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

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"Hello, this is the emergency call center. How can I help you?" The operator's voice was fairly serious; if you ignored the gurgling sound of her beer, she might be considered competent.

The sound of drinking water is very different from the sound of drinking alcohol. At least for someone with "super hearing," Ian could clearly tell that the other person had obviously broken the rules.

It might also be illegal.

“I want to report this to the police,” Ian said in a “terrified” tone, as if he were an ordinary citizen. “I found a body at Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s psychiatric clinic.”

"Who is Dr. Hannibal? Damn it, you live in our country, don't you ever go out and see a psychiatrist?"

“Okay, you’re right. If you had the money to see a psychologist, you certainly wouldn’t be drinking ‘beverages’ to suppress your symptoms. No, I didn’t illegally install a camera in the police station.”

"In short, I really don't have any video of you and your colleague exercising in front of the phone. I don't like threatening people. Send the police here immediately. This is the 94 Fifth Avenue office building in downtown."

……

Ian found it very difficult to communicate with the operator.

He had tried his best to appear very anxious, but after confirming that he did not have any threatening videos, the other party seemed to become more businesslike.

Can you describe the situation at the scene?

The operator's voice was very calm, after all, it wasn't her relative who had died.

"There was no biubiubiu, only me and a poor woman. The deceased was a receptionist nurse at the clinic, a woman of Mexican descent, about 30 years old and about 165cm tall."

"Her weight was estimated to be around 50 kilograms, slightly overweight, which is reasonable considering her love for burritos. There were no signs of struggle at the scene, leading to the initial assessment that the perpetrator knew the victim well and had some medical and anatomical knowledge. Oh, and by the way, her time of death was probably between one and two hours ago."

"Considering that the clinic's air conditioning is set to a constant 19 degrees Celsius in cold air mode, this speculation may be inaccurate. The specific situation still needs to be determined by a forensic examination."

Ian began to speak.

He squatted down and carefully examined the condition of the body.

The nurse's eyes were swollen and her skin was cold.

He turned the corpse's wrist over and found tiny needle marks on the skin. Clearly, it had been attacked with a narcotic at close range by an acquaintance before being killed.

This also explains why there were no signs of resistance at the scene—after Ian told the operator everything, the female operator on the other end of the phone fell silent.

"Sir, are you... a forensic pathologist?"

"No."

"Criminal investigators?"

"Not at all."

"Then why are you able to describe the scene so professionally?"

"Because I love watching 'CSI: Crime Scene Investigation'! What's the point of watching TV dramas if you don't learn anything from them?" Ian was a little confused by the other person's inexplicable attitude.

"Uh...okay."

The operator seemed speechless.

After a few seconds, she spoke with some regret: "Due to the recent surge in supernatural events in the metropolis, police resources are limited, and your report is currently in the queue."

“Estimated waiting time… half an hour? Or maybe an hour, I can’t say for sure, it depends on the police station’s allocation of manpower.” Her words made Ian’s eyes widen.

"I have to wait in line to call the police? Are you a restaurant? Should I buy a VIP membership to speed up the response?" Ian really didn't expect there to be someone more abstract than Batman in this world.

"I'm just an employee, don't question me. If you know a precinct chief or police inspector, you can call them and ask them to arrange for someone to prioritize your report."

The operator, earning a monthly salary of 3,000 yuan, also sounded helpless in her voice.

“Looks like paying to become a VIP isn’t enough, you have to be an SVIP…” Ian, who was always a bit eccentric, said speechlessly. He had been given a harsh lesson by America, who was even more eccentric than him.

The operator also sighed.

"Anyway, have a nice day. Please stay put and don't disturb the scene." She gave Ian a formulaic response, just like the training content of the seven-day training course.

"I'll stay where I am, and then you can't find the killer, so you'll just use me as a substitute, right?" Ian hung up the phone indignantly, but he was just venting his frustrations and wasn't actually panicked.

After all, the police's small-caliber pistol posed no threat to him; they could leave whenever they wanted, and if necessary, he could even use mimicry to transform himself into the promised nobleman of God.

"I knew it! If calling the police had worked, America wouldn't have so many different kinds of superheroes! Nor would it have developed a superhero worship culture!"

Ian grumbled as he searched Hannibal's office. Drawers, filing cabinets, bookshelves—everything had been cleared out; there were no valuable clues.

He couldn't even find his own medical records.

“Dr. Hannibal, you heartless bastard! Not only did you kill and run away, but you also took the mental illness certificate my parents paid for!” Ian plopped down on his usual sofa. He would always sit here during his therapy sessions, listening to Hannibal analyze his non-existent illness in an elegant tone.

just now.

The sofa still smelled faintly of cologne; it was unclear who had sat on it before. After thinking for a moment, Ian took out his phone and dialed Hannibal's private number.

The number you dialed is currently switched off.

Unsurprisingly.

Dr. Hannibal's phone was also unreachable. Mature criminals erase all their identity information before fleeing, and Ian couldn't even force the phone to turn on using the black box.

