Chapter 3 Dinner Together? Oh, the kitchen blew up? Never mind then. ...

When Dick jumped from the balcony into the room, he thought Dr. Osborn had been the victim of a terrorist attack.

That seems to make sense.

—After all, the Brodhaven Police Department defines terrorism as two or more consecutive attacks, such as shootings, bombings, and poisonings, that cause significant damage to civilian safety, life, and property.

Alan Osborne's apartment was hit by two consecutive explosions, one at the microwave oven and the other at the induction cooker in the kitchen.

They both perished tragically, their gruesome bodies lying on the kitchen floor, their eyes wide open in death—a small fragment of their remains was even embedded in the wall, making for a truly horrific scene.

The killers were a dozen horrible raw eggs that Dr. Osborn had put in the microwave and an evil cell phone placed on an induction cooker.

And Dr. Osborn himself, who looked completely innocent.

The innocent Dr. Osborn picked up a stool and smashed it hard on Dick's head the moment he saw him.

The agile young policeman swiftly dodged the chair and caught the doctor's swung fist. He opened his mouth to explain that he had come from the balcony simply because the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and that he wasn't some damned burglar.

Unfortunately, the doctor didn't seem willing to give him a chance to explain.

Dick dodged the knife the doctor pulled out from somewhere again, and then couldn't help but feel relieved—the doctor was very alert, and at least he didn't have to worry about the doctor being unable to save himself if there was a burglary next door.

Dr. Osborn accidentally dropped the knife, but he quickly broke free from Dick's half-hearted grip and raised his hand to punch Dick in the eye.

After several rounds of clashes where the two sides were evenly matched, Dick had no choice but to pin the doctor, who was fighting haphazardly, to the floor—because Dr. Osborn had clumsily tripped over his own coat, which he had carelessly tossed on the ground.

Allen angrily turned and glared at the stranger who had barged into the balcony: "Who are you? What do you want?" Could he be someone sent by that annoying lawyer to take him back? Or one of Norman Osborn's men?

Alan's wrist was tightly twisted behind his back by Dick, and he fell awkwardly to the floor, accidentally getting dust all over his face. Clearly, his rudimentary skills learned in Hell's Kitchen were no match for the guy in front of him.

Countless murder plans flashed through Dr. Osborne's mind as he struggled to break free—

Dick was the first to release his grip, rising in surrender: "...I thought I didn't have enough time for plastic surgery today. Dr. Osborn, don't you recognize me again?"

Allen took a closer look at Dick's now messy hair and the police uniform he hadn't had time to take off, his gaze settling on the most shapely buttocks he'd seen all day.

The doctor, looking disheveled, stubbornly insisted, "...It's you, I recognize you. You were jumping too fast just now, you were all blurry pixels, I just couldn't see your face clearly."

"Then tell me my name?" Dick asked, amused.

Allen kicked off the wrinkled jacket that was hindering his performance, got up from the ground, and turned to look at the dark microwave oven.

This person is so annoying, he thought.

Dr. Osborne's gaze fell on the knife in the kitchen. He mentally sketched the physique of the man opposite him, rehearsing in his mind the art of butchering an ox three times, each time making a more perfect angle of cut than the last. He could only hope that God would give him a chance to put his skills into practice.

And next time, he'll remember to carry some inhalable poison with him.

Luthor should have some information; if all else fails, contact Kingpin. The former is harder to fool than the latter, but he's more familiar with Lex Luthor. The only problem is that he needs to be careful not to let Metropolis, that cunning guy who's more shrewd than a Kryptonite shard, secretly trick him.

Dick had no idea about the doctor's crazy thoughts of testing the limits of vigilantes and the law. He just wanted to know how the doctor could be like a highly accurate and error-free AI when saving lives, and like a pseudo-human trying to blend into the crowd when cooking and fighting.

"So... why are you living here?" Dick resignedly squatted in Dr. Osborn's kitchen, helping to clean the walls so black they were unrecognizable and the shattered induction cooker. After patiently explaining to the doctor the basics of using kitchen equipment, he couldn't help but find it hilarious. "My God, if the landlord sees your kitchen, he'll make a piercing explosion. You're dead meat."

Their landlady was a kind, robust, and affable old lady whose fighting skills far exceeded her age. She was a very typical Bruderhain woman, and her specialty was American-style Iaijutsu.

That's what attracted him to the place, which is why he decided to rent it.

For once, Dr. Osborne wasn't wearing his usual cold, fake smile. He squatted on the other side, disdainfully wiping the floor with a rag under Dick's direction. The non-prescription glasses that had been perched on his high nose bridge this morning were nowhere to be seen, and his unobstructed green eyes revealed a childish defiance, a stark contrast to the shrewd and decisive doctor he had been at the hospital earlier that day.

“…Because it’s cheaper here.” Allen glanced at his helpful neighbor. “And there’s a subway line that goes directly to the hospital and a very ruthless security guard nearby, so I feel my meager assets are safe. If you dare tell the landlord, I’ll just say it was you who did it.”

