American comic book: My Father is Superman, am I just an NPC?

Chapter 156 Date A Live! Miss Death!

Ian flipped in through the broken French window like a nimble cat.

Not a speck of dust clung to his black hoodie. He patted non-existent dust off his hands and flashed an excessively bright smile at the dumbfounded Officer Kate Beckett.

"No bombs! This is a wealthy area! Demolitionists don't like to come here!"

As an evil god.

Ian's disadvantage of not having many eyeballs growing in his mouth is now becoming apparent. He thought his treatment was flawless, but little did he know that his oral environment would completely betray him when he smiled.

"??????"

Officer Kate Beckett stared intently at the suspicious crumbs between Ian's lips and teeth; they resembled remnants of some kind of plastic explosive, gleaming ominously under the kitchen light.

of course.

It's a bit far-fetched to expect a materialist to believe that someone can eat a bomb. After a moment of hesitation, a shocked Officer Kate Beckett bypassed Ian and went to the window.

"No, where did you just come from?" She swore she had checked the window just now; on the eighteenth floor, there was nothing but a smooth glass curtain wall and an air conditioner platform.

"I have claustrophobia and I need to breathe fresh air every now and then. That's how mental patients are. If you don't believe me, you can ask the dead Dr. Hannibal."

Ian brushed off non-existent dust from his hoodie and slowly adjusted his cuffs. His bright golden eyes gleamed with an eerie shrewdness under the light.

"Are you kidding me! This is the 18th floor! The 18th floor!" Kate felt her temples throbbing. The height of the 18th floor made her stomach clench. And below the air conditioner outdoor unit platform, which was less than half a square meter, there was nothing but two rusty fixing screws, not even a handle for a person to hang on.

“I’m right below the air conditioner’s outdoor unit platform; that’s the prime spot for getting the freshest air.” Ian gestured as if he were holding two screws in each hand.

At the same time, he was also trying his best to cover up the lie: "Hot air rises and cold air sinks, and the airflow discharged from the outdoor unit of the air conditioner forms a miniature convection system there."

"The spot where I was hanging was right at the end of a downdraft, which means that thermodynamic equilibrium was reached there. Hanging there was even cooler than having air conditioning on!"

Ian desperately wanted to protect his identity as an ordinary citizen of Metropolis. The police had promised him a certificate of merit for the last robbery, and he couldn't let the officers know he was a superhero before that. After all, in most people's minds, it was taken for granted that superheroes did good deeds.

Certificate of merit?

There won't even be electronic certificates!

“Not even a beagle could stand there!” Officer Kate felt her sanity melting away like ice cream. She stared intently at Ian’s innocent face.

A complex, indescribable emotion churned within my chest.

"Listen, just because I'm a police officer doesn't mean I'm not knowledgeable in physics. Do you think you can fool me by spouting some technical jargon?"

She spoke slowly and deliberately, each syllable sounding as if squeezed out from between her teeth, "I have never seen anyone breathe fresh air this way!"

It's hard to say how terrified the policewoman was right now. She knew Ian's mental state might not be very good, but a mentally ill person shouldn't be this freakish!
“Oh, so you’ve met today. Congratulations, Officer Beckett. I’ve given you a bit more experience. You’re welcome.” Ian nodded without changing his expression.

He's determined to stick to his guns no matter what.

"I'm glad I became a police officer instead of a psychologist."

Kate felt a wave of dizziness. She took a deep breath and leaned out the window again—this time examining the platform more closely. Two rusty screws were stuck abruptly into the concrete wall, nearly a meter from the edge of the platform. A terrible thought formed in her mind.

"You're a superhuman, right?" Kate didn't want to speculate or guess like that, but the bizarre scene that had just happened made this explanation the only one that seemed plausible.

Hear the words.

Ian took several steps back.

"Superhuman!?"

Her voice suddenly rose, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, instantly jolting, "Who are you calling a superhuman?! I can hang outside just because I'm working out!"

"Workout! Get it?! Don't dismiss my hard work and sweat with some random 'superhuman' comment!" As he spoke, Ian reached into his pocket to prove that he was really working out.

Metenolone, Stanozolone, Oxyproterone, Recombinanthrone, Trenbolone, Nandrolone phenylpropionate... Ian pulled out dozens of bottles and jars from his not-so-big pants pocket.

