Ian pushed open the wooden door to Hannibal's Psychological Clinic.
The door hinges creaked slightly, like the groan of some dying creature.
Instead of the familiar incense, a strong smell of blood wafted towards him, a rusty, metallic stench that seemed almost solidified, clinging to his nostrils and refusing to leave.
Like a basin of red paint spilled on a carpet, it was pungent, sticky, and nauseating. Ian looked up and saw that the most conspicuous area in the lobby, the information desk, displayed an image that was extremely inappropriate for children.
The chandelier above was swaying.
A dim, yellowish light fell.
The light illuminated the "artwork" hanging beneath the chandelier. It was Maria Sanchez, the clinic's receptionist nurse, a Mexican woman with a perpetually gentle smile.
Now her smile will forever be frozen in the most bizarre image. She has been made into a " Flesh Angel," with her head bowed, her long golden hair stuck to her cheeks with blood, her eyes gouged out, leaving only two dark holes, and the corners of her mouth violently torn open and then meticulously sewn into a sinister smile.
That's not all.
The poor nurse's arms were also broken, stretched out at bizarre angles on either side of her body, the skin on her back completely peeled off, and the muscle tissue carefully trimmed into wing-like shapes and hanging from her arms.
The muscles and fascia stretched into a pair of deformed "wings," resembling a work of art under a certain violent aesthetic. Blood continued to drip slowly, accumulating into a dark red lake on the ground.
This "lake" of blood is the source of the stench of blood.
"Gentle Miss Maria... Damn Dr. Hannibal, he finally couldn't resist turning on those around him." Ian looked at the "perverted work of art" in front of him with a very serious expression.
He remembered that Miss Maria would always give him some candy while he waited for his appointment. It wasn't expensive, but it was rare to find a nurse in America who liked children so much.
A kind person is gone just like that, and his body is placed in the center of the hall, as if the perpetrator wanted anyone who came in to be immediately drawn to this "work of art".
If this isn't Dr. Hannibal's style, whose is it? Ian strode forward and reached out to check Maria's carotid artery—but the body was already cold, and she had been dead for at least an hour. Her blood was half-congealed, but there was still a faint dripping sound, like some kind of eerie timer.
"It's completely hopeless. Their souls have surely been taken away by the Reaper." Ian sighed, withdrew his hand, and looked around. The entire clinic lobby was deathly silent.
There were no signs of struggle, no indication of fighting, and even the bloodstains were concentrated only under Maria's body, as if the only trace of the entire clinic had ever been the female nurse.
"The crime scene was cleaned up very well." Ian only found some footprints and skin fragments at the elevator entrance, which were probably traces of a patient who had made an appointment and then left.
They did not call the police.
Perhaps most America are afraid of getting into trouble.
"I just hope that those mental patients haven't been triggered and their condition hasn't worsened." Ian took a deep breath and walked towards Dr. Hannibal's office.
The door wasn't locked.
He pushed open the door, but the room was empty.
The documents on the desk were neatly arranged, and the pen still sat beside the ink bottle, as if its owner had only temporarily left. But Ian knew that Hannibal was unlikely to return.
The fact that the perpetrator could openly commit crimes against his subordinates in his own clinic suggests that he was probably already prepared to abandon his hideout. He opened a drawer and rummaged through some files.
As expected.
All medical records were missing. The safe had also been opened, and all valuables inside—including cash, encrypted hard drives, and even some psychotropic drugs—had been packed up and taken away.
"After completing one last case, you left the Metropolis?"
Ian hesitated for a moment.
He considered his personal qualities—a white boy with excellent grades, respectable parents, and outstanding looks—and concluded that he shouldn't be considered a suspect before pulling out Half-Phone.
"Beep beep beep~"
Calling 911 always involves a long wait, but fortunately, this service hasn't been outsourced to Indians yet, so after the long wait, you eventually get a result.
