Ian slipped in through the shattered floor-to-ceiling window like a nimble cat.
Not a speck of dust clung to his black hoodie. He brushed off non-existent dust from his hands and flashed an overly bright smile at the dumbfounded Detective Kate Beckett.
"No bomb! This is the rich district! Bomb demolition geniuses don't like to stop by!"
As a Evil God.
The disadvantage of Ian not having eyeballs grow in his mouth was now apparent. He thought his method of handling the situation was flawless, yet little did he know that his oral condition completely betrayed him whenever he smiled.
"????????"
Detective Kate Beckett stared intently at the suspicious crumbs between Ian's lips and teeth. They looked like residue from some sort of plastic explosive, glinting ominously under the kitchen lights.
Of course.
It was too much to ask a materialist to believe that someone could eat a bomb. After a moment of shock and hesitation, Detective Kate Beckett bypassed Ian and walked over to the window.
"Seriously, where did you emerge from just now?" She swore she had just checked outside. At the eighteenth-floor height, there was nothing but the smooth glass curtain wall and the platform for the outdoor air conditioning unit.
"I have claustrophobia, so I have to get fresh air from time to time. That's how psychiatric patients are. If you don't believe me, you can ask the deceased Dr. Hannibal."
Ian patted non-existent dust from his hoodie and slowly straightened his cuffs. His bright golden eyes held a strange sharpness under the light.
"What kind of joke are you playing! This is the eighteenth floor! The eighteenth floor!" Kate felt her temples throbbing. The height of eighteen stories made her stomach clench. Below that less than half-square-meter platform, apart from two rusty screws, there was no handle or anything that could support a human.
"I was right under the AC unit platform. That's the optimal golden seat for breathing fresh air." Ian mimed the action of holding onto the two screws with his hands.
At the same time, he desperately tried to maintain his lie. "Hot air rises, and cold air sinks. The airflow expelled by the outdoor AC unit creates a miniature convection system there."
"The spot where I was hanging just now was exactly at the terminal of the descending airflow. This means it reached thermodynamic equilibrium, and hanging there is cooler than turning on the air conditioner!"
Ian was truly desperate to safeguard his identity as an Ordinary Citizen of Metropolis. The police department had promised him a commendation for the last robbery case, and he couldn't let the police know he was a superhero before that. After all, in the minds of most people in this world, doing good deeds was just an obvious expectation for superheroes.
A commendation?
He wouldn't even get an electronic one!
"Not even a Beagle could stand there!" Detective Kate felt her sanity melting like ice cream. She stared fixedly at Ian's face, which was plastered with innocence.
A complex, inexpressible emotion churned in her chest.
"Listen, even though I'm a cop, that doesn't mean I lack education in physics. Do you think you can fool me by spouting some technical terms?"
She spoke word by word, each syllable seemingly squeezed from between her teeth. "I have never seen anyone breathe fresh air this way!"
It was hard to describe how terrified the detective was right now. She knew Ian's mental state might not be good, but a psychiatric patient shouldn't be this bizarre!
"Oh, well, you've seen one today. Congratulations, Detective Beckett. I've enriched your experience. You're welcome." Ian nodded, his expression unchanged.
He was determined to be stubborn no matter what.
"I'm glad I became a cop and not a psychologist."
Kate felt dizzy. She took a deep breath and looked out the window again—this time, checking the platform more closely. Two rusty screws were prominently fixed to the concrete exterior wall, nearly a meter away from the platform's edge. A terrifying hypothesis began to form in her mind.
"You're a metahuman, aren't you?" Kate didn't want to make such conjectures, but the bizarre scene that had just occurred could only be forcibly rationalized by this explanation.
Hearing this.
Ian recoiled several steps.
"Metahuman!?"
His voice suddenly rose, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, instantly becoming defensive. "Who are you calling a metahuman?! I can hang out there because I work out!"
"Work out! Understand?! Don't just dismiss my persistence and sweat with a casual term like 'metahuman'!" Saying this, Ian reached into his pocket to prove he really did work out diligently.
Methenolone, stanozolol, oxandrolone, oxymetholone, trenbolone, nandrolone phenylpropionate... Ian pulled dozens of bottles and cans out of his not-so-large pocket.