Isn't this proof of hard work? Most fitness enthusiasts only know how to use the "nine dragons pulling a coffin" technique, but Ian uses the "hundred dragons pulling a coffin" technique, which is ten times more hard work than professional fitness enthusiasts!
"What the hell is all this stuff!" Kate grabbed a bottle labeled "Bone Density Enhancement Tablets (Elephant Grade)" and found that the ingredient list on the back clearly stated "Contains 10% lethal probability".

She shook the bottle, and the pills inside made a suspicious clicking sound. Even though she desperately didn't want to believe Ian, she had to convince herself that the boy was indeed working out.

Most people wouldn't be able to pull out so many high-tech gadgets, let alone from their pockets or even a bank safe deposit box.

“Science, dear Officer Beckett, it’s all science,” Ian said seriously, while quietly sweeping a bottle labeled “For Animals Only” back into his pocket.

“What’s wrong with an ordinary citizen hanging something on the 18th floor outside their window after systematic training and hard work? If you don’t believe me, I’ll send you two hundred videos tonight of fitness instructors who chose to hang themselves outside their windows after being caught having affairs—only 96 of them died, less than half. If others can do it, of course I can too.”

"I didn't even have an affair just now, and I have way more stamina than them!"

Ian's logic remained impeccable. Even though Beckett and other acquaintances of Ian felt something was amiss, they still couldn't find a way to refute Ian's arguments.

She was speechless, but her professional instincts were still struggling.

"What about the bomb? I saw you take a bomb out of the microwave with my own eyes." Beckett, who was gradually making sense of things, was still convinced of what he had witnessed.

In response, Ian gave a curt laugh, channeling his Mads-style acting, "Officer Beckett, you should also see a doctor. How could you possibly pull a bomb out of a microwave?"

"You'd only get delicious chicken breast out of the microwave. Who would put a bomb in the microwave to heat it up and eat it? Dr. Hannibal just likes to buy chicken breasts that look like C4 to create a mystery."

He emphasized this point again, not giving Beckett a chance to look at him strangely. He first scrutinized the long-legged policewoman from head to toe with the same look one would give a mental patient.

“Ha, you think I believe there’s such a thing as chicken breast with C4 in the world? I…” Beckett opened his mouth, but before he could finish speaking, he saw that Ian had already found the same product on Amazon using his phone.

"..."

This left Beckett speechless. She didn't know Ian had an all-powerful black box, so she could only freeze, falling into a silence that perhaps questioned the magical nature of the world.

The air in the kitchen was so thick it could almost be sliced ​​and plated. The standoff between Officer Beckett and Ian was a test of endurance, with only the sound of the water purifier running echoing in the air.

It was in this eerie atmosphere that...

A series of hurried footsteps came from the kitchen doorway.

"Beckett!"

Young Detective Kevin Ryan appeared in the doorway, a few beads of sweat still clinging to his forehead, clearly having just returned from outside and unaware of the crisis that had just occurred. The Irish-American man glanced at the two silent figures, keenly sensing the tense atmosphere, but chose to report on business first.

"The technical team has located the marked area on the map and confirmed that someone is hiding there." He lowered his voice, his eyes showing a mixture of excitement and tension.

“It’s a very secluded little hut… Judging from the architectural structure, it’s very likely a long-term stronghold of the Ripper.” This was clearly based on information gathered from the map Ian had dug up. Beckett’s eyes sharpened instantly, and she quickly composed herself, as if her argument with Ian had never happened.

"Very good. Don't alert him. Let's gather a small team to capture him. This serial killer, who has been active for several years, has finally shown his true colors."

Beckett said curtly, as he strode toward the living room and pulled a bulletproof vest from his gear bag.

Her movements were clean and efficient; the bulletproof vest buckle clicked shut, and she instantly detached herself from her personal emotions, transforming back into the decisive and efficient homicide detective.

Ian stood in the kitchen doorway, tilting his head as he looked at the police.

Can I come with you?

He recalled encountering Will Graham outside Hannibal's clinic, where Graham had human flesh in his mouth. He had assumed that Graham had been assimilated by Dr. Hannibal.

Never thought about it.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was a good man; Will Graham was the real cannibal. This is evident from the documents found on Dr. Hannibal's floor, aside from the maps.