"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 have been 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 need to report a crime," 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 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 immediately. This is 94 Fifth Avenue, downtown."
Ian found communicating with the operators very difficult.
He had tried his best to appear very anxious, but after confirming that he didn't have any threatening videos, the other party seemed to become more businesslike.
Could you describe the situation at the scene?
The operator's voice remained calm; after all, it wasn't her relative who had died.
"No biubiubiu, just 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 at 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 preliminary assessment that the perpetrator knew the victim well and possessed some medical anatomical knowledge. Oh, and by the way, her time of death was probably between one and two hours ago."
"Given that the clinic's air conditioning is set to a constant 19 degrees Celsius in cooling mode, this assumption may be inaccurate, and a forensic examination is needed to determine the specific circumstances."
Ian began to speak.
He crouched 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. It was clear that the victim had been attacked with a tranquilizer dart 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?"
"No, not at all."
"Then why are you able to describe the scene so professionally?"
"Because I love watching CSI: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. What's the point of watching TV dramas if you don't learn anything from them?" Ian was somewhat confused by the other person's inexplicable attitude.
Um... 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? Maybe an hour, I can't say for sure, it depends on the police station's manpower allocation." 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 truly hadn't expected 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 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 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 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, though he was just venting his frustration 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 God promised nobleman.
"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 someone 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.
Now.
The sofa still smelled faintly of Gu Long; 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.
As expected.
Dr. Hannibal's phone was also unreachable. Mature criminals erase all their identity information before fleeing, Ian couldn't even force the phone to turn on using the Black Box.
It has clearly 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 Tech products, so theoretically, as long as the device wasn't completely destroyed, the 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, was floating on the surface.
Ian pulled it out and saw that the screen was shattered and the motherboard was burned, but the Wayne Enterprises chip was still stubbornly flashing a faint signal. Gotham Weirdo'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 Son of Superman. This is a direct challenge to the authority of the Superman family!" It's hard to say whether Ian felt even a little bit of guilt, 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. The sky outside the window gradually darkened, and neon lights began to illuminate the night.
The city's hustle and bustle drifted through the glass, yet seemed remarkably distant.
"If we wait any longer, Dr. Hannibal will be feeding penguins in Antarctica." 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 No-Kill Principle, but only he himself had No-Kill Principle.
"Call out!"
A blinding flash streaked past the window, Ian's pupils contracted sharply. A sniper bullet whizzed through the air, aimed straight for his forehead—a clearly extremely precise shot!
certainly.
This won't have much of an impact on Ian.
"Snap."
Unable to level up after being shot, Ian simply raised his hand and precisely pinched the rapidly spinning bullet. The metal felt slightly hot between his fingers.
The texture on the cartridge case is clearly visible.
"Okay, okay!"
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 rapidly 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.
That's not all.
The other person was still toying with the bullet that should have pierced his head.
"Damn it! Superman! This is a huge loss!" The sniper reacted extremely quickly, almost instinctively turning his gun around and pulling the trigger at Ian's chest!
"Bang!"
Gunshots rang out.
But the bullet failed to leave the barrel.
Because Ian had already closed in 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.
"Aaaaaah!"
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, ignoring 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 absolutely nothing about the employer!" The sniper swallowed hard and shouted with all his might.
"I only took a job at the [ Continental 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 a global criminal network, the Continental Hotel serves as a supply depot for weapons, intelligence trading, and temporary shelter.
It should have existed in another universe; clearly, this is yet another legitimate fusion.
"All those Continental Hotel are just rule-abiding killers! 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 legally integrated or not; attacking him, an ordinary person, was an illegal act. Today should have been just another ordinary day for Ian!
"Ah?"
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 [ Continental Hotel ] occasionally took on missions to assassinate Metahuman.
However, I generally won't touch any missions involving the mystical aspects of the game, such as the [ Continental Hotel ].
That was beyond their capabilities.
"Hehe."
Ian ignored the killer and pulled 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.
