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

Chapter 107 The Clown's Video, Dream Eruption [8.3k]

The roar of the Hellcat's engine was particularly noticeable on the streets of the metropolis.

Who wouldn't love a muscle car with an exaggerated design? Especially when there's a handsome boy sitting on its roof, it's sure to attract a lot of attention.

Ian wasn't pleased with this; he was completely absorbed in watching an instructional video on his phone. Of course, watching the video didn't stop him from keeping an eye out for opportunities to do good deeds in the metropolis.

Watching the video with only one eye.

One eye sees in all directions.

Anyone with a basic understanding of organ management can do this. Ian's sensitive right eye quickly caught the "routine task"—he saw a shy couple gazing deeply into each other's eyes.

There's a sense of wanting to kiss but being too shy.

The feeling of not daring to break through the final barrier.

“This is the time when you need a superhero to help you out.” Ian threw a donut at the boy on the back of the head; it was a gift he had prepared for Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

For gourmets who eat a lot of meat.

A vegetarian diet is definitely the most thoughtful gift.

"Paji~"

This time.

Ian's throwing skills remained consistently excellent. He failed to help the boy and girl, instead frightening them, but his donut throws weren't entirely in vain.

This was ultimately a twist of fate.

A donut hit two good friends who were shopping together. The boy whose clothes were hit thought he had been shot and instinctively hid in his friend's arms.

"Cameron, I'm scared. Please check if I've been hit by a bullet. I see red." The thinner boy was genuinely trembling with fear.

After all, this is the free United States.

“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, Mitchell, it’s just a troublemaker throwing cow dung around—no, this looks like a donut, a high-end donut from John’s Kitchen.”

The chubby boy's expression went from shock to astonishment, and then to relief. He only took two seconds to react before hugging the boy in his arms and whispering words of comfort.

"You actually dared to try it? You're so brave."

The bearded man, referred to as Mitchell, expressed his heartfelt admiration.

The two embraced tightly.

obviously.

They broke free from the shackles of morality and prejudice. Boys can have girls too, just adopt them, so how can this not be considered a good deed by Sir Ian? This is the kind of time management a superhero should have—doing good deeds even on the way to a psychiatrist.

"Anyway, I won again, merit +1." Ian continued watching the horse riding instruction video while sitting on the roof of the car. There was a reason why he chose to sit on the roof. It was all for the sake of the world. If Ian didn't sit on the roof, how would the world know that he was riding a magical machine that could move at lightning speed?
A car that can kill people and run away on its own.

Not everyone has it.

Occasionally showing off can be very beneficial to your physical and mental health.

Moreover.

Hellcats are still cats.

Cats are animals.

Therefore, the Hellcat should be called a mount. It was because Ian grasped this simple truth that he realized he shouldn't be sitting in the car, but rather on the roof.

If it weren't for the fact that there were no videos of people riding cats online, only videos of people being eaten by cats, Ian definitely wouldn't have chosen to watch horse riding lessons. The equestrian instructors in those lessons, with their massive silicone buttocks, were too distracting.

“Riding a horse and riding a cat have something in common: you have to sit in the area I’m in now…” Ian adjusted his position, and the Hellcat continued moving forward.

He knew he was in the right spot because the familiar traffic policeman he'd run into had stopped him; this was the third time he'd encountered him, and he was now targeting the driver who was actually breaking the law.

He was issuing a ticket to a car suspected of dangerous driving.

“Look at that boy! That boy wasn’t even sitting in the driver’s seat. What’s wrong with the three of us—my girlfriend, my boyfriend, and I—sitting in the driver’s seat together?”

The drunken driver pointed defiantly at the passing Hellcat.

The traffic police officer only glanced back.

Their eyes met.

He pretended not to see Ian.

"Just because he wasn't in the driver's seat, how dare you define him as driving? I'm well-versed in the law and know that a car driving on its own on the street isn't illegal."

The traffic policeman may have reached the pinnacle of intelligence a bit too early, but his intelligence has clearly caught up with that level recently. His rigorous logic leaves drivers speechless.

