at all.
"Yes, he is the real lunatic. You really are an impressive psychologist," Ian couldn't help but praise Hannibal. The doctor's words resonated strongly with him.
Bruce Wayne deserved to be thoroughly cursed.
The news Ian had learned at noon made him genuinely angrier the more he thought about it. Before he even got a chance to start from scratch, Batman had already crushed his dream of getting rich.
Anyone in his place would curse Bruce Wayne to death.
"It seems you have a strong opinion about your elder." Hannibal mused, activating the cassette recorder in his hand. The machine made a faint whirring sound.
As Hannibal pressed play.
The tape began to turn.
He only played a small segment of the recording, but even this small part was enough to leave Ian dumbfounded.
The recording contained a man's anxious voice: "Oh, Doctor, save me, you must save me. I feel like I've been sick recently."
"A very serious illness! I'm done for!"
The man's voice was full of despair.
Then.
A psychologist's voice spoke.
"What illness do you think you have?"
The female doctor's voice sounded very gentle.
"Hoo hoo hoo~"
The sound of the patient sniffing was heard.
"I told you, I've been infected with a virus, a very terrifying virus. Yes, the Ian Virus. You might not have heard of it, but that doesn't make it any less terrifying."
"The Ian Virus has completely infected me, making me distracted almost every night... If I don't read Batman's Tragic and Twisted Romance, I feel like killing someone."
The man's helpless voice trembled.
"Have you read this book? No? Then I'll burn it for you to see. Batman's Tragic and Twisted Romance brings me peace. Perhaps it can bring you peace too."
Suddenly.
The roaring sound of a chainsaw was deafening.
"Damn it! Where did that chainsaw come from! No! You can't do this! I can give you money! I have lots of money!" The psychologist's terrified scream was hysterical.
"Don't worry, Doctor. I'm just proving to you that I wasn't lying." The man's voice suddenly became calm, followed by a series of blood-curdling screams.
Soon.
The screaming turned to silence.
"Where did you put the anesthetic? Why aren't you talking? If you don't talk, I'll assume you're cured... Next patient, please..." Someone seemed to have put on the doctor's clothes.
He spoke in a deliberately deep voice.
Just then.
Hannibal quietly turned off the recorder.
The room was instantly left only with the melody of Bach from the gramophone.
"..."
Ian was left speechless.
The sound of the chainsaw from the recording seemed to still echo in his ears.
He unconsciously swallowed a mouthful of saliva.
"Your expression tells me you know this person." Hannibal's deep brown pupils were intensely dark. He wasn't asking a question but making a statement.
"Hmm?"
Ian's fingers unconsciously rubbed the water droplets on the glass.
The cool touch helped him calm down slightly.
"He's just an obsessive, abnormal fan of mine. He's written me letters, but I don't really know him." Ian knew he had to reluctantly cut ties with his fan.
This, after all, involved an incident that sounded like a massacre.
"Is that so?" Hannibal's fountain pen paused on the paper. The ink bled into a dark blue flower on the expensive parchment. His gaze was strangely scrutinizing as he looked Ian up and down for a moment.
"I'm surprised that you don't feel any internal guilt or distress because of this." Hannibal's voice was deep and strong, carrying a hint of contemplation.
"Why should I feel guilty? Batman should be the one feeling guilty. He failed to capture and contain his archenemy." Ian's expression was serious as never before.
His thinking was not swayed by Hannibal's questioning.
"You heard it too, right? This person said he only felt like killing when he couldn't see my book. That proves that when he was reading my book, he didn't feel like killing. God must know how many people were saved because of that." Ian's tone carried an unusual sincerity. He was genuinely convinced that his merits were boundless this time.
"Perhaps so."
Hannibal gently nodded.
He didn't refute.
He didn't even make any extra notes in his notebook.
The Joker was Batman's responsibility.
Even people who weren't from Gotham knew that much.
"However, you should maintain sufficient vigilance."
Suddenly.
Hannibal abruptly offered a warning to Ian, "Have you considered that, in order to read your stories every day, your fan might eventually come and kidnap you?"
This was a concern that would only come from the perspective of an ordinary person.
Ian nodded.
But offered no response.
"There's also another possibility: that your wealthy elder won't be able to protect you. In order to permanently appease that man, Batman might capture you..."
Hannibal was about to share some of his predictions.
"BOOM!!!"
Suddenly.
Accompanied by a violent explosion.
The entire building shook violently.
"Missile attack?"
Hannibal's collection of crystal glasses clinked against each other, emitting a sharp, mournful sound. The hardcover books on the shelf clattered to the floor. Even the doctor himself was shaken off his feet.
"Whoosh~"
Ian instinctively rushed to the window, slapping his palm against the cold glass.
"It's not a missile."
He denied the possibility.
His pupils were flickering intensely at that moment.
"It's a supernatural disaster..."
Ian's voice held undisguised shock.
His pupils were reflecting a light.
The street in the distance seemed to be undergoing a disintegration beyond the level of reality. Lampposts bent at impossible angles. Countless concrete fragments floated in the air, defying gravity, like a paused explosion scene. And at the center of the storm, a white-haired old woman struggled agonizingly, suspended in mid-air.
Around her body.
Space was twisting and deforming like crumpled tinfoil.
There was no fire, no smoke. All changes radiated outwards from the old woman, like a drop of ink slowly blooming in clear water. This was a terrifying outbreak caused by uncontrolled power!
"The power of dreams! Has Morpheus gotten into trouble again, again, again?"
Ian's mind raced, his expression management almost failing. He could see the dream's ripple effect engulfing the street, surging toward his building like a tide. As a few pedestrians were affected, their bodies instantly became semi-transparent, and shimmering stardust appeared beneath their skin, as if they were being absorbed by a terrifying force!
"Ah ah ah ah!"
Pained screams echoed.
The white-haired old woman, suspended hundreds of meters above the ground, twisted her posture.
Layers of semi-transparent ripples spread outwards from her, like water rings. With every outward spread of the wave, the distortion of reality followed.
"Little one, again, again, again... You know things like that, is there anything you don't know?"
A voice sounded behind him. Ian spun around—where Hannibal's armchair should have been, an elegant woman in all black was now seated.
Ian was dumbfounded.
Outside the window.
Dream energy continued to spread outwards in layers from within the old woman's body.
"Tsk tsk, some people, if their skin wasn't so thick, they'd start feeling guilty right about now."
The woman, who had usurped the chair, crossed her pale hands on her knees and turned the chair to face Ian. Her eyes were pitch black, and her tone carried a hint of sighing and amusement.
She was.
Mistress Death.