[My pen can write answers on its own: May I ask, is your surname Wayne?]
[Patron..]
[My pen can write answers by itself: You wouldn't happen to be Wayne, would you?]
[Patron: Darling, use your brain. Do you think a Bruce Wayne, who has countless beauties throwing themselves at him with just a flick of his fingers, would look for someone online to translate a love letter?]
[My Pen Can Write Answers Itself: Sorry, your golden brilliance is just too dazzling; please forgive my offense.]
[Patron: Darling, my surname isn't Wayne.]
That's great, the perfect client isn't angry.
Colt breathed a sigh of relief; he also thought his suspicions were groundless.
Gotham doesn't only have Wayne as its wealthy elite; the Patron is likely the child of some big shot, only innocent primary schoolers would like writing love letters.
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Colt decided to give back to his Patron.
He organized all the discarded drafts and stuffed them together into a large envelope with the recipient's address written on it.
Colt had actually translated every single language in the language encyclopedia, totaling 131 in all, though for the remaining fifty-eight, he only wrote "I love you."
He didn't send the mail; Gotham's postal system was absolute trash, so he decided to deliver it in person.
Before heading out, Colt contacted the second-hand camera seller and sent the money over.
Clark Kent clearly hadn't expected Colt to pay in advance. He repeatedly reminded Colt to be careful with online transactions and suggested it would be best to inspect the goods before paying, adding that he was coming to Gotham on a business trip today and could deliver the goods directly to Gotham High.
The problem was that if he didn't pay first, he wouldn't be able to get his hands on the goods.
After agreeing on a time and place with Clark, Colt quickly finished his morning patrol, made a few extra sandwiches for breakfast to put in a thermal lunch box, also conveniently used a thermos to pack two coffee popsicles.
Just before heading out, seeing the white lab coat he was wearing, Colt went back upstairs to his wardrobe and pulled a hooded sweatshirt out from a whole collection of white lab coats.
Duke walked downstairs, yawning.
Tim, are you in a good mood today?
“Not bad, I received some wonderful morning blessings.” Tim put away his phone and urged Damian: “Dear, finish eating within five minutes, I'll drop you off at school on the way.”
Duke shuddered.
Damian jumped up in disgust, brandishing his knife and fork. "What kind of demon are you? Get out of foolish Drake's body right now!"
If you don't need me to give you a ride, then you can take Duke's car.
Tim finished his last sip of milk, stood up leisurely, buttoned up his vest, adjusted his Gem cufflinks, draped his suit jacket over his arm.
The dapper Young Master Wayne waved to everyone, picked up the food container from the table, stuffed it into his backpack, left with steps as light as flight.
Duke picked up a sandwich and looked at Damian. "Alfred doesn't have time today. I have a class at nine-thirty, so I can drop you off in time. Want to come along?"
Everyone in the house had a car, except for Damian.
He is too young to drive.
Even if Damian could fly a fighter jet through the sky, he could only get to school by being driven by Alfred or by hitching a ride with his older brothers and sisters. Previously, Tim was basically the one responsible, but after Duke arrived, it often switched to the kind Duke.
Damian's focus wasn't on whose car he was hitching a ride in to school, but rather: "Damn Drake, he took my lunchbox!"
Duke held onto Damian, who was trying to rush out to commit murder: "Oh, Damian, we have enough time to prepare another one, Alfred."
Let me go, you idiot, you don't understand anything!
Those were blueberries and cherries that he had personally picked with Little Jo at the farm after returning from the Zoo. Every single one had been strictly selected by the Kryptonian; they were absolutely plump and sweet, far better than anything found at home!
Morning at Wayne's was also very lively today.
Colt brought the original translation manuscript to the Patron's balcony.
The Patron's home was located on the top floor of a luxury apartment building directly across from Wayne Headquarters; a massive, single-floor penthouse with a private helipad—it was simply obscenely extravagant!
Gotham High.
Colt let out a yawn, his eyes welling with physiological tears, as he coasted through a pedestrian on his skateboard like a sleepwalker.
Ghost had no habit of yielding to pedestrians, so by the time he saw the numbers floating above the person in front of him, his skateboard had already collided with them.
Colt snapped to his senses instantly and slammed on his brakes, nearly flying off his skateboard.
The person opposite them took flight first, but not from being knocked down.
Timothy performed a handsome front flip in mid-air, landing on the tail of the skateboard, simultaneously grabbed Colt's shoulder to help him steady himself.
Careful, student Colt.
The voice was crisp and pleasant, like a spring breeze, causing the air within the Ghost field to churn.
Colt watched the person flip over his head, his mind struggling to keep up, filled with mathematical formulas.
How fast must one's reaction speed be to perform a backflip the moment a skateboard hits? Without any leverage or a pivot point, how much power must the waist and legs provide to flip mid-air from a standing position, reaching a height of over 178 centimeters?
Colt glared at Timothy: "You're the one who needs to be careful, Mr. Coffee Production Line! The Wayne heir's persona is that he's not good at sports, but you just exposed yourself—your physical coordination is even better than a gymnast's!"