The doctor's reason for staying here was exactly the same as Dick's; it sounded like they were both short of money.

But this made Dick even more puzzled: "Excuse me, but you don't look like you're short of money at all."

The doctor's shoes were handmade, his clothes were custom-made, and even his loungewear was expensive natural silk. Coupled with his almost zero ability to live independently, this guy exuded an air of sinful wealth from head to toe. Dick was almost certain that Alan Osborn was a guy who grew up on Lakeside Boulevard, attended private schools or received home education from childhood, lived in a manor with butlers and servants serving him every day, and didn't even know where the kitchen was.

Allen's expression was serious, and his tone was sincere: "I have no money right now."

Now.

Dick suddenly realized, and then immediately filled in a whole bunch of possibilities in his mind—from fighting for the inheritance and being expelled to the family going bankrupt—until the doctor stiffly said another thank you to him that he could barely hear.

Then, the two of them started staring at each other.

According to general social etiquette, after expressing gratitude, the other party might extend a friendly signal such as inviting him to dinner, especially since Dr. Osborn's kitchen had been devastated... Dick was already thinking about suitable restaurants—he was genuinely curious about the doctor and wanted to maintain a friendly relationship with him.

After all, given their—especially his own and Nightwing's—relationship with the emergency department, he would most likely be seeing doctors frequently in the future. Besides, as a neighbor, he would quite like to make friends with Dr. Osborn.

However, Allen just stared at him, his awkward wiping of the table ceasing, as if waiting for him to continue.

Without his non-prescription glasses, the doctor seemed to lose a certain serious aura, and he was completely unaware that there was still a layer of dust on his cheeks.

Dick's gaze involuntarily fell on a small red mole on the side of Allen's nose, and he suddenly forgot what he was about to say.

Something felt off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Dick unconsciously raised his hand and touched his nose.

Unfortunately, his near-perfect social skills never seemed to resonate with Dr. Osborn.

Despite the doctor's eccentricities, Dick initially felt a high degree of goodwill towards him. His green eyes and red hair played a minor role, but saving Eric's life and his excellent first-aid skills were far more significant factors. Dick was willing to believe that a young man who risked his life to save others on the street was a kind and good person.

I'm also willing to believe that a guy who can easily blow up a kitchen is just a kitchen killer and not a psychopath.

What's wrong with a good person having a few strange quirks?

At least the doctor didn't wander around at night in a bodysuit, never returning home, or kiss the female villain on the Tower of Venn.

Allen continued to stare at Dick, completely unaware that his gaze was too direct and somewhat impolite in this social setting.

The familiar question resurfaced in his mind.

He didn't know what the man was trying to say, his hesitant manner suggesting something. Based on their conversation and the logical flow of their exchange, he assumed their dialogue was over. He expressed his gratitude, and the other person said it was nothing. Shouldn't the other person then leave at his prompting, like Dr. Connors, or go about their own business like that annoying blind lawyer?

Or does this guy have some other purpose?

He's just a lowly doctor with no money, earning less than $5,000 a month. Is there anything noteworthy about him?

...Could it really be related to people in New York?

A flurry of less-than-pleasant thoughts surged through Allen's mind in an instant, each one capable of wiping the smile off the other person's face in a second, but he restrained himself.

The two men stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. Then, seeing Allen's increasingly bewildered expression, Dick suddenly realized—he suspected the doctor had forgotten his name again and was stubbornly refusing to admit it.

Allen did indeed forget.

So he was waiting for Dick to introduce himself.

Seeing the doctor's lips pursed tightly together and his brows furrowed after he hesitated for a long time, Dick couldn't help but want to laugh even more.

He found it easy to forgive the doctor for forgetting his name three times.

Okay, okay, this is the privilege of kind and brave doctors, young people, neighbors, and beauty.

So Dick offered, “You haven’t had dinner yet, have you? I bet working in the ER isn’t much better than working in the police station, so would you like to come over to my place for some life support meals? I promise I’ll try my best to make the cereal taste a little better than boiled eggs.”

In a daze, Allen saw a Samoyed grinning at him for no apparent reason, its smile containing social behaviors and human emotions that he couldn't yet comprehend.

I don't know what he was thinking, but by the time he realized what was happening, he was already sitting at his kind neighbor's house eating cereal.

In fact, given his personality, he should have immediately refused the request and handed the kind neighbor who helped clean the floor and microwave a check as a thank you—but until Brudhaven Hospital pays him, he doesn't have a penny in his account right now, and at most he can exchange all ten dollars in his pocket for coins and give them to Officer Grayson.

Allen took another big bite of cereal. He suddenly remembered what his annoying lawyer had told him: he could confidently accept help from others and then sincerely express his gratitude in a way that the other person could accept.

He glanced up at Dick and thought, "Then I'll give the police a gun or a bomb, or even a poison gas bomb."

Go do it as soon as you get your paycheck; the police should like that.

We're so poor.

Allen sighed inwardly; he couldn't even produce a poison gas bomb.