After all, the other person had recently become very interested in his life on social media, so Ian had reason to suspect that Officer Kate Beckett definitely had a crush on him.
"Officer Beckett, it's me, it's Ian."
The call connected, and his tone suddenly lightened, as if the murderous intent from moments before had never existed. "Yes, it's me again... This time it's not about asking how to kill someone discreetly; that was just for my literary work. I've actually encountered a murder case, and I was even attacked by the criminal's accomplices."
"Yeah, the criminal's accomplice got away. You know I'm just a little boy who's almost fifteen. A fifteen-year-old's long legs can't outrun a thirty or forty-year-old's aged legs."
"The texture of each muscle is different when you bite into it..."
Ian was calling the police a second time, which could be considered using his limited connections. The policewoman on the other end of the line, Kate Beckett, sighed, seemingly used to Ian's calling style.
Ian reported the location.
The sniper, who heard "his comrades ran away," tried to shout, but Ian simply stuffed a mop he picked up from the ground into his mouth, his bloodied face still dripping with sweat.
The sniper doubted he would survive the night.
It has to be said.
It's not easy to find responsible police officers in America.
Fortunately, Officer Kate Beckett is one of these rare individuals.
More than ten minutes later.
The sirens grew louder as Kate Beckett's police car screeched to a halt in front of the clinic, the screeching of tires startling pigeons flying from under the eaves. Ian watched through the blood-stained window as the blond New York officer strode in, accompanied by her two young henchmen.
Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan.
One black and one white, a classic color scheme.
The former was a retired special forces soldier, and the latter was a former anti-drug police officer from a gang. Both were capable police officers, and the group rushed upstairs.
"Oh! Thank God! Someone finally came to save me!" Ian greeted them at the elevator door and began frantically telling the police officer, whom he had met a few times, about his ordeal.
after a while.
"You mean you walked in and saw the body, then called the police and the operator treated you like a black person, so you tried to solve the case yourself, and then you were attacked mysteriously. The bullet, because it couldn't bear to harm your stunning beauty, changed course and shattered the vase next to you?" Kate Beckett's expression was unusually strange after hearing Ian's story.
"Uh-huh!"
Ian glanced at the sniper in his Extra Dimension, whom he had stripped naked and left on a deserted island to begin "wilderness survival," and then nodded vigorously.
He was now sitting obediently on the sofa in the reception area, holding a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold— Jamaica Blue Mountain that he had taken from Hannibal's private collection cabinet.
"Are you kidding me, Bruce? I think this vase looks like it was smashed. How could a sniper bullet be stuck in the shards? It should have gone through the vase and into the wall."
Black detective Javier Esposito crouches in front of a broken vase. As a former professional soldier, he has never doubted the power of a sniper rifle.
Of course, Javier Esposito did not refute Ian's point about being treated as a Black person; he was also aware of the attitudes some police officers had towards Black people.
"If a bullet could be moved by my stunning beauty, it would naturally lose all its power and become limp," Ian said, launching into his nonsensical rant without batting an eye.
He didn't want to reveal his Superman abilities, and he knew his expertise was certainly inferior to that of a real detective, so playing it safe was the best course of action.
"You didn't take any of the controlled substances this clinic has in stock, did you?" Detective Kevin Ryan leaned closer suspiciously, noticing some particles stuck to Ian's teeth.
Of course not!
Ian quickly denied it.
"But what you're saying sounds like madman's ramblings," Javier Esposito said bluntly, as he and his partner were gathering information from the scene.
"Huh? Nonsense? Guess why I'm here?" The young man sneered and pointed confidently to the "Psychological Clinic" sign on the wall.
The "mental illness" card is really useful.
"Ah!?"
Immediately, the detectives felt that everything made sense, and no one questioned why Ian, who was powerless, was not injured, or why the sniper did not fire a second shot at Ian.
"Feel sorry."
They even apologized to Ian out of remorse.
"Um."
Ian readily accepted.