As Will Graham's psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal must have sensed something was amiss long ago, which is why he secretly conducted some investigations into Will Graham.

This may be the real cause of Dr. Hannibal's death.

He discovered the truth.

“I had the chance to expose the killer, but my intelligence was only at a single digit at the time,” Ian sighed regretfully, then looked at Officer Beckett with pleading eyes.

Beckett didn't even turn his head, just reached out to adjust his shoulder strap, his tone leaving no room for argument: "Kid, I've already shown you the live performance, so you'd better go home now."

"Tomorrow isn't the weekend." It was already an exception for the policewoman to let Ian come to the scene; of course, she couldn't possibly take a minor with a mental illness to catch a serial killer.

"No matter what your abilities are, believe me, you won't like being taken away by the military for research." The policewoman gave Ian a deep look and offered a meaningful reminder.

"Forehead……"

Ian chuckled twice.

"Why would the military capture ordinary citizens for research?" He wasn't actually worried about that, because his maternal grandfather was a high-ranking military officer and his father was Superman. So, the only possibility was that he would help the military capture superhumans for research if the military's asking price was too high.

"I just want to see the murderer who killed my psychiatrist brought to justice. You know, mental patients have a morbid dependence and emotional attachment to their psychiatrists."

Ian blinked, giving an innocent look. He sighed, his tone tinged with sadness, clearly indicating that he was once again playing the T1 card of the "psychopathic" version.

however.

This time, Beckett was clearly not buying it. She finally turned around, gave him a deep look, and then smiled slightly—a smile that was by no means beautiful.

"Do you want me to call your parents and have them come pick you up?" she asked slowly, her tone almost a silent threat.

Ian's expression froze instantly.

He hadn't expected that after only three meetings, the other party would have already grasped his weakness.

"you are vicious!"

Ian swallowed hard, ultimately giving up and abandoning his attempt to continue as a scalper. Beckett smiled with satisfaction, nodding and reiterating the point to Ian.

“Very good, hurry home... Please don’t call me again to ask how you should handle the bloodstains after you slaughtered a pig weighing over 100 pounds so that your jealous neighbors won’t find out.” To be honest, in Officer Beckett’s eyes, Ian had always thought he had the makings of a serial killer.

Therefore.

She would only send a text message every now and then to check on Ian's situation.

"I was having writer's block while writing my novel... God knows why there are never enough mushrooms for me with so much lawn outside my house," Ian defended his reputation.

Beckett rolled her eyes, ignored Ian, and went to Miss Misha, who was still sobbing softly, and gently patted her on the shoulder.

“We will catch him,” the policewoman promised in a low voice, her voice firm and steady. “Please believe us, we have found the murderer, and he will receive the punishment he deserves.”

Beckett didn't know how to comfort others, so she could only try to offer the assurances a police officer should. Her precinct was different from other precincts where reporting a crime required paying money.

There are also dedicated police officers in the US police force. Before they become corrupt, most police officers actually have a fairly conscientious heart. After all, in this country, apart from powerful families, most young people who dare to choose the police as a profession have a desire to be "heroes". However, reality is often not as they wish.

“Punishment? Are you going to put him in jail?” Misha looked up, her eyes red-rimmed, but her gaze no longer held just sadness—it held something sharper.

“That’s a matter for the judge to decide.” Beckett didn’t say much more, just gave Ian one last look before leading the team away from the apartment building.

Only a few police officers and forensic personnel remained at the crime scene to continue their investigation. The room fell silent again, save for Misha's suppressed sobs.

Ian scratched his head, walked over to Miss Misha, hesitated for a moment, and then said comfortingly, "Uh... if Hannibal hadn't eaten people, the doctor would definitely be in heaven."

If Miss Misha weren't someone he knew, Ian would have simply turned and left, but his attitude towards acquaintances and strangers has always been very different.

"Heaven?"

Misha's shoulders trembled slightly as she looked up, her eyes vacant and sorrowful.

“If there really is a heaven and a hell in this world… that might not be a good thing for my brother.” Her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.

"Before my brother died, he hung himself from the roof beam. Under that damned guy's coercion, my brother hanged himself with his own intestines."

Miss Misha paused, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Do you know what this means? My brother, as someone who committed suicide... he won't go to heaven."