How was this not proof of effort? Most bodybuilders only use the "Nine Dragons Pulling the Coffin," but Ian was doing the "One Hundred Dragons Pulling the Coffin," working ten times harder than a professional bodybuilder!
"What the hell are all these things!" Kate snatched up a bottle labeled "Bone Density Enhancer (Elephant Grade)" and saw "10% Lethal Probability" written clearly on the ingredients list on the back.
She shook the bottle, and the pills inside rattled ominously. At this point, even if she desperately didn't want to believe Ian, she had to convince herself that the boy was genuinely working out.
An ordinary person wouldn't be able to pull out so many "scientific-grade" enhancements, let alone from their pocket—they'd be in a bank vault.
"Science, dear Detective Beckett, they are all science." Ian said solemnly, secretly sweeping a bottle labeled "For Animal Use Only" back into his pocket.
"What's wrong with an ordinary citizen hanging from the eighteenth floor outside a window after systematic, rigorous training? If you don't believe me, I'll send you two hundred videos tonight of fitness coaches hanging outside windows because they were caught cheating—only 96 of them died, less than half. If others can do it, of course, I can too."
"I haven't even cheated just now, so my stamina is much, much better than theirs!"
Ian's logic was still impeccable. Even though Beckett, like Ian's other acquaintances, felt strange, she still couldn't find a convincing argument to refute Ian.
She was speechless, but her professional instinct still struggled.
"What about the bomb then? I saw you take a bomb out of the microwave with my own eyes." Beckett, gradually clearing her mind, still firmly believed the scene she had witnessed moments ago.
Ian responded with a formulaic sneer, channeling his inner method actor. "Detective Beckett, you should also see a doctor. How could you pull a bomb out of a microwave?"
"Only delicious chicken breast comes out of a microwave. Who would put a bomb in a microwave to heat it up for consumption? Dr. Hannibal just liked to buy C4-shaped chicken breast to be mysterious."
He emphasized this point again, not giving Beckett a chance to give him a strange look. He preemptively scrutinized the long-legged detective with the gaze one reserves for a psychiatric patient.
"Heh, you think I believe C4-shaped chicken breast exists? I..." Beckett opened her mouth, but before she could finish, she saw Ian quickly find the exact product on Amazon using his phone.
"..."
This move left Beckett utterly speechless. She didn't know Ian possessed an Omnipotent Black Box, so she could only remain rigid-faced, sinking into a silence that suggested she might be questioning the world's level of absurdity.
The air in the kitchen was thick enough to be sliced and served. The confrontation between Detective Beckett and Ian was a test of endurance. Only the sound of the water filter echoed in the kitchen.
It was in this strange atmosphere.
A rush of footsteps sounded at the kitchen doorway.
"Beckett!"
The handsome Detective Kevin Ryan appeared at the door, a few drops of sweat still on his forehead. He had clearly just returned from outside and was unaware of the danger that had just occurred. The Irish man looked at the two silent figures, keenly sensing the awkward atmosphere, but he chose to report the official business first.
"The tech team pinpointed the area marked on the map, and we've confirmed someone is hiding there." He lowered his voice, his eyes showing a mix of excitement and nervousness.
"It's a very secluded cabin... judging by the structure, it's very likely to be the Ripper's long-term hideout." This was clearly information gleaned from investigating the map Ian had dug out. Beckett's eyes instantly sharpened. She quickly adjusted her state, as if the argument with Ian had never happened.
"Good. Don't tip him off. We'll assemble a small team to go and catch him. The serial killer who has been active for several years has finally shown his hand."
Beckett said crisply, walking quickly toward the living room to pull a bulletproof vest from her gear bag.
Her movements were clean and decisive. The snap of the bulletproof vest fastener "clacked" shut, and she instantly detached from her personal feelings, transforming back into the efficient detective of the Homicide Squad.
Ian stood by the kitchen door, tilting his head as he watched the police officers.
"Can I come with you?"
He remembered encountering Will Graham outside Hannibal's clinic before. At the time, the man had human flesh on his mouth, and Ian had initially thought he had been assimilated by Dr. Hannibal.
He didn't realize.