“The police are right. I saw it. There was no one in the driver’s seat. He definitely wasn’t driving.” Even the heavily made-up girl, dressed in a flamboyant manner, chose to side with the police.

“Yes, yes, you’ve been drinking, so you probably didn’t see clearly, but that car was definitely moving by itself.” Another girl chimed in; the two girls combined probably hadn’t even finished elementary school.

They thought it was reasonable.

The police also thought it was reasonable.

The drunk driver was afraid of being ostracized. The childhood trauma caused by his unsociable behavior in his childhood began to resurface, and he immediately began to think that perhaps such a thing was really reasonable.

"It is my fault."

The driver lowered his head in shame.

The scene was harmonious.

Ian walked past quietly.

He didn't wave his sleeves, nor did he take away any clouds. However, the people of the metropolis have clearly begun to develop a more superior way of thinking, starting in some areas, under his positive influence.

"Buzz~"

Hellcat whips its tail.

They parked directly in front of the office building where Dr. Hannibal Lecter worked. Most top-notch psychiatrists in the United States actually have their own clinics and, like Hannibal, rent an entire floor.

of course.

Not every psychologist can afford to rent a floor in a bustling commercial area of ​​a metropolis, as the rent is very expensive, and only doctors with truly strong financial resources can afford it.

Hannibal was indeed exceptionally talented.

"The city is teeming with people, and it's full of elites."

Ian felt that Dr. Hannibal had also mastered the trick of win-win, as there are many white-collar workers in the central area who are under great mental stress, and at the same time they can make money, they also have a wider variety of food choices.

For cannibals.

Is there any better hunting ground than this?
"No."

Ian answered for Hannibal by quickly jumping off the Hellcat.

"Go find a free parking spot yourself, okay?" After giving his ride a few instructions, Ian stepped into the building. When he entered the elevator, there was already a woman in a business suit inside.

She was holding the hand of a five- or six-year-old boy in one hand and a phone in the other.

“Listen, I’m going to my parents’ house for dinner tonight, yes, they’re sick,” the woman said to her husband on the phone. “So, I might need you to come pick up the kids.”

She gently finished her call with her husband, then dialed another number, her voice immediately becoming even sweeter: "Mr. Allen, I have the contract ready."

"Yes, I'll take you to see the house again later. As long as we have a good chat in your future new home, I believe you'll be able to feel the charm of that house."

The woman was clearly a real estate agent.

She is using special home-selling techniques.

"Oh, I brought popping candy."

"Could you perhaps prepare another iced cola for me?"

Women flirting.

Ian felt this wasn't a skill children should learn, so he secretly plugged the child's ears, then, remembering he was a child himself, he plugged his own ears as well.

Useless.

But he can pretend it works; the sense of ritual has already been maximized.

"Huh? What are you looking at?" Seeing that the child was staring at him, Ian glanced at the woman with her back to him and reached out to wipe the child's eyelids.

however.

Unexpectedly, even Superman's ineffective and ever-reliable tactics failed on the little kid. The child opened his eyes and stared at Ian again after Ian removed his hand.

"Ah."

Feeling challenged, Ian unleashed his true abilities.

"Ding~"

When the elevator door opens.

Ian walked out, and the woman who had just finished her call turned around and discovered that her child was wearing "glasses" made of shoelaces and eggshells.

It's absolutely hilarious.

However, the child who couldn't see anything really liked it.

He chuckled.

Meanwhile, Ian, who had kept his merits hidden, had already arrived at the information desk. At the desk, the young receptionist gave Ian a genuinely warm smile.

“Mr. Kent, your appointment with Dr. Hannibal is in twenty minutes. You may rest for a while while you wait.” The receptionist gestured for Ian to proceed.

"Ok."

This time, Ian offered no resistance. After all, as a wise man, his timing was impeccable. It was just as the saying goes: the wildflowers always smell sweeter than the garden flowers.

Men are all the same from childhood to adulthood.

Therefore, the most fun things will always be other people's toys.

Ian was still thinking about his unfinished project. However, when he stepped into the waiting area, he felt helpless. He didn't know which kid who came to see a doctor had destroyed the Gundam that he hadn't finished assembling last time.

