What's wrong with Superman's son wanting to be Superman?

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"Miss Misha?"

Ian recognized the woman as Miss Misha from his school, the student counselor who had worried about his mental health and whom he had taught a lot about relationships.

“Ian? Ian Kent?” The woman looked up suddenly when she heard someone call her name. Through her teary eyes, she met Ian’s gaze. She seemed to be very confused as to why Ian was here.

“I’m a crime consultant, the kind of detective like Sherlock Holmes,” Ian explained his identity first, but his impromptu argument was interrupted by Officer Kate.

"He was just the first person to discover the crime scene."

Officer Kate Beckett corrected Ian's statement.

“Then I’m also an eyewitness, just like Sherlock Holmes.” Ian always managed to steer the conversation back in the direction he wanted, and immediately after he finished speaking, he adopted the strategy of changing the subject.

“Miss Misha, what are you doing here? Are you and Dr. Hannibal in a relationship? I knew Dr. Hannibal, like me, would always like twenty-two-year-old girls.”

"Not too big, not too small, just right in every way." Ian was actually quite curious about the answer to this question himself. With his extremely high IQ, he didn't think Miss Misha would be crying here for no reason.

"A detective? Huh?"

Officer Kate shook her head speechlessly.

Miss Misha quickly composed herself.

"No, Hannibal is my brother. Someone killed my brother and almost killed me. They said they were willing to cooperate with the killer's torture in order to spare my life!"

Her emotions began to break down again.

"Will Graham".

Ian narrowed his eyes and uttered a name.

“It’s him! Yes! It’s him! I recognize his eyes! He can’t fool me!” Miss Misha’s voice was very excited, filled with a hysterical hatred.

"??????"

Officer Kate was instantly dumbfounded upon seeing this.

"No, you know the murderer? You just arrived, right? How do you already know who the murderer is?!" She looked Ian up and down with an incredulous and suspicious gaze.

"If the deceased were my psychiatrist, the murderer would certainly be Will Graham... To be honest, I'm a great detective, but even someone as astute as me is somewhat surprised now."

Ian, speaking in a cryptic manner that Kate couldn't make sense of, led the way into the bedroom that the police had sealed off, where Hannibal Lecter's body was hanging from a chandelier on the ceiling, his intestines hanging out of it.

He was also turned into a "work of art," with his chest cavity cut open, his ribs folded outward into the shape of wings, and an open book, "The Art of Cooking," stuffed into the cavity where his heart was.

The most bizarre thing was his expression, a joyful smile stitched together with needle and thread, as if he were enjoying this death feast. He looked like a carefully arranged marionette.

“The killer put a lot of effort into this, much more so than in the previous work. He loved Dr. Hannibal very much, but Dr. Hannibal betrayed him, or at least he felt that Dr. Hannibal had betrayed him.” Ian’s fingertips brushed against the dried bloodstains on the door frame and suddenly noticed Hannibal’s drooping finger, which seemed to be pointing to a spot on the floor.

He rushed over in three strides, prying open the seams of the floorboards with his fingernails.

"What are you doing?! This is destroying evidence!"

Kate Beckett's voice almost lifted the roof off.

"I'm solving a case."

Ian responded without turning his head.

“I called you here not to do our work, but to stop you from texting me every minute.” Officer Kate tried to stop Ian but found that Ian had already dug through the floor.

“That was something my tech assistant did, it has nothing to do with me.” Ian pulled a map out of the floor, which was clearly the clue Hannibal left for the police at the end.

The location of a lakeside cabin is marked inside.

“I think…” Ian had just picked up the map when he suddenly froze.

"Drip—drip—drip"

A faint electronic sound came from the direction of the kitchen.

Ian's pupils contracted sharply, and he rushed into the kitchen—sure enough, there was a C4 bomb lying inside the microwave, counting down, with the display showing 00:07 jumping to 00:06.

"Don't touch any equipment on site! I'll call the bomb squad!" Kate's hand had just reached for her holster when Ian pulled out a bomb with his bare hands, smashed through the French windows, and leaped out.

“Ian!!”

When the policewoman rushed to the window, she only saw a few shards of glass glittering in the setting sun. Twenty stories high in the air, where was anyone? She looked around, but her limited vision prevented her from seeing anything.

There was no explosion.

There was no crashing sound.

A moment later, the policewoman felt a chill run down her spine, as if she had seen a ghost. She heard a belching sound, and then two small hands were pressed against the window.

"Where's the bomb?"

The policewoman stared at the boy in front of her.

"Where is the bomb? Officer Beckett, have you been working too hard and gotten confused? I'm just hanging out here to get some fresh air. People who like fresh air understand me."

Ian, who had climbed into the kitchen, attempted to sexually harass the policewoman, but the crumbs on his lips were quite noticeable, making it difficult for the policewoman to pretend she couldn't see them.

Ian, an ordinary citizen? ×!

An expert in burying one's head in the sand? √!

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.