Dr. Hannibal was actually a good person, and Will Graham was the real cannibal. This was evident from the documents other than the map in Dr. Hannibal's room floor.
As Will Graham's psychologist, Dr. Hannibal must have noticed something was wrong long ago, so he secretly conducted an investigation into Will Graham.
This was probably the real reason for Dr. Hannibal's death.
He discovered the truth.
"I had a chance to expose the killer, but my intelligence was only single digits back then." Ian sighed regretfully, then looked at Detective Beckett with pleading eyes.
Beckett didn't turn around. She merely reached back to adjust her shoulder strap, her tone brooking no argument: "Kid, I let you see the scene, but now you need to go home."
"Tomorrow isn't the weekend." The detective had already made a big exception by letting Ian see the crime scene. There was no way she would take an underage psychiatric patient to catch a serial killer.
"No matter what abilities you have, believe me, you won't like being taken by the military for research." The detective gave Ian a deep, meaningful look, reminding him pointedly.
"Uh..."
Ian gave a couple of awkward laughs.
"Why would the military take an ordinary citizen for research?" He wasn't actually worried about this, as his maternal grandfather was high-ranking military, and his father was Superman. The only scenario was if the military offered a ridiculously high price for *him* to help them capture metahumans for research.
"I just want to see the murderer of my psychologist brought to justice. You know, psychiatric patients have a pathological dependence and emotion toward their psychologists."
Ian blinked, displaying an innocent expression. He sighed, a hint of sadness in his voice, clearly playing the T1 "psychiatric patient" card again.
However.
This time, Beckett was clearly immune. She finally turned around, looked him straight in the eye, and then gave a slight smile—a smile that was definitely not charming.
"Should I call your mom and dad to come and pick you up?" she asked slowly, her tone gentle, which was practically a silent threat.
Ian's expression instantly froze.
He hadn't expected that after only three brief meetings, she had already grasped his weakness.
"You win!"
Ian swallowed. He had finally been defeated and stopped trying to cling on like a sticky plaster. Beckett smiled with satisfaction. She nodded and emphasized to Ian once more.
"Good, hurry home... and really stop calling me to ask how to deal with the bloodstains from killing a 100-pound pig at home so that your neighbors, jealous of your pork, won't notice." Honestly, in Detective Beckett's eyes, she had always felt Ian had the makings of a serial killer.
This was why.
She occasionally sent him text messages to check up on his recent activities.
"I was blocked while writing a novel... Heaven knows why mushrooms are never enough for me to eat when there is so much lawn outside my house." Ian defended his reputation.
Beckett rolled her eyes widely. She ignored Ian and turned to Ms. Misha, who was still quietly sobbing, gently patting her shoulder.
"We will catch him." The detective promised softly, her voice firm and steady. "Please trust us. We've found the killer, and he will receive the punishment he deserves."
Beckett wasn't sure how to comfort others, so she could only offer the assurances that a police officer should. Her precinct was different from those where reporting a crime required paying fees.
There were dedicated police officers in America. Before being corrupted, most police officers actually had a fairly professional heart. After all, in this country, aside from those born into police families, young people who chose the profession generally harbored a desire to be a "hero." It was just that reality often fell short of expectations.
"Punishment? Are you going to put him in prison?" Misha looked up, her eyes red-rimmed, but her gaze no longer held only sadness—it held something much sharper.
"That's something the judge will decide." Beckett didn't say much more. She gave Ian one last look, then led her team out of the apartment building.
Only a few officers were left guarding the scene, and forensic personnel continued their investigation. The room fell quiet again, save for Misha's stifled sobs.
Ian scratched his head, walked up to Ms. Misha, hesitated, and then offered comfort: "Uh... Dr. Hannibal, the non-cannibal doctor, definitely went to Heaven."
If Ms. Misha wasn't an acquaintance, Ian would have simply walked away, but his attitude toward acquaintances was always vastly different from his attitude toward strangers.
"Heaven?"
Misha's shoulders trembled slightly. She looked up, her eyes empty and sorrowful.
"Assuming there really is a Heaven and Hell in this world... that may not be a good thing for my brother." Her voice was almost inaudible.
"Before my brother died, he hung himself on the rafter. Under the compulsion of that damned guy, my brother hanged himself with his own intestines."