"Hell is made for people like this." Ian thought to himself, annoyed. He could only pour out another box of Lego bricks and start a new round of building. This time, Ian wasn't going to build Gundam; he wanted to build Tiger King, the cartoon character who could climb out of the TV and whose special move was Storm Nebula Rift.

"I still love cats so much."

Just as Ian was concentrating on his work.

"Little friend, did you come alone?"

Suddenly, a gentle voice struck up a conversation beside him. Ian turned his head and saw the man who had been dozing next to him seem to have woken up, taking off his glasses and wiping their fogged-up state. The man had light brown curly hair and tired but gentle blue eyes, and was wearing a slightly wrinkled but clean plaid shirt.

“Will Graham?”

Ian tentatively asked.

His gaze fell on the book "Criminal Psychology" that the man had placed on his lap.

"Good observation skills."

The man was surprised for a moment, then looked down at the instructor's nameplate that he hadn't taken off his chest. He probably thought that Ian had seen it and read his name aloud.

"It really is you."

Ian was slightly surprised. He had watched the TV series and even the movie "Hannibal," and knew that Will was the person who had a love-hate relationship with Hannibal, the cannibal. This was a character with the ability of "empathy," able to put himself in the shoes of the deceased and recreate the scene of death. He wondered if this would be considered a superpower in today's world.

"Hmm? Have you heard of me?"

The man named Will was increasingly surprised.

He was a criminal profiler who occasionally taught criminal analysis to new FBI recruits. Logically, a little boy shouldn't be acting so familiar with him.

In this regard.

Ian did not respond.

"If I told you I came with my best friend, would you think I'm crazy?" He was simply answering the question Will had asked him at the beginning.

Will was taken aback for a moment.

He then smiled gently, as if he could empathize with such a thing, "No, because everyone has their own imaginary friends when they are young."

These words made Ian put down the Lego bricks he was holding.

Did you have imaginary friends when you were a child?

He seemed to suddenly become interested, staring intently at Will.

“Uh…” Will scratched his head.

"of course."

He gave an affirmative response.

This should have been an extremely heartwarming response.

however.

"Then it seems you really do have a mental illness." After a moment of contemplation, Ian delivered a decisive blow, causing Will, who was about to drink water, to choke.

Ian was still staring at him.

Sensing the awkward atmosphere, Will quickly changed the subject, "Actually, I just wanted to know how your parents treat you, because I smelled blood on you."

"I'm pretty sure it's not animal blood."

His nostrils twitched slightly.

It looks just like a police dog sniffing out evidence.

"What a dog's nose." Ian looked down at the dark red stain on his cuff, which was a drop of No. 666 fuel that had accidentally dripped from the demon's head when he was playing with it in his hands this morning.

Would you believe me if I told you I'm menstruating?

Ian posed another question in return.

"Huh? No way?"

Will's expression froze instantly. He couldn't help but scrutinize Ian's overly refined features, and he began to wonder if he had mistaken a girl for a boy.

Seeing Will's surprised and uncertain expression.

"Ah."

Ian simply chuckled.

"I have a mental illness, and you believe what I say? You must be seriously ill."

He knew, of course, that he wasn't mentally ill, but the phrase "I am mentally ill" was really useful in a moment like this, leaving Will speechless with just one sentence.

The air was somewhat silent.

Fortunately, the sweet voice of the receptionist saved Will from his utter speechlessness.

"Mr. Kent, Dr. Hannibal is ready to receive you." The receptionist tried to hold Ian's hand, but Ian didn't let her have her way with him.

"OK, thanks."

Ian remained polite.

He stood up and washed his hands with disinfectant.

"Oh, right."

Ian looked at Will again; he hadn't been making Will look so shocked with his mouth agape for no reason. "You have a curly hair stuck between your teeth."

“I’m also sure it’s not animal hair.” The boy grinned, revealing two rows of neat white teeth, and after leaving behind this chilling remark, he turned and walked toward Hannibal’s office.

"..."

Will sat in the chair.

His gaze flickered as he looked at Ian's retreating figure.