Miss Misha, who works while pursuing her doctorate in psychology, has knowledge of various industries. Her profile at school shows that she has two doctoral degrees and a master's degree.

“Actually, there is another way to go to heaven…” Ian hesitated for a moment, but still did not try to sell the indulgence to Miss Misha, since he had not yet started his business in this area.

Since no tests have been conducted, it's unwise to blindly give hope to acquaintances. Only businessmen would cheat close friends and family; capitalists generally wouldn't, as they only cheat people they don't know well before going bankrupt.

At least that's true of new-era capitalists like Ian.

"What do you want to say?"

Miss Misha noticed Ian's hesitation.

"It's nothing. I just realized that Will Graham definitely has a morbid obsession with Dr. Hannibal. Maybe that guy made Dr. Hannibal die so horribly because he knows he's a bad guy. His purpose wasn't just torture; he also wanted Dr. Hannibal to go to hell and wait for him first."

Ian has indeed been reading a lot of psychology books recently, so combining his knowledge with the situation on the ground, he has made a truly reasonable psychological profile.

"Perhaps you are right."

Miss Misha also agreed with Ian's assessment.

“My brother had noticed something was wrong with that guy a long time ago, but he didn’t tell me what was wrong with him… Until just now, I finally realized why my brother kept saying he was dangerous.” Miss Misha recalled when she brought ingredients to Hannibal to cook, Hannibal refused her request to contact Will.

"As expected, Dr. Hannibal was secretly investigating Will."

Ian's earlier guess was confirmed. He suddenly realized that in his current world, Hannibal's "evil" might have been completely absorbed by Will.

Hannibal? Not bad, that's why his father trusted him.

Will? He's doubly bad, which is why he seemed so sinister before. Ian was genuinely annoyed at this moment, wondering why he hadn't realized this sooner.

Although he didn't have any information beforehand, he shouldn't be so dull-witted.

“The police wanting to put that damn guy in jail… that’s hardly a ‘deserved punishment.’” Misha’s nails dug deep into her palms as Ian pondered.

Her voice sounded like it was being squeezed out from between her teeth, as if she were gritting her teeth.

Ian looked at her and suddenly felt a sense of unease. The once gentle counselor's eyes had changed—they now resembled those of a wild beast driven to the brink of despair.

Be ready to bite back at any time.

"What do you want to do?"

Ian tentatively asked.

Misha slowly raised her head, a cold smile curling at the corner of her lips.

“Will wouldn’t wait for the police at the lakeside cabin,” she said softly. “It could just be a trap.”

Her fingers tapped lightly on the table.

The pace is slow and dangerous.

“I will be prepared and then go find him myself,” Miss Misha said, her voice filled with hatred. “He will pay a hundredfold for what he has done.”

“Uh, that’s not a good idea.” Ian looked at her and suddenly felt a headache coming on—oh no, this counselor might be turning into “Miss Misha Who Wants to Eat People”. He didn’t want to see Miss Misha, who loved sharing sandwich cookies with her students, actually sharing real sandwich cookies with everyone one day.

of course.

Miss Misha might also be turned into a sandwich by Will. That guy's IQ is about the same as Hannibal's, only slightly lower than Ian's by about seven or eight points.

“Ian, I know you care about me, but you can’t stop me. Murderers should pay the price of being killed!” Miss Misha said firmly.

Ian knew he couldn't persuade the other party.

“I think you misunderstood me… What I really meant was that smart people don’t take risks themselves, but instead choose to use their money to hire others to kidnap their enemies.”

"Want me to recommend a few reliable mercenaries? I'm also a nuclear bomb seller sometimes, you know." Ian has never been the type to advise others against endless cycles of revenge.

"?????"

Miss Misha, who had been covered in tears and looked gloomy, froze on the spot. She wondered if she had misheard, or if the student in front of her was trying to make her laugh.

Nuclear bombs can be bought?

Faced with Ian's earth-shattering statement, "I can sell nuclear bombs," Miss Misha managed a weak smile on her pale face. She rubbed her temples and tried her best to suppress her grief.

"You're just a child, don't get involved in this kind of thing."

Miss Misha's voice was as light as a feather, yet carried an undeniable firmness.

“My brother was worried about his patients before he died. He asked me to arrange their follow-up treatment.” She raised her tired eyes and looked at the boy in front of her who was wearing a black hoodie with the word “CD” printed on it and half of a fitness supplement bottle sticking out of his pocket.