Ms. Misha paused, pulling her lips into a bitter arc. "Do you know what that means? Because my brother committed suicide... he can't go to Heaven."
Ms. Misha, who was pursuing a PhD in psychology while working, was knowledgeable about various fields. Her personal profile at the school listed two doctoral degrees and one master's degree.
"Actually, there's another way to get to Heaven..." Ian hesitated but decided not to sell Ms. Misha an indulgence, as his business in that area hadn't started yet.
Since it hadn't been tested, he naturally couldn't give false hope to an acquaintance. Only merchants would scam their acquaintances; capitalists generally wouldn't. Capitalists, before going bankrupt, only scam those they don't know well.
At least, this was true for new-age capitalists like Ian.
"What do you want to say?"
Ms. Misha noticed Ian's reluctance to speak.
"Nothing. I just realized that Will Graham must have a pathological obsession with Dr. Hannibal. That guy probably knew he was a bad person, which is why he made Dr. Hannibal's death so terrifying. His goal wasn't just torment; he also wanted Dr. Hannibal to wait for him in Hell."
Ian had indeed been reading many psychology books recently, so, combining his knowledge with the scene, he delivered a truly reasonable psychological profile.
"Perhaps you are right."
Ms. Misha agreed with Ian's assessment.
"My brother had sensed that something was wrong with that guy a long time ago, but he never told me what was wrong with him... until just now, I finally realized why my brother always said he was very dangerous." Ms. Misha recalled the time she brought ingredients for Hannibal to cook, and Hannibal refused her request to interact with Will.
"Sure enough, Dr. Hannibal was secretly investigating Will."
Ian had now confirmed his earlier suspicion. He suddenly realized that in his current world, all of Hannibal's "badness" might have been absorbed by Will.
Hannibal? Not bad, so the old man trusted him.
Will? Double the badness, which is why Will had seemed so gloomy before. Ian was truly annoyed at this moment about why he hadn't realized this sooner.
Even though he didn't have much information before, his intelligence shouldn't have been so dull.
"The police putting that damned guy in prison... doesn't count as the 'punishment he deserves.'" Misha's nails were digging deeply into her palm while Ian was thinking.
Her voice was squeezed out, filled with hatred.
Ian looked at her and suddenly felt a bad premonition—oh no, this counselor might be about to degenerate into "Ms. Misha the Cannibal." He didn't like the thought of Ms. Misha, who loved sharing cream cookies with her students, one day sharing real cream cookies.
Of course.
Ms. Misha might also be made into a cream cookie by Will. That guy's IQ was on par with Hannibal's, only slightly inferior to Ian's by about seven or eight steps.
"Ian, I know you're worried about me, but you can't stop me. A murderer must pay the price of being killed!" Ms. Misha's tone was firm.
Ian also knew he couldn't talk her out of it.
"I think you misunderstood my meaning... Actually, I meant to say that smart people don't risk themselves; instead, they use their cash power to hire someone else to kidnap their enemy."
"Should I recommend a few reliable mercenaries to you? Besides, sometimes I'm Ian, the seller of nuclear bombs, you know." Ian was never the type to advise people that revenge was a never-ending cycle.
"??????"
Ms. Misha, whose face was still tear-stained and gloomy, was instantly stunned. She suspected she might have misheard. Perhaps the student in front of her was trying to make her laugh?
Could nuclear bombs actually be bought?
Faced with Ian's shocking statement that "I can sell nuclear bombs," Ms. Misha forced a smile onto her pale face. She rubbed her temples, trying her best to suppress her sorrow.
"You're just a kid. Don't get involved in this sort of thing."
Ms. Misha's voice was light as a feather, yet held an undeniable firmness.
"Before he died, my brother was worried about a few of his patients. He instructed me to arrange their follow-up treatment." She lifted her tired eyes and looked at the boy in front of her, who was wearing a black hoodie with "CD" printed on it and whose pocket showed half a bottle of fitness supplement.
"I'm definitely not included in that," Ian said confidently, crossing his arms, his chin slightly raised as if proclaiming a universally recognized truth.
Misha didn't directly refute him.