As the office door opened and closed, Ian entered the examination room. Dr. Hannibal's office was impeccably tidy, resembling a meticulously composed still life painting.

A dark brown solid wood bookshelf occupies an entire wall, neatly arranged with professional works featuring gilded spines. Two leather armchairs face each other, separated by a small coffee table upon which rests an exquisite tea set. Soft wall lamps illuminate the room with a warm, non-glaring light, and an antique phonograph sits in the corner.

It is currently playing an extremely peaceful piece of music.

“Welcome back, Ian.” Hannibal sat in a leather office chair, legs crossed, a notebook in his hand, his expression composed yet exuding an aristocratic elegance.

He raised his head.

He revealed a smile.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Lecter." Ian glanced back at the door. He was not calm at all. He wanted to mention Will but didn't know how to start.

A straight shot?
That was Ian's initial thought, but now he was less certain. He was weighing the consequences of a potential mishap in his "fighting crime" efforts.

"Want something to drink?"

Hannibal stood up and walked towards the refrigerator.

"Cola will do."

As Ian spoke, he also took out his gift, a delicate little box containing a peeled egg. He had bought a new gift after losing the donuts.

"Is it for me?"

Hannibal returned with a normal expression, carrying a bottle of cola and a cup.

"That's right, I actually prepared donuts at first, but I used them to save a relationship." Ian began to tell the little bit of truth he had left for the day.

"That's nice."

Hannibal poured the cola into a glass with ice and handed it to Ian.

"And what about the eggshell? Did that also constitute a good deed?" he asked Ian while casually placing the remaining Coke bottle on the table.

"No, I just used it to benefit myself."

After taking the Coke, Ian sat down on the sofa opposite Hannibal. He temporarily revised his original statement, after all, he wanted to be a great leader that neither men nor women could figure out.

[Leader LV1 [1/10]]

The system panel proves that Ian has the qualifications.

“You can take off your colored contact lenses.” Hannibal sat back down in his chair, picked up his pen, and turned to Ian’s page in the notebook he used to record patient information.

"Can't get it off."

Ian sighed helplessly.

He also missed his own deep blue eyes, but it was clear that he could never go back to them.

"Ah."

Hannibal didn't press further; he simply began jotting down information in his notebook, the scratching of his pen on the paper blending wonderfully with the music from the phonograph.

“I’ve been in contact with your parents,” he suddenly continued. “Your mother thinks you’ve become much more cheerful, while Clark thinks you need more treatment.”

talking.

Hannibal raised his head.

"I'm curious, what changes have occurred in your body since the last treatment?" His tone was tinged with curiosity, as if Ian's situation had caught him somewhat off guard.

"I've become a sunny and cheerful young man, a complete transformation." Ian kept in mind that he needed to be honest with his therapist, so he even started to anticipate tomorrow's dose of truth.

“I feel completely cured, and I have no more symptoms of anxiety.” Ian was telling the truth, but Hannibal just stared at him with a deep gaze.

“You’re telling what you believe to be the truth, but it’s not true.” Hannibal’s eyes were as sharp as a scalpel, and his diagnostic process was as direct as ever.

Hear the words.

Ian quickly took a sip of cola to calm his nerves.

“Okay, I admit it, I think I’m hopeless. You know what? My aunt gave me Penguin Cola, which is Gotham wastewater, so I’m definitely infected with the Joker virus.”

If there's anything else that could cause anxiety, Ian could only think of this one thing after racking his brains, even though he had already confirmed that he was not infected with the clown virus.

But who can really say for sure about this thing?

“Clown virus? Interesting term.” Hannibal casually turned the Coke can on the coffee table around, obscuring the “Penguin Cola” label.

This was to prevent Ian from experiencing increased anxiety.

Penguin Cola.

Hannibal also drank occasionally.

He didn't believe any viruses had been added to it.

[Persecution complex.]

The pen moves across the paper.

Hannibal circled again the symptoms that Ian had shown before.

“I don’t find it funny, unless, of course, you enjoy building your happiness on my suffering.” Ian was secretly observing Hannibal’s expression.

