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

Page 346

"..."

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 did not directly refute it.

She simply pulled a napkin from the coffee table drawer and 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.