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

Page 347

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.