You Still Haven't Said Thank You

It was raining.

The rain was spraying out of a fire hydrant.

The atmosphere at the scene was rather awkward.

"You didn't pull the handbrake?"

The traffic cop was utterly dumbfounded.

"Uh..."

Ian was somewhat unwilling to admit he had made such a basic mistake.

"This kind of thing happened more than once today?" The traffic cop looked as though he had just witnessed a genuine road menace. He glared sternly at the delinquent before him.

And right then.

"How much will I have to pay...?"

Ian asked with an awkward laugh.

The traffic cop turned to look at the fire hydrant spraying water everywhere.

"This isn't under police jurisdiction, but according to the road authority's standards, repair costs will be at least a hundred thousand dollars." Well then, that was why America had its own unique value system.

After this round of compensation.

Commissioner Smith, who was seemingly everywhere, would probably net ninety-nine thousand dollars. Ian turned back to the taxi and pulled a toolbox from beside the driver's seat.

"What are you doing?!"

The traffic cop's hand went to his gun.

He was extremely alert.

Fortunately, Ian did not have an epic night-exclusive skin, or they would probably have already reached the empty-the-magazine stage. For now, the cop was only slightly worried that Ian might pull out some truth of his own.

"Fixing the fire hydrant, of course!" Ian found a hammer, shoved the car that was wedged against the hydrant away with all his strength, then turned around and began hammering the hydrant furiously.

"The handbrake!"

Seeing the taxi sliding toward Ian's backside, the traffic cop hurriedly lowered his gun and dove into the taxi. He stopped it just before it could kiss Ian.

"And this guy got a driver's license?"

The traffic cop wiped the sweat from his forehead. He climbed out through the warped car door and discovered that Ian had vanished, leaving only a fire hydrant that was no longer spraying water.

Though the hydrant looked utterly battered, it had at least been "fixed," and a worn-out-looking car key had been left on top of it.

"Damn it! Where did he go?"

The traffic cop looked around.

All he saw was a figure faster than Bolt disappearing around a distant corner.

"Stan Lee, right?!"

The traffic cop gritted his teeth in anger. He felt that the taxi rolling away earlier had definitely been part of that nasty young man's scheme. He immediately picked up his radio, ready to put Ian on the "wanted" list.

Of course.

Since the name on the ID was the fake name Ian had wanted him to see, this "manhunt" was clearly doomed to end badly. Still, that did not stop the traffic cop from angrily calling his colleagues for backup.

High above.

Within the clouds.

Smack~

The exhausted old father could not help but slap his forehead hard. Having witnessed the entire affair, he had to admit that Ian was rather different from what he and Lois had once believed.

How should he put it?

He had morals and a conscience... but it felt like he did not have very much of either. Clark felt immense pressure when it came to properly guiding this unusual child.

"What a troublesome little guy!" Clark let out a heavy sigh. He could not help recalling the night he had found Ian. Perhaps he should have realized then that Ian's future would never be ordinary.

Now that he had realized it belatedly.

It was not too late.

Clark, now middle-aged, had three children. Yet compared with his eldest and second sons, he felt that Ian, his adopted son, was the one most like him.

After all.

That day.

That night.

And that meteor shower—it was like a familiar cycle repeating itself.

Because he had missed the last bus.

Ian only had one option left, one that gave him a slight psychological shadow: taking a taxi. Before that, however, his top priority was filling his starving stomach, which had been left ravenous by [Self-Healing Tide].

The stomach was an emotional organ.

Only after eating his fill would Ian be in the mood to go home and complain. He pushed open the door of a convenience store by the street, and a welcome message immediately sounded inside. But the word "Welcome" carried no sincerity at all in his eyes.

It was nowhere near as down-to-earth as, "Hey, bro, you're here."

After entering the convenience store, Ian headed straight for the "quick carbs" section—the cheap, heavily processed foods with high calories.

"This, this, and this." Through his own efforts, Ian had more money than both his brothers combined, so he did not need to worry about being short on cash when shopping. The clerk handling the register was a bespectacled young man with clear eyes and the air of someone working part-time to support himself.

"That'll be 29.45 dollars."

The young man scanned the barcodes of every item one by one.

"Mm."

While stuffing food into his mouth, Ian took out three ten-dollar bills and counted out forty-five cents in coins. He clearly saw the cashier freeze for a moment.

"You can just give me one dollar back."

Ian reminded him.

"Oh, right."

The cashier suddenly understood, though not completely. He even picked up a calculator and punched it out before finally giving Ian a one-dollar bill in change.

"Thanks."

Gnawing on a hot dog, Ian turned to leave.

Then.

"Welcome~"

The emotionless voice sounded again at the convenience store entrance. This time, however, the person entering was full of emotion. Wearing pantyhose over his head and holding a small-caliber truth, he charged straight at the counter.

"This is a robbery!!"

What a cliché scene.

Anyone who did not know better would think this was Gotham next door.

"No funny business!"

The robber pointed his pistol at the terrified cashier, then warily looked toward Ian, who had stopped nearby. The gun naturally shifted toward Ian as well.

The moment he saw the muzzle turn toward him, Ian raised both hands.

"Well, the farmer hoes beneath the noon sun; everyone has their own hardships. I understand." Ian was not trying to get friendly, nor was he playing social games. He had merely noticed the robber's pitch-black wrist.

The boy knew.

The robber was simply carrying out the meaning granted to him by his black skin.

"Who the fuck is who? Who's got it harder?" The robber was clearly confused and did not understand Ian's American-style poem. As though his intelligence had been insulted, he flew into a rage.

"Kid, get the hell out of here!"

Clearly.

This was an ambitious robber. His heart was set on big business, and he had no interest in the scraps a middle school student might have. So he waved his pistol around a few times, threatening Ian to leave at once.

"Okay, I'm getting out."

Ian hurried out of the convenience store.

Just as the robber was about to focus on dealing with the convenience store clerk.

"Welcome~"

Ian circled back inside.

Of course, he did not want to be a superhero, defeat the robber, and save the store. That was the insurance company's job. The detail-oriented boy had simply realized something extremely important after stepping onto the street.

"Well, I respected America's street traditions, but did someone forget to thank me?" Perhaps the soul pollution had not left Ian completely unaffected.

His perspective had clearly become more devious than usual.

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