SUP Chapter 20: Metropolis! Never Cliché!

Ian’s college entrance exam scores in his past life were stellar. But his social experience, then and now, was lacking. Still, he felt he deserved a bit of adult respect.

"Did someone forget to say thank you?" Seeing the cashier and the robber baffled, Ian repeated himself, tone hinting at a reminder.

"What are you babbling about? Get lost!" The robber snapped, waving his small-caliber gun at Ian like it was rapping.

"Don’t waste my time, kid. I’ve got three more places to hit today!" This robber was a rare hard worker among his peers, with a packed schedule.

Understandable. Metropolis neighbored the talent-rich Gotham, where streets teemed with ordinary folks dealing drugs, soliciting, or disposing of bodies.

"Hm? Rude robber sir? I thought your mask choice showed taste!" Ian stood his ground despite the threat.

The stocking-masked robber was on the verge of collapse. "Damn it, what do you want?" He kept his gun raised, rubbing his temple in exasperation.

"Thank you! Thank you! Happy now?"

Finally, the robber caved in their standoff.

"Good. Carry on, sir." Satisfied with the respect, Ian turned to leave. He knew he should blend into this world’s backdrop, that as an [Ordinary NPC], he shouldn’t get tangled in too many events.

Saving the world? Keeping peace? That was for superheroes blessed by cosmic will, diving headfirst into passion. Ordinary NPCs like Ian had more to consider.

The same actions that brought heroes success could turn NPCs into “remembered” or mourned figures in heroes’ tales. Thus, as the robber fulfilled the duty of his dark skin, Ian respected Metropolis’s daily grind.

Only then could an NPC like him avoid being memorialized one day. Ian was self-aware: NPCs should stick to NPC tasks.

Eat, sleep, enjoy life, and quietly grow stronger.

Crunch, crunch. Ian munched on a sandwich, sipped Coke, bulking up, and left the store. The robber, relieved, turned back.

"Listen, we’re not done. Don’t think I’m soft. If that kid were an adult, I’d have shot him!" The robber growled, resuming his menace. "All the cash! And the untraceable gift cards! Throw in some Marlboros and a lighter!" His goals were clear, pulling a large black plastic bag from his waist.

A seasoned pro, well-prepared.

Then, Welcome~

The door’s emotionless chime rang again.

"????"

The robber’s expression was priceless, his stocking nearly sucked into his throat as he saw the damn kid return.

"What now!?" he roared, near breakdown.

"Not here for you. Just had a financial epiphany." Ian approached the counter, eyeing the cashier packing for the robber.

He chose his words carefully. "Since this store’s getting cleaned out anyway, can you refund my $30.45?"

The cashier, in his early twenties, had never seen anything like this. "Huh?"

"You’ve got insurance. They’ll cover your losses. Refund me, and it’s a win-win-win. We all have a great day." Ian’s negotiation skills shone, backed by his flawless 2.4 intelligence.

Superman had a super brain; as his adopted son, Ian did too. His brain told him he could save a small expense.

Think about it! Reclaiming his money meant the black market for powders or contraband would lose $30.45 in circulation! That’s macroeconomic regulation, straight out of unstudied economics. Wasn’t this a contribution to Metropolis’s peace?

No shame to Superman’s son!

"How’s that?" Ian asked, eyes expectant.

"Uh... how’s my day great?" The cashier sensed something off but found Ian’s logic oddly compelling.

He just didn’t see his win.

"You get a few days off. Maybe fake a limp for workers’ comp," Ian replied, airtight.

"Like that?" The cashier slapped his head, enlightened, and looked to the silent robber, who took ages to untangle Ian’s logic.

"I’m losing out!" The robber frowned, annoyed. He finally got it: Ian’s move cut his haul by $30.45.

The cashier glanced at Ian.

"Act like I never bought the sandwich?" Ian suggested, blinking. Ignoring facts, he silenced the robber again.

The cashier swallowed nervously, sensing the robber might erupt.

"This kid’s right. Refund his $30, and we all have a great day!" The robber waved his gun at the cashier, threatening.

"It’s $30.45," Ian corrected quietly.

The robber glanced between Ian and the cashier, nodding to confirm the amount.

The cashier was numb, counting out $30.45 and handing it to Ian.

"You’re good at math, right? You’ve got that student vibe... what’s the word, bold?" The robber, seeing Ian take the refund, eyed him curiously, then asked an out-of-place question.

Ian found the guy’s thinking bizarre but nodded, impressed. "You’ve got an eye for talent. Wasted on robbery!"

The robber, thrilled, pressed, "Great! Quick, calculate how much tax I owe on this job!"

The mask was off—this guy was a tax-paying American robber! Ian was stunned, feeling enlightened again. Metropolis taught him something new daily.

"Hm? You don’t want me taking your $30 back, do you?" The robber threatened, clearly agreeing to the refund to exploit Ian’s math skills.

Impressive. Rare.

A strategist among lowlife robbers!

[NEXT CHAPTER]