“I’m definitely not included in this.” Ian confidently crossed his arms, his chin slightly raised, as if announcing a universally acknowledged truth.

Misha didn't directly refute her. She simply pulled a napkin from the coffee table drawer and then took a pen from her bag. Her movements were slow, as if she were using these subtle actions to sort out her fragmented emotions.

“I can recommend a few doctors for you,” she said, writing down several phone numbers on a napkin. “They are all highly qualified and professional psychologists.”

Miss Misha pushed the napkin toward Ian.

But the latter didn't even glance at it.

"Do these doctors think they're great actors, but are they really just pretending I'm not sick?" Ian suddenly asked, his eyes gleaming with suspicion.

Misha's hand froze in mid-air.

The pen nib smudged a small patch of ink on some other napkins.

She organized her thoughts slightly and began speaking as if explaining something to the public, "In the treatment of mental illness, professional doctors treat their patients with the same gentleness they would show to ordinary people."

“Yes, a professional doctor won’t treat you like a patient, at least not in a way that makes you aware he’s treating you like one.” Miss Misha misunderstood Ian’s concerns once again.

"No, I'm smart enough to see it."

"The underlying logic here is that they all already know I'm not sick, but they still want to take money out of my pocket! Dr. Hannibal is different. Dr. Hannibal has been telling me lately that I'm quite ill. I know that Dr. Hannibal also knows that I'm not sick, but he pretends to be sick because he's been paid."

"This is what professional service looks like!" Ian slammed his hand on the coffee table, making several empty cups clatter. His logic was so clear it was almost infuriating.

Misha opened her mouth, unable to respond.

The pen also fell to the ground with a thud.

Her professional competence was fiercely battling with common sense—the boy in front of her seemed to have perfectly closed a loop of a mental patient's understanding of a psychiatrist using the logic of a mental patient.

Miss Misha wanted to retort, but couldn't find a direction. At that moment, the boy asked again, "Oh, by the way, can other psychologists treat my patients for free?"

This is what Ian cares about most. Although Ian is already very rich, he wants to use his money to exert his influence and exchange low-priced products for the general faith of the people.

"You... what kind of patient are you?"

Miss Misha's expression grew increasingly strange, and she even briefly forgot her sadness.

“I have at least a few hundred mental patients under my control.” Ian tried to keep his tone “calm”; it wasn’t something to brag about.

Misha's expression froze.

"Your parents have already sent you to a mental hospital?" Her gaze slowly swept over Ian's entire body, her tone tinged with uncertainty and suspicion.

no way.

Only under these circumstances would she believe that Ian could know hundreds of mental patients.

“Of course not, they love me! They’d rather send themselves to a mental hospital than send me!” Ian retorted to Miss Misha with a firm and righteous tone.

"..."

Miss Misha was speechless once again.

She felt that she might have underestimated Ian's condition in the past.

"I was actually forced to become a psychologist; the specific situation is very complicated. Just think of it as me having schizophrenia, with hundreds of personalities that need treatment."

Ian wouldn't mind playing the mental illness card again.

Misha's expression became extremely complicated. She stared at Ian for a full ten seconds, then suddenly sighed: "Many doctors are skilled at treating schizophrenia."

"But if they find out you're acting as a middleman, they'll sue you, demanding the medical fees you're owed and various forms of compensation. You don't stand a chance in those cases."

Law was also Miss Misha's specialty. She was able to serve as Ian's counselor for several years, naturally because she was well-versed in law and knew how to avoid the "troublemaking" tactics that Ian might resort to if he was provoked.

Knowing about Ian's trafficking activities at school, Miss Misha, after a moment's thought, once again mistakenly believed that Ian wanted to become a middleman in the treatment of mental illness.

Because the version updates are too frequent.

She was unaware that Ian was already on the path to becoming a tycoon.

"Damn it, these psychiatrists are trash! Unlike Dr. Hannibal, who would only help me become a psychiatrist and the king of psychiatrists for free!" Ian's expression instantly fell. The Metropolitan Gambler was currently trying to quit gambling, and he didn't want to go to court with these cunning elites again.

“Your brother used to be such a good person. He would check on me late at night and promised that I could ask him any questions I had for free.” This was a moment when Ian missed Dr. Hannibal.

