Timothy chewed on his lollipop. "Want to try out my vehicle?"
Are you sure?
Colt tilted his head.
Timothy nodded. "Confirmed."
A short while later.
Colt rubbed the reactor sphere formed from the skateboard, looking at the traffic moving at a snail's pace outside, then at the expressionless Timothy.
7:55. There are only five minutes left before the first class, but there's still 1,500 meters to go to the school!
Gotham is a massive city with millions of residents, when you include the undocumented immigrants without names, surnames, or social security, the total population nears ten million. During the morning rush hour, it treats every hurried Gothamite with equal severity.
Timothy had made plans, but plans change faster than anything else.
Colt invited him to breakfast, causing them to leave late and run straight into the morning rush hour. No matter how good a supercar is, it can't speed through a traffic jam.
"Can you pull the entire car into a spatial dimension and let us pass through directly?" Timothy asked.
Colt shook his head.
He could pull a car and a person into a Ghost field, but making a car vanish in public was not a good idea.
Timothy was late.
Although he didn't care about it.
Colt didn't care either. His first class wasn't until ten, so he opened The Art of Photography while waiting out the traffic. But as soon as the first line caught his eye, he began to feel drowsy.
He couldn't sleep, he couldn't sleep. He thought about the price of this book, the application fees he had paid; every single word was money.
While mentally preparing himself, Colt flipped through the pages like a ruthless scanner, barely managing to memorize half the content before his head finally slumped as he fell asleep.
In his bizarre dream, he saw little Timothy again..
Colt..
A cool hand pressed against his forehead, a voice arrived as if from another world.
Colt opened his eyes, which were stuck shut by art, met Timothy's eyes.
It was like melting ice, carrying a hint of warmth. Just like looking up from the bottom of the sea, where the surface ripples with waves of light, the sunlight pierces through the seawater to form magnificent colors.
Go sleep in my study.
Timothy said, reaching out to unbuckle the seatbelt restraining Colt.
Colt held a book between his arms, with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a camera bag over the other, a thermos hooked around his wrist, as he wobbled through the air.
No, rather than flying, it was more like drifting.
Without any mental energy to serve as an anchor, Colt was like an astronaut in zero gravity in outer space, neither able to go up nor down.
Timothy grabbed the floating person and slipped a keycard into his coat pocket.
“You know the location. See you in history class.”
Colt stepped firmly on the ground and nodded.
Timothy's private study had been renovated.
Colt discovered that every hidden corner of the furniture was marked with a Ghost seal.
Rules acknowledge that these Ghost seals are useful.
The sofa was very soft, the table was large enough, the lighting was bright without being harsh.
Colt opened the refrigerator, which only contained bottled mineral water, stuffed the lunch boxes and fruit containers inside, then put the popsicles, ice spheres, crystal grapes from the thermos into the freezer. He unscrewed a bottle of pure water and took a sip, then saw two mugs sitting next to the coffee machine.
A Red Robin emblem, a chibi Ghost.
It looked like a little jellyfish, not scary at all, but rather quite cute.
Timothy grew more childish as he got older. He was clearly very mature when he was little, liking mysterious, cool, powerful symbols like Batman, but now he prefers these strange little things.
Images flashed through Colt's mind: two children on skateboards, secretly photographing Batman in the depths of a Gotham night.
Ever since his last dream about Timothy, it was as if Colt had found a key that unlocked a treasure chest of memories. From time to time, he would recall various disjointed images, most of which were related to Timothy.
Colt was neither repelled nor in a hurry.
***A little brat, having never experienced the harsh realities of society, with a head full of clear and foolish thoughts, spending all day dreaming of playing the protagonist and saving the world.
However, the recovery of his childhood memories proved that he had indeed come to this world.
Yeah, he is still in this world.
Colt curled up in the beanbag chair by the window, feeling as if he were sitting in the clouds. He let out a sigh and opened his laptop to send an email to his teacher, playing the part of a socially anxious genius.
No teacher would dislike a polite student, especially a student with physical disabilities.
Colt's file was a perfect representation of overcoming adversity. In order to provide him with a legitimate reason to avoid appearing in public, Joseph used his immense wealth to secure medical certificates for as many as 175 different allergens, including ultraviolet light, as well as diagnoses for speech impediments and severe psychological conditions caused by family circumstances..
The gift card deepened the teacher's impression of the name Little Reed, Colt soon received a heartfelt reply from the Socioeconomics teacher. Based on the content of the letter, as long as Timothy did not fall asleep on stage during his presentation, the teacher would give his group a high score.
Every class at Gotham High has a fixed classroom, students commute to school. The third period is history, so Colt arrived early at the World History classroom.