She slowly pulled a paper napkin from the coffee table drawer and took a fountain pen from her bag. Her movements were slow, as if she was using these small actions to put her shattered emotions in order.
"I'll recommend a few doctors for you." She said, writing a few phone numbers on the napkin. "They are all highly reputable psychologists in the industry."
Ms. Misha pushed the napkin toward Ian.
But the latter didn't even glance at it.
"Will these doctors pretend to think I'm not sick while secretly believing their acting is good?" Ian suddenly asked, a look of suspicion flashing in his eyes.
Misha's hand paused mid-air.
The pen tip smeared a small patch of ink on some other napkins.
She reorganized her thoughts slightly, explaining in a tone similar to a popular science lecture. "In the treatment of mental illness, professional doctors treat their patients with the same gentle attitude they use toward ordinary people."
"Yes, professional doctors won't treat you like a patient, at least they won't let you realize they are treating you like a patient." Ms. Misha once again misunderstood Ian's concern.
"No, a smart person like me can tell."
"The underlying logic here is that they already know I'm not sick, yet they still want to take money out of my pocket! Dr. Hannibal is different. Dr. Hannibal always tells me recently that I'm severely ill. I know Dr. Hannibal also understands I'm not sick, but because he accepted the money, he pretends I am sick."
"That is professional service attitude!" Ian suddenly slammed the coffee table, making the empty cups rattle. His chain of logic was frighteningly clear.
Misha's mouth hung open, unable to respond.
The pen clattered to the floor.
Her professional ethics were battling fiercely with common sense—this boy seemed to have perfectly closed the loop on a psychiatric patient's understanding of a psychologist using a psychiatric patient's logic.
Ms. Misha wanted to refute him, but she couldn't find a way. At that moment, the boy asked again, "Oh, right, can other psychologists treat my patients for free?"
This was Ian's biggest concern. Although Lord Ian was very rich now, his money had to be used for his cash power, exchanging low-priced products for the general public's faith.
"Your... your patients?"
Ms. Misha's expression grew even stranger, and she even momentarily forgot her sorrow.
"I have at least a few hundred psychiatric patients." Ian tried to make his tone sound "light." This wasn't something worth showing off.
Misha's expression froze.
"Did your mom and dad send you to live in a psychiatric hospital?" Her gaze slowly swept over Ian's body, her tone carrying a hint of uncertain suspicion.
There was no other way.
Only in that situation did she feel Ian could know hundreds of psychiatric patients.
"That's impossible, of course! They love me! They would send themselves to a psychiatric hospital before they'd send me!" Ian refuted Ms. Misha with a righteous and firm tone.
"..."
Ms. Misha was speechless again.
She felt she might have underestimated Ian's condition in the past.
"I was actually forced into being a psychologist. The specific situation is very complex... just assume I have dissociative identity disorder, and there are hundreds of personalities that need treatment."
Ian didn't mind playing the psychiatric card one more time.
Misha's eyes became extremely complex. She stared at Ian for a full ten seconds, then suddenly sighed: "Many doctors are good at treating dissociative identity disorder."
"But if they find out you're acting as a middleman, they'll sue you, demanding their rightful consultation fees and various compensations. You have no chance of winning such a case."
Law was also one of Ms. Misha's specialties. The reason she had been Ian's counselor for several years was naturally because she was well-versed in the law and knew how to circumvent the "shenanigans" that a provoked Ian might resort to.
Because she was aware of Ian's selling behavior at school, Ms. Misha, after a moment of thought, mistakenly assumed Ian wanted to become a middleman in psychiatric treatment as well.
Because the meta was changing too quickly.
She didn't yet know Ian was moving toward becoming a financial magnate.
"Damn it, these psychologists are trash! Not like Dr. Hannibal. He would only assist me for free to become a psychiatric expert, the king of psychologists!" Ian's expression instantly collapsed. The Metropolis Gambler was currently trying to quit gambling, and he didn't want to go to court again against cunning elites.
"Your brother was so nice before. He would worry about me late at night and promised I could ask him anything for free." This was a moment when Ian deeply missed Dr. Hannibal.
Mentioning Dr. Hannibal's kindness, Misha's lips unconsciously curved into a bitter smile: "Yes... my brother was that kind of person."