Mentioning Hannibal's gentleness, Misha's lips unconsciously curled into a bitter smile: "Yes, my brother is that kind of person."

“He’ll do anything he thinks is good for his patient’s condition.” Her gaze drifted to the rain outside the window. “Even if the patient needs him to cook or do laundry.”

As soon as these words came out.

Ian jumped up from the sofa on the spot.

"What?! Dr. Hannibal even offers this kind of service?!" Ian had long heard that Hannibal was a great cook, but he had always thought that Dr. Hannibal's culinary skills were only exceptional in his interpersonal relationships.

now.

It's obvious that Dr. Hannibal is a decent human being, and his culinary skills in cooking beef, lamb, and other non-human flesh are truly exceptional. This reminded Ian of how he had once refused Dr. Hannibal's food.

"What’s wrong with you?"

Misha was startled by Ian's reaction. Ian didn't answer, but instead weighed the pros and cons, pacing around the living room twice as if deep in thought, before suddenly moving closer to Misha.

Do you have three hundred dollars?

This sudden question is a bit too far off-topic.

Miss Misha paused for a second.

She couldn't follow Ian's train of thought at all, but she mechanically opened her wallet and counted out three crumpled hundred-dollar bills: "Do you want to take a taxi home?"

This suggests that Ian is ready to leave.

however.

Ian grabbed the money, but shook his head.

"I want to use this to buy flowers."

After saying that, he rushed into the kitchen.

Misha followed him blankly and saw Ian tiptoeing, rummaging through the cupboard.

"What are you doing?"

Miss Misha stared at Ian in utter bewilderment. After rummaging through the cupboard, the boy pulled out a cup and asked her a question with great enthusiasm.

"Do you think Dr. Hannibal would like this cartoon-style thermos?" Ian held up a light blue thermos with Winnie the Pooh eating honey printed on it.

That's my cup.

Miss Misha responded somewhat blankly.

"Oh, perfect!" Ian's eyes lit up. "There's my sister's love in this cup; Dr. Hannibal would love living in it! The power of the family is truly everywhere!"

Before Misha could react...

Ian, that strange boy, had already rushed out the door like a gust of wind, clutching a Winnie the Pooh thermos and three hundred-dollar bills, and disappeared at the end of the apartment corridor.

“He didn’t seem to take the elevator…” Miss Misha’s thoughts were completely in a mess. She could only try to put herself in Ian’s shoes and think that Ian might want to lay flowers at Dr. Hannibal’s grave.

As for that cup...

"Sigh~"

Miss Misha gasped.

She began to suspect that Ian wanted to put his brother's ashes in a thermos. Is that strange? Putting yourself in the shoes of a mentally ill person, perhaps some mentally ill individuals would do such a thing!
"Bang~"

Just now.

The sound of something falling came from inside the apartment.

Ian did take the elevator, but he went down to the next floor first, then opened the elevator door and jumped down the elevator shaft to the underground parking lot.

"Buzz~"

The roar of the Hellcats filled the air.

It carried Ian at breakneck speed toward the bustling street.

Miss Misha's money should be spent where it's needed. Ian isn't one to take advantage of small things; his principles are clear, so the three hundred dollars were all spent where they were meant to be.

Ian drove his Hellcat sports car through the streets of New York, bought a bouquet of flowers for $50, and then spent $250 on coffee and steak at a Western restaurant.

The waiter gave him a strange look: "Sir, are you dining alone?"

“No,” Ian smiled mysteriously, “I’m waiting for a lady.”

When the steak and coffee were served, Ian didn't start eating. Instead, he put his hands together, closed his eyes, and began to pray softly—not to God or Satan.

Instead, he addressed his old acquaintance, "Miss Death."

Unlike usual, without the Flash's interference, Miss Death responded exceptionally quickly. Time didn't even freeze in the restaurant; the other customers continued their lively conversation.

The sounds of knives and forks clashing echoed throughout the room.

Miss Death didn't appear out of thin air; she walked in gracefully through the main entrance, as if she were just an ordinary, beautiful, gothic woman who happened to be dining in the restaurant.

Yes.

Miss Death has a penchant for gothic style. She wore a well-tailored black dress, her skin was almost translucent with pale white skin, and her lips were as red as blood. Under the soft lighting of the restaurant, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

"They put a lot of effort into it."