No one could have imagined that just two weeks ago, in his mansion on Manhattan's Upper East Side, in front of his cold, arrogant, and jerk father, he smashed a decoration that could buy at least twenty of these old apartments—that ugly thing that looked like a heart came from his dear, stubborn, and arrogant brother, Harry Osborn.

The thought of Norman Osborn and Harry Osborn made Allen's face turn even worse.

Dick couldn't help but ask with concern, "My cereal isn't so bad that it's inedible, is it? Is it really not to your liking?"

Allen shook his head and said honestly, "This is the best cereal I've ever eaten."

Dick expressed his appreciation for this exaggerated praise: "I love cereal too! If you like, I can recommend my favorite brand. Occasionally the supermarket has sales, and I can even give you coupons!"

Allen nodded, his movements elegant, showing no trace of the dishevelment he had just endured while wiping the floor: "...Thank you, officer."

Practice makes perfect, and he's already said thank you for the third time today, and it's always to the same person.

The obnoxious lawyer and the devilish horned bodysuit-clad weirdo should be quite pleased; he shouldn't be acting like a freak who can't communicate normally with humans anymore.

This is good progress, and his mother Emily, who lies in the cemetery, should be happy for him.

Allen stirred the cereal in the bowl with a spoon, then stared at the irregular geometric patterns in a daze.

In fact, he can eat anything. When he was locked in the laboratory before, he tried to eat only the nutritional supplements he developed for a whole month.

Unfortunately, his capitalist father, Norman Osborn, whose every pore exudes evil, sold the nutritional supplement he and his team developed at an exorbitant price, making it unaffordable even for him, the developer.

Sitting at the same table with others, eating peacefully like today—without arguments, orders, Osborn, and that damned, life-extending formula—was a very novel experience for Allen.

Ever since Emily jumped off the roof of the Osborne Building, no one has cared about his meals or invited him to dinner, except for a meddlesome lawyer, a meddlesome freak in a tight suit, and another meddlesome sandwich fanatic.

The annoying lawyer (he deliberately forgot the name of the bastard lawyer) was a good friend of his mother Emily and had helped her with her divorce before her death.

Legally, Emily won the case, but Norman Osborne was never a law-abiding rich man, and besides, Norman Osborne was not just rich.

Allen took another bite of cereal.

He wasn't lying; this really was the best cereal he'd ever eaten, because it was his first time trying it today.

Emily...

The woman in his memory had a gentle expression. When he was hurt, she would hug him and whisper things he didn't understand, telling him that he was no different from any other child, and strictly demanding that he not hurt others and not listen to Norman Osborn.

Emily would also argue fiercely for him and Norman Osborn, abandoning all her composure and elegance, and becoming like a madwoman.

Unfortunately, Emily was the ideal wife that Norman Osborn had deliberately chosen for himself—before marriage, she was just an ordinary person with no family background.

Emily's death was not a mysterious murder case; it was simply a desperate act by a helpless mother who chose to end her own life.

Emily wanted to risk her life to fight for a chance at freedom for her sons, who had been under Norman Osborn's control, and to free Alan and Harry from Osborn's grip, especially Alan, who had almost never been exposed to the outside world. But she underestimated the power of capital and the ruthlessness of Osborn—the secret of this wealthy lady's suicide barely made a ripple, and was soon overshadowed by more sensational and quirky stories.

Norman Osborne publicly stated that Emily suffered from postpartum depression after giving birth to Harry and ultimately committed suicide by jumping off a building.

Old Osborne, who looked to be in his seventies but was actually only in his fifties, attended the funeral in a wheelchair, feigning concern, and publicly announced that he would never remarry because Emily was his beloved wife.

The performance artist's genuine tears further enhanced Osborne's reputation, and even now, tabloids still sing praises of the affectionate Mr. Osborne's love.

Allen lowered his eyelashes.

Each member of the Osborne family harbors a mutual hatred, yet beneath this hatred lies a perplexing and inseparable connection, almost like a curse etched into their blood.

So Alan chose to follow his mother's instructions, stay away from New York, and try to be a 'good person'. He would watch Norman Osborn bring about his own downfall, and as for Harry... his mother had said that Harry was not a responsibility he had to bear; what he needed to do was take care of himself first.

However, retroviral hyperplasia is not yet a completely cured disease, and sooner or later he and Harry will be involved in it.

Allen recalled the rumors he had recently heard.

Someone was passing through Pulau Port with an eye-catching 'gift'—that's what he came for.

Dick waved his hand in front of Allen's eyes, bringing the doctor back to his senses.

"Are you alright?" Dick asked with concern. "You look a little upset?"

Allen snapped out of his reverie: "No, I was just thinking of something funny. Thanks for the cereal today, Officer Charlie."

Dick: "...You're welcome, Allen."

“I think the cereal is really good, no need to be modest, Officer Charlie.”

"If possible, please don't call me Charlie next time. My name is Richard, or Dick."

Allen: "...Oh."