"Well, Kate, I think you should take this child home first, and not let what happened today worsen his condition." The female medical examiner even showed pity for Ian.
"Um."
Officer Kate Kate nodded in agreement.
"I have legs! My legs know how to get home. All I want now is to find Dr. Hannibal and ask him why he killed people—my psychiatrist is definitely the prime suspect." Ian was determined to solve the case. He even had an alternate account in the Superhero Popularity Center, named Hellblazer Moriarty Sherlock Holmes.
"Look, there are no signs of struggle, and there are pinholes here. It's obvious that he was attacked at close range. The victim was completely unprepared before that, so it must have been an inside job."
"The fact that everything in the office was taken means the killer was prepared." Ian tried to touch the body again, but his hand was tapped a few times by the female forensic doctor with her gloved hand.
It doesn't hurt.
But Ian also understood what rejection meant.
"Your reasoning is good. It's clear you're really into perfect crimes." Beckett nodded after listening, looking at Ian with a calm expression.
"I already said it was for literary creation."
Ian rolled his eyes.
"You really should go home. Crime scenes aren't places for kids—I believe you haven't started committing crimes yet." Beckett showed his trust in Ian.
"Don't leave the Metropolis. I'll let you know if there's any news."
People with high emotional intelligence know that this is a way of asking them to leave.
"Alright."
Ian walked toward the elevator, glancing back every few steps. Even after he entered, he could still hear the whispers and gossip outside, directed at him, the one who had filed the report.
"So this kid is also a suspect?"
"Have you ever seen a serial killer call the police and wait three hours after committing a murder? Let alone arranging the body like a Renaissance sculpture. Unless he's completely twisted to the core."
"A child doesn't have that much strength."
"Why aren't we discussing the case? Why are we still talking about my literary works?" Even as we walked towards the parking lot, Ian could still hear Beckett explaining [ Ian ] to the other officers.
From her mouth.
Ian is a highly intelligent boy obsessed with committing perfect crimes. Kate and the others could never have imagined that every word they discussed was clearly transmitted to the ears of this seemingly powerless "mentally ill" patient.
"Saying I'm highly intelligent is an understatement; I really am a hopeless crush." Ian sat on the Hellcat, not going home, but continuing to eavesdrop with his Super Hearing for a long time, until the crime scene was sealed off and the police took the body back to the police station for an autopsy. Only then did he pat Hellcat Hellcat and let it drive onto the highway.
Along the way.
Ian was pondering why Dr. Hannibal had suddenly gone mad.
The phone suddenly started vibrating wildly, and the name of the Little Punk Girl Madison flashed on the screen. The moment Ian pressed the answer button, the other person's loud voice immediately filled the carriage.
" Ian! Michael's throwing a Archangel on the assembly line again!" Madison's tone was full of helplessness, with the sounds of metal clanging and Angels rushing forward coming from the background.
"Ten Angels couldn't stop him! I banged my streetlamp on his head, but he didn't seem to care at all!" Madison looked utterly helpless.
"I'm coming right away." Ian sighed, spun the steering wheel sharply, and the Hellcat drifted and spun around, leaving two scorch marks on the asphalt.
He temporarily put aside his thoughts and drove to the new factory he had bought overnight.
The newly acquired factory is located on the edge of the Metropolis industrial area. It was originally a processing plant for a gang, but the gang was wiped out by the superheroes, which allowed Ian to pick up a pretty good bargain.
The former sweatshop has now been transformed by Ian into the " Angel Re-employment Training Center," with a neon sign at the entrance flashing the words " Ian's Greatest Tech Manufacturing Group."
Below, written in fluorescent chalk, was today's KPI: 500,000 Screaming Food Canned Goods. As soon as Ian pushed open the factory door, he saw a chaotic scene on the assembly line. Ordinary Angels were diligently labeling the Douchi Dace Canned Food that would praise Ian, reciting "In the name of the Father, this is a superior product" with each label.