"He would do anything he thought was beneficial for his patients' condition." Her gaze drifted to the rain outside the window. "Even if the patient needed him to help with cooking or laundry."
At that remark.
Ian immediately shot up from the sofa.
"What?! Dr. Hannibal offered that kind of service too?!" Ian had long heard about Hannibal's excellent cooking skills, but he had always thought Dr. Hannibal was only skilled at cooking *people*.
Now.
It was clear that Dr. Hannibal had decent character as a person, and his cooking skills for beef, lamb, and other non-human meat were genuinely good. This made Ian recall rejecting Dr. Hannibal's delicious food.
"What's wrong?"
Misha was startled by Ian's reaction. Ian didn't answer. Instead, he weighed the pros and cons, pacing back and forth in the living room twice in contemplation. Then he suddenly approached Misha.
"Do you have three hundred dollars?"
This sudden question was too much of a leap in thought.
Misha was stunned for a second.
She couldn't follow Ian's train of thought at all, but she mechanically opened her wallet and counted out three wrinkled hundred-dollar bills: "Do you need a taxi to go home?"
She assumed Ian was preparing to leave.
However.
Ian snatched the money, shaking his head.
"I need to use this to buy flowers."
He then rushed into the kitchen.
Misha followed him blankly, seeing Ian tiptoeing to rummage through the cabinets.
"What are you doing?"
Ms. Misha watched Ian in confusion. After rummaging through the cabinets, the boy took out a cup and asked her enthusiastically.
"Do you think Dr. Hannibal would like this cartoon-style thermos cup?" Ian held up a pink and blue thermos cup with Winnie the Pooh eating honey printed on it.
"That's... my cup."
Ms. Misha responded somewhat blankly.
"Oh, perfect!" Ian's eyes shone alarmingly. "The cup holds a sister's love. Dr. Hannibal will surely love residing inside it! The power of Family is truly omnipresent!"
Before Misha could react.
Ian, the strange boy, had dashed out the door like a gust of wind, clutching the Winnie the Pooh thermos cup and the three hundred-dollar bills, disappearing down the apartment corridor.
"He didn't seem to take the elevator..." Ms. Misha's mind was completely chaotic. She could only try to put herself in Ian's shoes, thinking Ian might want to lay flowers at Dr. Hannibal's grave.
As for the cup.
"Hiss~"
Ms. Misha gasped sharply.
She began to suspect Ian wanted to use the thermos cup to hold her brother's ashes. Was this strange? Applying the logic of a psychiatric patient, perhaps some psychiatric patients would do such a thing!
"Boom~"
Just then.
The sound of a heavy fall came from within the apartment complex.
Ian had actually taken the elevator, but he had first gone down to the floor below, forced open the elevator doors, and jumped all the way down the shaft to the underground parking lot.
"Vroom vroom vroom~"
The roar of the Hellcat sounded.
It carried Ian speeding toward the bustling street.
Ms. Misha's money was, of course, spent where it should be. Ian was not a petty thief; his principles were very clear, so all three hundred dollars were spent on things he deemed necessary.
Ian sped through the streets of New York in his Hellcat sports car. He bought a bouquet of flowers for $50 and ordered coffee and steak at a Western restaurant for $250.
The waiter looked at him strangely: "Sir, are you dining alone?"
"No," Ian smiled mysteriously. "I'm waiting for a lady."
When the steak and coffee arrived, Ian didn't touch them. Instead, he put his hands together, closed his eyes, and began to pray softly—not to God, nor to Satan.
But to his old acquaintance, Lady Death.
Unlike usual, there was no interference from the Flash this time, and Lady Death's response was exceptionally quick. Time in the restaurant didn't even freeze; the other patrons were still chatting and laughing.
The sound of clashing knives and forks rose and fell.
And Lady Death didn't appear out of thin air. She walked in elegantly through the main entrance, as if she were just a beautiful, ordinary goth woman who happened to come in for dinner.
Yes.
Lady Death had a strong preference for the gothic style. She wore a well-tailored black dress, her skin pale to the point of transparency, and her red lips were like blood. She was breathtakingly beautiful under the soft restaurant lighting.
"Quite thoughtful."
