SUP Chapter 19: You Haven’t Said Thank You Yet

It started raining from the fire hydrant and the scene’s atmosphere was peculiar.

"You didn’t pull the handbrake?" The traffic cop was dumbfounded.

"Uh..." Ian was reluctant to admit his rookie mistake.

"This isn’t the first time today?" The cop, as if staring down a true road menace, glared sternly at the delinquent teen.

At that moment, Ian asked sheepishly, "How much to fix it?"

The cop glanced at the spewing hydrant. "Not our department, but per city standards, repairs are at least $100,000."

No wonder America had its own value system. This payout could probably net Agent Smith $99,000. Ian turned to the taxi, pulling a toolbox from the driver’s side.

"What are you doing?" The cop’s hand went to his gun, highly alert.

Thanks to Ian’s lack of an epic nighttime skin, it didn’t escalate to emptying a clip. The cop was only slightly worried Ian might pull out a "truth."

"Fixing the hydrant, obviously!" Ian grabbed a hammer, shoved the car off the hydrant, and started pounding it furiously.

"Handbrake!" The cop saw the taxi sliding toward Ian’s backside, dropped his gun, and dove into the car, stopping it just before it kissed Ian.

"You got a license like this?" The cop, wiping sweat from his brow, climbed out of the warped door, only to find Ian gone, leaving a battered but fixed hydrant with a rusty car key on top.

"Damn it! Where’d he go?" The cop scanned around, spotting a figure vanishing around a corner faster than Bolt.

"Stan Lee, huh?" The cop gritted his teeth, convinced the second slide was a malicious plot. He grabbed his radio to "put out a warrant" for Ian.

Of course, with the fake name on the ID, the "warrant" was doomed, but that didn’t stop him from frantically calling for backup.

Above, in the clouds, slap. An exhausted father smacked his forehead. Watching the whole ordeal, Clark had to admit Ian wasn’t what he and Lois once thought.

Moral, conscientious... but maybe not overly so. Guiding this unique child felt like a monumental task for Clark.

"Such a troublesome kid!" Clark sighed heavily, recalling the night he found Ian. Perhaps he should’ve known Ian’s future wouldn’t be ordinary.

The realization, though late, wasn’t too late.

Middle-aged Clark had three kids, but compared to his older sons, he felt Ian, his adopted son, was the most like him.

After all, that day, that night, that meteor shower—it was like a familiar cycle.

Having missed the last bus, Ian’s only option was a taxi, a choice that left him slightly traumatized. But first, he needed to fill his stomach, ravenous from [Healing Frenzy].

The stomach was an emotional organ.

Only when full could Ian muster the mood to go home and snitch. He pushed open a convenience store’s door, greeted by an emotionless "Welcome," far less warm than a hearty "Yo, brother!"

Inside, Ian headed straight for the "fast carbs" section—cheap, high-calorie processed foods. "This, this, and this." Thanks to his hustle, Ian had more cash than both brothers combined, so he shopped without worrying about an empty wallet.

The cashier, a bespectacled young man with a diligent, work-study vibe, scanned the items. "Total: $29.45."

Ian, munching, pulled out three tens and forty-five cents in coins. The cashier froze, startled by the precision.

"You can just give me a dollar back," Ian prompted.

"Oh, right." The cashier, not fully getting it, punched numbers into a calculator before handing Ian a dollar bill.

"Thanks." Ian, biting into a hot dog, turned to leave.

"Welcome~" The emotionless greeting sounded again as a man burst in, wearing a stocking mask, brandishing a small-caliber "truth," and charging the counter.

"Robbery!!"

What a cliché plot.

You’d think this was next-door Gotham.

"No tricks!" The robber aimed at the stunned cashier, then warily shifted his gun toward Ian, who’d paused.

Seeing the barrel, Ian raised his hands. "Look, ‘I’m working hard at noon, everyone’s got their struggles,’ I get you." Not trying to bond or play worldly, Ian noticed the robber’s dark wrist.

He knew the robber was just living out the meaning of his skin.

"Who’s effing who? Who’s struggling more?" The robber, baffled by Ian’s poetic quip, felt his intelligence insulted and snapped.

"Get lost, kid!"

Clearly, this ambitious crook had bigger plans, uninterested in a student’s pocket change. He waved his gun, urging Ian to scram.

"Alright, I’m out." Ian bolted from the store.

As the robber focused on the cashier, "Welcome~" Ian circled back.

Not to play superhero or save the store, that was for insurance companies. The detail-oriented teen realized a critical issue after hitting the street.

"Look, I respected America’s street traditions, but didn’t someone forget to say thank you?" Soul Corruption might’ve made Ian’s thinking sharper than usual.

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