He then gulped down a few more mouthfuls of the iced cola in his hand.

“I’m not saying this to mock you, but something came to mind,” Hannibal said in a deep, resonant voice. “An elder of yours came to see me not long ago.”

Ian was taken aback by his words.

"Perhaps because of my professional skills, your elder asked me to help him analyze a recording... and I heard similar statements in it."

Hannibal lowered his voice.

"Bruce Wayne?"

This was the name Ian settled on after some thought.

“Yes, that wealthy man, I didn’t expect your family to have this kind of connection.” Hannibal nodded, confirming Ian’s guess, but this only made Ian more confused.

The boy's eyes darted around.

It's strange enough that Superman didn't notice Hannibal's problem.

Now even Batman has let this cannibal go?
This is so unreasonable.

Even Ian's own twisted logic couldn't explain it.

"What are you thinking?"

Hannibal stared at Ian and asked a question.

Can I listen to the recording?

Ian merely made a request, without revealing his true thoughts. His words caused Hannibal's lips to curl into a smile, clearly indicating that he had anticipated Ian's request.

“I wouldn’t do that in principle, but… sometimes rules need to be broken.” Hannibal got up and walked to the back, rummaging through the filing cabinet.

"After all, although your elder seems quite ill to me, he is not my patient, and he did not ask me to keep this recording of unknown origin confidential."

Hannibal returned carrying a tape recorder.

He emphasized that he still strictly adheres to the confidentiality agreement in the doctor-patient relationship.

It seems a bit unnecessary.

Because Ian doesn't care about keeping secrets at all.

“Yes, he’s the real psychopath. You’re a really great psychiatrist.” Ian couldn’t help but praise Hannibal, whose words resonated strongly with him.

Bruce Wayne deserves to be severely criticized.

The news I received at noon today made Ian increasingly angry. He wasn't even ready to start from scratch, and Batman had already shattered his dream of getting rich.

Anyone would have cursed Bruce Wayne to death if they were in his shoes.

"It seems you have a lot of issues with your elder." Hannibal said thoughtfully, turning on the tape recorder in his hand, which emitted a slight hum.

As Hannibal pressed the play button.

The magnetic tape started spinning.

He only played a small portion of the recording, but even that small portion was enough to leave Ian speechless.

The recording contains an anxious man's voice: "Oh, doctor, save me, you must save me, you have to save me, I feel like I've been sick lately."

"A very serious illness! I'm going to die!"

The man's voice was filled with despair.

immediately.

The psychologist's voice rang out.

What illness do you think you have?

The female doctor's voice sounded very gentle.

"Huhuhu~"

The sound of a patient sniffling could be heard.

"I already told you, I'm infected with a virus, a very scary virus. Yes, the Ian virus. You may not have heard of it, but that doesn't diminish how terrifying it is."

"The Ian virus has completely infected me, making me absent-minded almost every night lately... I want to kill people whenever I can't see 'Batman's Tragic Love Story'."

The man's helpless voice trembled.

"Have you read this book? No? Then I'll burn it for you to see. 'The Tragic Love Story of Batman' brings me peace, and perhaps it can bring you peace too."

Sudden.

The roar of the chainsaw was deafening.

"Damn it! Where did this chainsaw come from! No! You can't do this! I can give you money! I have a lot of money!" the psychiatrist screamed hysterically in terror.

"Don't be afraid, doctor, I'm just proving to you that I'm not lying to you." The man's voice suddenly became calm, followed by a series of chilling screams.

soon.

The screams turned into silence.

"Where did you put your anesthetic? Why aren't you talking? If you don't talk, I'll assume you're cured... Next patient, please..." It sounded like someone had put on a doctor's coat.

He spoke in a deliberately low voice.

Just at this time.

Hannibal quietly turned off the tape recorder.

The room was suddenly filled only with Bach's melody from the phonograph.

"..."

Ian was rendered silent.

The sound of the chainsaw in the recording still seems to echo in my ears.

He unconsciously swallowed.

"Your expression tells me you know this person." Hannibal's deep brown eyes were incredibly unfathomable; he wasn't using a question but a statement.