"Good morning," Tim greeted with a smile.
Oh, good morning.
Colt blinked, withdrawing his glare and instead staring at the hand pressed against his shoulder.
His fingers were long and slender, looking perfectly suited for turning small screws. Was the temperature of his palm too high? It made half of his shoulder feel burning and heavy, completely different from the feeling of his father patting his shoulder. It was so strange!
Colt suppressed the urge to shrug, ignoring the strange sensation on his shoulder, instead looked at Timothy's three-piece formal suit.
The temperature today is between 25°C and 30°C, with cloudy skies following the sun. Is he wearing so much because he's physically weak and sensitive to the cold? Well, I suppose it's normal to wear extra layers since the school's high-powered air conditioning doesn't cost them a dime.
Colt scanned Timothy's chest, which appeared to be wrapped in bandages, shifted his gaze upward to Timothy's face, which looked exhausted after sleeping for only 14 hours followed by an all-nighter.
Concealer can hide dark circles under the eyes, but it cannot hide a somewhat weak complexion; his lips looked a bit pale from blood loss, though his eyes remained bright and spirited.
Colt sniffed lightly, catching the scent of medicinal oil hidden beneath the woody notes.
It wasn't an illusion; Timothy really did have injuries on him.
Timothy also smelled the fragrance; it was a faint scent of coffee. Timothy was like a coffee addict, speaking without thinking, blurted out, "What brand of perfume are you using?"
He was going to buy the production line for this perfume and use it exclusively to produce coffee in the future!
Perfume?
Colt suspected Timothy had caffeine poisoning, with a coffee cup balanced on his head!
He spent over an hour dealing with that coffee, then proceeded to down a full cup like some kind of masochist. As a result, he was completely soaked in the smell of coffee; even two showers couldn't wash it off! And Timothy actually had the nerve to say he was wearing perfume?
Colt glared at the "coffee production line" once more, trying to make himself look even more serious and fierce!
Instead of being afraid, Timothy actually thought those wide, violet eyes were rather cute.
Cuteness is a feeling.
Damian Wayne was clearly at an age where he could be called cute, but except for the blind Dick, no one would think the Demon Brat was cute. Meanwhile, most people in Gotham would admit that forty-year-old Bruce baby was very cute.
So, it was only natural that eighteen-year-old Colt was very cute.
Sorry." Timothy's conscience finally acted, realizing his question was somewhat offensive, so he apologized readily. He stepped onto the skateboard with both feet and gave a commanding instruction, "To the library, please.
Colt continued to stare at him: This isn't a bus!
Timothy said, "You just hit my leg, it hurts so much I can't walk."
I didn't hit you at all!
However, he could satisfy Timothy's wish for a ride!
Colt twisted his body around, a slight smirk playing on his lips. He activated the scooter's high-speed mode, accelerating to 150 kilometers per hour in a single second. Without any regard for whether there was a path ahead, he wove through people and charged through walls, even cutting straight through an artificial lake.
A few seconds later, Colt stopped the scooter in front of the school building and turned around joyfully.
He thought he would see a passenger looking pale with fright, but instead, he only saw a pair of pensive, calm eyes.
Not even a bit startled?
A very peculiar Ghost experience, but this is the teaching building." Timothy smiled cheerfully. "Student Colt, you need to update your campus navigation system.
Colt raised his hand and tapped the time on his watch.
7:55. In five minutes, the first period will begin; their first class on Monday is Socioeconomics.
Timothy raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise. "Teacher John is on sick leave, so today's Socioeconomics will be a self-study session. Didn't we agree to work on the Socioeconomics group project together to try and get an exemption from the final exam?"
Colt was the one who was truly surprised, his eyes widening: "Since when did we agree to that?"
Timothy nodded. "Friday, you agreed to it too."
Colt frowned in confusion, suspecting that he had lost his memory again. However, after carefully reviewing his memories from the past few days, he found no gaps or blurriness.
He shook his head earnestly: "I did not agree."
Timothy's expression was incredibly innocent: "I sent three emails to your school inbox, you replied 'received' to all of them. According to Gotham etiquette, responding without refusing is equivalent to agreeing."
Colt's eyes widened again.
He pulled out his phone, logged into his school email, indeed saw the email sent by Timothy.
On Friday evening, at the same time Poison Ivy escaped from prison, Timothy sent three consecutive emails within ten minutes: a study group invitation, the assignment of study tasks, the scheduled time and location for discussion.
Extremely efficient!
Ten minutes is not Timothy's limit; it's just that Colt's smart reply mini-program defaults to replying three minutes after receiving an email, but Timothy only used one minute in total.
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Author's Note: I'll be starting a subscription drive tomorrow, so the update will be delayed until after 23:00. There will be an extra update the day after tomorrow. My next book, "Married to Wayne in a DC/Marvel Crossover, Me?", is currently in the works—please add it to your collection!
Chapter 23
Colt looked at the email, then looked at Timothy.