Timothy had computer business class last period, the computer lab was on the other side of the campus from the history classroom. Even for Master Wayne, it would take a run to get to class on time.
The two only had time to exchange a glance before the teacher walked in clutching a laptop and began calling out the names of the students who had received full marks on their assignments.
Timothy and Colt were fortunate enough to tie for first place, as their essays reached one thousand words and contained no spelling errors.
The teacher slammed the table sternly, believing that since two-thirds of the graduating class had misspelled "independent" as "independant," the school should redefine the passing standards for language arts classes.
Timothy looked down and played on his phone.
He slept all morning yesterday, spent the entire afternoon busy at Titans Headquarters, attended a banquet in the evening; he didn't even open his schoolbag, let alone do his homework.
History homework was no exception; in the morning, the French teacher even said his assignment was a perfect score.
When the teacher asked him to read that letter titled 'Introducing Puss in Boots to a Princess on behalf of the Miller's Son in French,' Timothy felt fortunate that he had only taken French for the credits; otherwise, he would have had to explain to the teacher why he couldn't understand his own homework.
Colt's phone vibrated; it was a message from Timothy.
【185, 205, 246: Thank you?】
【139, 0, 255: You're welcome (*￣￣)】
【185, 205, 246: Copy me on it the next time you submit it to the teacher.】
[139, 0, 255: If I can get an A on this afternoon's Socioeconomics homework.]
Playing on their phones and chatting during class, they were not good students.
..
The last period of the morning was Art Photography. The rain was a bit heavy today, so the teacher announced that class would be held in the gymnasium.
The photography teacher taught everyone how to make their compositions better align with the golden ratio by photographing the basketball team's practice.
Colt's talent in art was clearly not as high as in academic subjects; even though he followed the 0.618 golden ratio strictly when taking photos, the pictures he took simply lacked the storytelling quality of a casual snapshot from others.
The "others" here refers to Timothy.
Colt thought that he was the one who didn't look good in photos.
The term "not photogenic" also referred to Timothy.
Timothy had no objection; he believed he was certainly more handsome than he appeared in photos.
Chapter 29
Colt refused to admit that he lacked talent for photography.
At lunchtime, he held a sandwich in one hand and a pen in the other, busy sketching the golden ratio and mentally reciting photography mnemonics.
Timothy commented, "Not bad, looks like a surveillance screenshot."
Colt was so angry that he chewed his sandwich like it was meat, refusing to speak to Timothy. Once the Socioeconomics class began, Colt took the initiative to unwrap a coffee popsicle and handed it to Timothy, making sure to do so away from others.
This was to prevent him from suddenly turning back into a sleepyhead and falling asleep in class!
Timothy did not transform, because he was far too relaxed about things like giving speeches, he spent most of the class looking at those endless reports.
Young Master Wayne didn't go to the company, but his soul was there with the company. For every extra report Timothy reviewed, Bruce could sleep for five more minutes. As for those long-winded but mandatory meetings, they were perfect for lulling Bruce to sleep. Even the executives, who were usually nitpickers, wouldn't have any complaints about Bruce sleeping during meetings.
Colt listened to the classmates' presentations intently, feeling more and more relaxed as he listened.
There was a good reason why the teacher arranged Timothy to go on stage last. If he had gone first, I'm afraid no other student would have dared to go up.
A total demolition.
The paper was not only flawless in terms of format, spelling, diction, but its sections—such as the research reports, case studies, practical projects—did not look like something a high school student had cobbled together in a week; instead, they were more like papers published by an expert in socioeconomics in a professional journal.
Even ordinary scholars couldn't obtain such detailed data; after all, Wayne is the only company in the world authorized by Batman.
Timothy's presentation was the icing on the cake.
In fact, when Timothy stood on the stage and his gaze swept across the audience below, it made people feel that even if his thesis were gibberish, he could still win.
Young Master Wayne's aura is incredibly strong.
Colt couldn't help but raise his camera, capturing Timothy's smile.
This was a different kind of smile.
Timothy used to stand on a higher podium, wearing more formal attire, with a more serious or determined expression, a smile that was like a hypocritical mask, appearing as distant as if separated by an entire world.
Now, it was just a classroom group project presentation. The podium was only ten centimeters high, the desk was the same style as the desks below, a sunflower brought by the teacher sat in a vase on top of it.
Timothy looked more bright and confident than that sunflower. The gloomy, introverted little boy from his dreams had already transformed into this! It was wonderful that he hadn't lost his color because of hardship!
Colt saw Timothy getting closer and closer to him, his silhouette becoming clearer and clearer in those icy blue eyes.
"What are you thinking about?" Timothy stopped in front of Colt.
The bell for the end of class had long since rung.
Since there were club activities on Friday, the students rushed out one after another, leaving no one else in the classroom.