"Ok?"

Ian's fingers unconsciously rubbed the water droplets on the glass.

The cool touch calmed him down a little.

“He’s just a crazy, obsessive fan of mine who wrote me letters, but I don’t actually know him that well.” Ian knew he had to painfully cut ties with his fan.

This is, after all, an incident that appears to be a massacre.

"Is that so?" Hannibal's pen paused on the paper, the ink spreading into a deep blue flower on the expensive parchment. He looked Ian up and down with a strange gaze for a moment.

"I'm surprised you didn't feel any guilt or torment because of this," Hannibal said in a deep, powerful voice, with a thoughtful tone.

“Why should I feel guilty? Batman should feel guilty for not capturing and imprisoning his nemesis.” Ian’s expression was more serious than ever before.

His thinking was not swayed by Hannibal's questions.

“You heard it too, didn’t you? This person said he only wanted to kill because he couldn’t see my book. This proves that he didn’t want to kill when he was reading my book. God must know how many people escaped the jaws of death because of this.” Ian’s tone was unusually serious. This time, he was truly convinced that he had done a great deed.

"Maybe so."

Hannibal nodded slightly.

There was no retort.

He didn't even take many notes in his notebook.

The Joker is under Batman's control.

Even people outside of Gotham know this is common knowledge.

"However, you should also remain vigilant."

suddenly.

Hannibal then abruptly reminded Ian, "Have you ever considered that in order to see your story every day, this fan might eventually kidnap you?"

This is a concern that only an ordinary person would have.

Ian nodded.

However, there was no response.

"Actually, there's another possibility: even your wealthy elders can't protect you. In order to keep that man at bay in the long term, Batman might capture you..."

Hannibal was about to offer some of his speculations.

"boom!!!"

suddenly.

Accompanied by a violent explosion.

The entire building shook violently.

"Missile attack?"

Hannibal's collection of crystal glasses clattered together, producing a crisp, mournful sound; hardcover books on the bookshelf crashed to the ground with a clatter; even the doctor was shaken and knocked to the ground.

"Whoosh~"

Ian rushed to the window almost instinctively, slamming his hand against the cold glass.

"It's not a missile."

He denied it.

His pupils swayed violently at that moment.

"It's a supernatural disaster..."

Ian's voice was filled with barely concealed shock.

His pupils were reflecting light.

The distant streets seemed to be collapsing beyond reality, streetlights bending at impossible angles. Countless concrete fragments defied the laws of gravity, suspended in mid-air like an explosion scene frozen in time. At the eye of the storm, an elderly woman with white hair struggled painfully, suspended in mid-air.

Around her body.

The space was twisted and deformed like crumpled tin foil.

There were no flames, no smoke; all the changes were spreading outward from the old woman, like a drop of ink slowly spreading in clear water. This was a terrifying eruption caused by uncontrolled power!
"The power of dreams! Could it be that Morpheus is in trouble again?"

Ian's mind raced, and he nearly lost control of his expression. He could see ripples from his dream engulfing the street, surging towards his building like a tidal wave. The instant several pedestrians were affected, their bodies became translucent, shimmering stardust appearing beneath their skin, as if being absorbed by a terrifying force!

"Ahhhh!"

Painful howls echoed throughout.

The white-haired old woman hovered hundreds of meters above the ground, her body twisting.

Layers of translucent ripples spread outward from her center, like ripples on the surface of water. With each ripple, the distortion of reality spreads outward.

"Little guy, you know about this again and again... then is there anything you don't know?"

A voice sounded behind him, and Ian turned around sharply—only to see an elegant woman dressed in black sitting in the armchair where Hannibal should have been.

Ian was dumbfounded.

outside the window.

The old woman's body continued to emanate layers upon layers of dream power.

"Tsk tsk, some people, if they weren't so shameless, they should be feeling guilty right now."

The woman who had usurped the position placed her pale hands on her knees, turned her chair around to face Ian, her eyes dark and her tone tinged with a hint of wistfulness and amusement.

He is.

Miss Death.

(End of this chapter)