Lady Death walked straight to the seat opposite Ian and sat down, her gaze falling on the untouched steak.
"Why only order one serving?"
Lady Death raised an eyebrow.
Ian gave a formulaic smile, quietly putting away his phone.
"If I don't eat, you can eat more."
He was reciting from a script. Saying this, he pushed the plastic flowers toward her.
"For you."
Ian's smile was as formulaic as it gets.
"If I didn't know how much money is sitting in your account, and that you were just looking at cheesy pickup lines, I almost would have believed you." Lady Death took the flowers and lowered her head to smell them.
"Plastic flowers, with a little of your mother's stolen perfume, meant to express that your devotion will never fade?" Lady Death had clearly been secretly keeping tabs on Ian all along.
At least after hearing her words, Ian became even more convinced of this.
"Pity, it's lacking something."
As soon as Lady Death finished speaking, the plastic bouquet visibly withered and faded at a rapid speed, finally crumbling into a pile of ash on the white tablecloth.
A waiter happened to pass by but acted as if he saw nothing, clearly affected by cognitive interference.
"You're offering a kindness without being asked; it's nothing but deceit." Lady Death picked up the steak knife and elegantly cut a small piece of steak. "You want to save your psychologist?"
Lady Death displayed her omniscience regarding Ian's purpose.
Ian's expression suddenly became incredibly serious, and he genuinely admitted: "I can't lose my doctor. It's like the Teletubbies can't lose the Baby-Sun."
Other psychologists did not meet Ian's requirements.
Or rather.
He was always a nostalgic person.
"Quite honest." Lady Death slowly chewed the steak, the corner of her crimson lips curving slightly upward: "You know your doctor falls under 'benign invasion,' right?"
Ian neither denied it nor played dumb.
"So, is he in Hell? I thought about asking Lucifer, but I prefer to foster a connection with you." Ian's clumsy manipulative flirting was amusing.
However, Lady Death took a sip of coffee and seemed to be in a good mood: "He is indeed in Hell. The decision for souls like him now is that they are all guided by the Angel of Death."
This was clearly a result negotiated between the Endless Family and the God Family.
It was a secret.
Yet Lady Death casually revealed it—primarily because Ian was growing increasingly fast in her eyes. Perhaps soon, an "Abstract" entity god would truly emerge in the universe.
"Do you want me to help you resurrect him?" Lady Death didn't talk about Ian's situation. She merely asked nonchalantly, as if asking whether to add sugar to her coffee.
"Shh!"
Ian quickly put his index finger to his lips.
He looked around toward the sky outside. "Don't let my old man hear you. I'm already treating you to steak. Why are you trying to take away my rightful reason for venturing into Hell?"
The young man thought Lady Death was a bit ungrateful.
But his high emotional intelligence prevented him from saying it out loud.
Lady Death put down her knife and fork, her sharp gaze fixed on Ian.
"So, you can't find the entrance to Hell, which is why you came to me?"
Her tone was certain.
Ian shook his head honestly.
"I just wanted to give you an opportunity to talk to me."
His expression was truly sincere, and this, conversely, made Lady Death's expression freeze on her face. Even the steak she had eaten seemed to have suddenly gotten stuck in her throat.
"..."
She put down her cutlery.
After a long silence.
"The compass I gave you before, it will guide you to Hell." After saying this, she stood up, picked up the half-eaten steak and coffee, and walked toward the door without looking back.
The plastic bouquet that had turned to ash was left on the table.
"Next time..."
The goddess's figure paused at the doorway, her voice seemingly drifting from afar. "If you want me to endure your mental attack, bring me a flower that genuinely won't wither."
As soon as her voice faded.
Her figure vanished like mist into the restaurant's lights. The surrounding patrons seemed completely oblivious, still enjoying their dinner.
"She must be shy. She must be shy." Ian took out the compass he had gotten from Dream, and the needle spun wildly before settling firmly and pointing southeast.
"Lord Ian's Hell Adventure! Officially starting!"
The impatient Ian ordered another steak worth six hundred dollars, not shortchanging himself. After eating and wiping his plate clean, he returned to his Hellcat.
Venturing into Hell in a Hellcat.
Very logical.
***
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