On another production line.
Michael stood with one foot on the assembly line, holding a twisted and deformed microwave oven in his hand.
"Creating the universe is so easy for me! Utterly simple!" The Archangel's roar shook the ceiling, causing dust to fall in a flurry. "Why can't I handle this damned metal box!"
"A conspiracy! There must be a conspiracy here!" The microwave oven made a dying "ding" sound in his hand, and the turntable flew out and hit an ordinary Angels passing by on the head.
The ordinary Angels dared not speak out in anger, but secretly made a mental note that the next time the messengers of the Salvific Angel tried to harm Michael, they would be the first to rush forward with their spiked clubs.
He's going to secretly make a spiked club when he gets home tonight.
"It's alright, Michael. It's good to see you. I don't think it's entirely your fault that you couldn't assemble the microwave. Maybe such a simple task isn't suited to someone as versatile as you."
Ian walked past with his hands in his pockets.
His tone was as gentle as if he were coaxing a cat with its fur standing on end.
He secretly hid the " Parenting Guide " back in his Extra Dimension.
"It's you, Ian Kent."
Upon hearing this, Michael abruptly turned his head, his golden pupils gleaming with a star-like light.
"It's me."
Ian gave a business-like smile and uttered a phrase reminiscent of Gu Long's famous tales of nonsense.
"Tell me what exactly happened." Michael was still resentful about being banished to the mortal realm, and he could already see the increasingly intense glory emanating from Ian.
This only made him more hesitant.
"Want to know? Use your points to get the answer." Ian chuckled, his tone light and cheerful. He magically produced a gold-embossed " Employee Performance Redemption Manual " and handed it to Michael.
Michael's expression was as if he had swallowed something indescribable. He looked around—those utterly ordinary Angels were having a much easier time in this place than he was.
Even the youngest Cupid Angel can operate the coffee machine independently.
This was extremely frustrating for the Archangel.
"I can't handle this!"
The Archangel's chest heaved violently, and the microwave oven in his hand dented further.
"Then I'll arrange a live stream for you." Ian snapped his fingers, his tone still light and cheerful. "Don't worry, you don't need to sing or dance; just chat with ordinary people."
He started his own PUA (Pick-Up Artist) tactics.
Upon hearing this, Michael's wings all flapped open.
"I am the strongest Angels! How could I possibly fawn over mortals? Even if you kill me, I would never do such a thing!" His words were filled with unwavering determination.
In response to this...
Ian was prepared.
" God wants you to love the world. Don't even think about returning to Heaven until you learn that," Ian suddenly said seriously, his voice stern, and his figure shone even brighter in Michael's eyes.
"..."
The air suddenly froze.
Michael's expression shifted from rage to surprise and doubt to struggle, finally settling on a deeply conflicted and twisted look.
"Can you communicate with Him?"
This was something Michael couldn't help but suspect, after all, the glory surrounding Ian couldn't be faked. Of course, even so, the Archangel's voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.
" God loves our family, and He even gave my older brother a gift."
Ian gave an irrelevant answer.
Michael's cleverness backfired.
"What you said is true." Michael's pupils dilated in shock. He could certainly tell it was true, but he had completely misunderstood and been led astray by Ian's half-truths.
I spent ages agonizing over it again.
His actions proved that Wang Jingze still holds value even in Heaven.
What should I do?
The Archangel slowly straightened his body.
The broken microwave oven crashed to the ground.
"Follow me!"
Next, Ian took him to the live-streaming studio next door. The live-streaming studio was Ian's proudest renovation; he had turned the original poison purification room into twenty pink-themed live-streaming rooms.
Each one is equipped with a beauty light and a teleprompter. As the Archangel, Michael is taken to the largest room, where the wallpaper is Vatican- style cloud mural.
A plastic Holy Grail sat in the corner.
Your target audience is women aged 45-65.
Ian pulled up a collection of elderly internet celebrities.