Miss Death walked straight to Ian and sat down, her gaze falling on the untouched steak.

"Why did you only order one dish?"

Miss Death raised an eyebrow.

Ian gave a formulaic smile and quietly put his phone away.

"If I don't eat, you can eat more."

He was reciting from the script, and as he spoke, he pushed the bunch of plastic flowers in front of her.

"It's for you."

Ian's smile is as formulaic as can be.

"If I didn't know how much money was in your account, and if I hadn't known you were reading cheesy pickup lines just now, I almost would have believed you." Miss Death took the flower and smelled it.

"Plastic flowers, with a touch of the perfume you stole from your mother, trying to express your feelings that will never fade?" Miss Death really has been secretly watching Ian all along.

At least after hearing her words, Ian became even more convinced of this.

"What a shame, it's almost there."

As soon as Miss Death finished speaking, the bunch of plastic flowers withered and faded at a speed visible to the naked eye, eventually turning into a pile of ashes that fell onto the pristine white tablecloth.

The waiter happened to pass by, but seemed not to see anything, clearly suffering from cognitive interference.

"You're being so helpful out of the blue; it's nothing but treachery." Miss Death picked up her knife and elegantly cut off a small piece of steak. "You want to save your therapist?"

Miss Death demonstrated her omniscience regarding Ian's objectives.

Ian's expression suddenly became extremely serious, and he sincerely admitted, "I can't lose my doctor, just like the Teletubbies can't lose the Night Garden."

Other psychologists did not meet Ian's expectations.

Or.

He has always been a sentimental person.

"Quite obedient." Miss Death chewed her steak slowly, a slight smile playing on her bright red lips. "You know your doctor is a 'benign intruder,' right?"

Ian neither denied nor pretended to be ignorant about this.

"So, is he in hell or not? I've thought about asking Lucifer, but I prefer to connect with you." Ian's clumsy attempts at being a manipulative woman were amusing.

However, Miss Death took a sip of her coffee and seemed to be in a good mood: "Indeed, they are in hell. Our current decision is that all souls like them will be guided by the Angels of Death."

This is clearly the result of discussions between the Endless Family and the God Family.

It is considered secret.

However, it was still casually leaked by Miss Death—mainly because Ian was growing faster and faster in her eyes, and perhaps soon an "abstract" physical god would really appear in the universe.

"Do you want me to help you resurrect him?" Miss Death didn't talk about Ian's situation; she just asked casually, as if it were a trivial matter like asking if she wanted sugar in her coffee.

"Shh!"

Ian quickly raised his index finger and put it to his lips.

He gazed at the sky outside, "Don't let my dad hear this. I've already treated you to steak, how can you still deprive me of my legitimate reason for venturing into hell?"

The boy thought Miss Death was a bit ungrateful.

However, his high emotional intelligence prevented him from complaining.

Miss Death put down her knife and fork, her sharp gaze fixed on Ian.

"So, you couldn't find the entrance to hell, so you came to me?"

Her tone was firm.

Ian shook his head very honestly.

"I just want to give you a chance to talk to me."

His expression was genuinely sincere, which froze Miss Death's expression on her face, and even the steak she had just eaten seemed to get stuck in her throat.

"..."

She put down her cutlery.

There was silence for a long time.

“The compass I gave you before will lead you to hell.” With that, she stood up, picked up the half-eaten steak and coffee, and walked toward the door without looking back.

She left the bunch of plastic flowers, now reduced to ashes, on the table.

"Next time..."

The goddess's figure stopped before the gate, her voice seemingly drifting from afar, "If you want me to endure your mental attacks, you'll have to give me flowers that truly never wither."

The words fell.

Her figure vanished like mist in the restaurant's lights. The surrounding customers seemed completely oblivious to what had happened, continuing to enjoy their dinners.

“It must be shy, it must be shy.” Ian took out the compass he had used to find the Dream God. The pointer spun wildly and finally pointed firmly to the southeast.

"The Hellish Adventures of Lord Ian! Filming officially begins!"

Eager to eat, Ian ordered himself a $600 steak, determined not to skimp on himself. He ate it all before heading back to his Hellcat.

Bravely venture into hell in a Hellcat.

Very reasonable.

(End of this chapter)