It has obviously been destroyed.

Seeing this, Ian immediately switched to the black box interface and brought up Wayne Enterprises' black box positioning system—some components in Hannibal's phone were Wayne Technologies products, and theoretically, as long as the device wasn't completely destroyed, its signal could be tracked. Three seconds later, the positioning results were displayed.

The signal source is in this office.

Ian squinted, looked around, and finally walked to the bathroom in the corner of the office. The toilet tank lid was open, and a cell phone, soaked in water, floated on the surface.

When Ian pulled it out, the screen was shattered and the motherboard was burned, but the Wayne Enterprises chip was still stubbornly flashing a faint signal. Gotham City's products are always trustworthy.

“Normally, I don’t like to meddle in other people’s business, but Dr. Hannibal is simply going too far. Committing a crime right under the nose of Superman’s son is a direct challenge to the authority of the Superman family!” It’s hard to say whether Ian felt any guilt at all, as he had been waiting for the police in Dr. Hannibal’s office for a long time.

however.

The clock on the wall ticked away; three hours had passed, and there was still no sign of a police car. Outside the window, the sky gradually darkened, and neon lights began to illuminate the night.

The city's hustle and bustle came through the glass, yet seemed exceptionally distant.

"If we wait any longer, Dr. Hannibal could be feeding penguins in Antarctica by now." Ian didn't plan to let his father go looking for Hannibal, because in most cases, his father would really avoid killing if possible. Just as Ian was about to ask Batman for help—who had a no-kill principle, but only for himself—...

"call out!"

A blinding flash streaked past the window, and Ian's pupils contracted sharply. A sniper bullet whizzed through the air, aimed straight for his forehead—a clearly extremely precise shot!

of course.

This won't have any impact on Ian.

"Snapped."

Unable to level up after being shot, Ian simply raised his hand and precisely caught the rapidly spinning bullet. The metal felt slightly warm between his fingers.

The texture on the cartridge case is clearly visible.

"Good good!"

Ian locked his gaze on the direction from which the bullet had come, and in the next instant, his figure had vanished from the spot. Instant teleportation within sight was very useful in this situation.

On the rooftop of the building across the street.

The sniper was frantically adjusting his scope.

"Damn it! I missed! Where is he? He's vanished!" he cursed under his breath, his fingers quickly pulling back the bolt to fire a second shot, only to find that the target had disappeared from his sight.

"Looking for me? I'm behind you."

A sinister voice rang in his ears, and the sniper froze, turning around abruptly—only to find that the target boy had somehow appeared behind him.

not only that.

The other person was still playing with the bullet that was supposed to pierce his head.

"Damn it! Superhuman! This is a huge loss!" The sniper reacted extremely quickly, almost instinctively turning his gun around and pulling the trigger at Ian's chest!

"boom!"

Gunshots rang out.

But the bullet failed to leave the barrel.

Because Ian had already stepped close and blocked the barrel with his fingers, the sniper rifle exploded, the metal twisted and deformed, and debris flew everywhere, splattering all over the sniper's face.

"Ahhh!"

He fell to the ground, letting out a painful howl.

"Dr. Hannibal sent you to kill me? I can't believe he said he liked me last night!" Ian gritted his teeth, his whole demeanor showing extreme anger and frustration.

"No!"

Seeing Ian's foot placed on his head, as if he were about to stomp on a watermelon at any moment, the sniper, disregarding the pain of disfigurement, cried out for mercy.

"Don't kill me! Don't kill me! I'm just doing this for money! I know nothing about the employer!" The sniper swallowed hard and shouted with all his might.

"I only took a job at the [Mainland Hotel]! The only information I have about the target is your photo and location; I know nothing else!" The assassin clearly had a strong will to live.

"Continental Hotel?"

Ian frowned.

He was quite familiar with the hotel.

The Continental Hotel is said to be a global chain of assassin organizations controlled by the High Table, with locations in New York, Osaka, Rome, and other cities, providing neutral sanctuaries and trading venues for the underworld. As a hub of this global criminal network, it serves as a supply depot for weapons, an intelligence trading center, and a temporary refuge.

It should have existed in another universe; this is clearly another legitimate fusion.

"All those mainland hotels are just killers who follow the rules. I'm just an ordinary citizen, yet you're trying to kill me for money. You all deserve to be locked up in hell!"

Ian didn't care whether the hotel was legal or not; attacking him, an ordinary person, was an illegal act. Today should have been a normal day for Ian!

"what?"

The sniper trembled with fear upon hearing this.

"You...you mean put them in jail, right?" He hoped it was just a misuse of words, because the Continental Hotel occasionally took on missions to assassinate superpowered individuals.

However, [Mainland Hotel] basically won't touch any missions involving the mysterious side.

It was beyond their capabilities.

"hehe."

Ian ignored the killer and took out his phone to make a call—Officer Kate Beckett was a policewoman Ian had met during the previous convenience store robbery involving a black man.

If Ian hadn't been so aggrieved, he wouldn't have thought of contacting this police officer.