"You need to be both domineering and greasy, like this—give a crooked smile to the camera, say nothing, and just straighten your clothes." His understanding of the live-streaming industry was deeper than Madison's.
"You made me imitate that damn thing? He deserves to Hell."
Michael's face turned green.
"Imagine Heaven ~"
Ian waved the " Employee Handbook " in his hand.
"Think of the hymns~ Think of your empty throne~"
He had grasped the other party's Achilles' heel; those words struck Michael like a hammer blow to the heart.
The Archangel was stunned.
A flicker of pain and resentment crossed his eyes.
Damn it! Why you?!
Michael's expression changed repeatedly.
"I'll teach you some simple lines now. For example, you can start by saying, 'Babies, your man is back.'" Ian watched as Michael's psychological defenses were breached time and time again.
He also began teaching.
"Then what?"
Michael looked disgusted, but he still took notes carefully.
"And remember to add some interaction," Ian added with a laugh. "For example, 'Any of you ladies feel like your husbands have been distant lately? Then you should pay attention. Men crave novelty. Remember this: the more aloof a man is, the more he loves you.'" Of course, these things are no challenge for Ian, a writer.
Michael's expression was extremely complicated after hearing this.
Three hours later.
He sat down in front of the camera, took a deep breath, and began his first live broadcast.
"Dear... sisters," he said stiffly, "I am the Angels Michael. Today I'd like to talk to you about life, and about my past glory and present downfall."
Although he wasn't very skilled yet, Ian had high expectations for him, so he bought a lot of traffic, and as soon as the screen lit up, the number of viewers in the live stream began to soar.
Ian looked at the data panel and nodded in satisfaction.
"Very good!" He patted Michael on the shoulder. "Your talent in this field far surpasses your talent for screwing in screws!"
Michael's lips twitched, but he forced himself to continue the live stream. His suppressed anger, inward disdain, yet forced flattery was surprisingly popular.
Just as Ian was about to say a few more manipulative things, his phone vibrated again.
It's policewoman Kate Beckett.
He stepped out of the live broadcast room and answered the phone.
Only Michael the parrot remained in the room, mimicking the sounds of his live stream.
He has really good looks.
"Thank God for the rocket." Michael read from the teleprompter with a straight face, wearing the floral shirt that Ian had forced him to wear.
The barrage of comments exploded instantly:
[Lord Michael is so cute! This name is so cringeworthy!]
This awkwardness reminds me of my husband when he was young.
[Lord Michael, please dance to Gokuraku Jodo! The one adapted by Ian Kent!]
The person who left the last comment spammed "Fantasy Castle" 1000 times, causing the live stream to lag like a slideshow. Michael's temples bulged with veins, but remembering Heaven and Ian's points, he forced out a twisted smile.
"Thank you, friend. I'll learn right away. Let me watch the video to see how to dance."
The employee points earned from these thousand Fantasy Castle are equivalent to tightening screws for a hundred days. Michael, of course, had to endure the humiliation and bear the burden. He felt his glory was being restored—dancing was not a difficult task for Angels.
Michael's learning ability is indeed quite good.
so.
He longed to return to Heaven as soon as possible.
I had to grit my teeth and learn as I went.
The data panel shows that Michael's live stream retention rate is as high as 85%.
The amount of tips received has already exceeded the canned food department's output value for three days.
really.
To make money, you still have to do live streaming.
The tycoon has struck again.
Another 1000 Fantasy Castle have been built.
[Haha, Michael! I recorded the whole thing!]
[Starting tomorrow, the must-see project for all of Hell will begin! Don't ask who I am! Every corner of the live stream is filled with my alternate accounts, you can't ban them all! Look, I've used my Divine Power to create another 100,000 alternate accounts to visit you!]
[Oh, sorry, I forgot you've lost your Divine Power, hahaha~]
Several comments were posted in the live chat that required a lot of money and would be visible across the entire website.