Normally, a single lie needs more lies piled on top just to keep it standing.
But Nolan's lies are different. They are stitched together from real history, from events that will happen, and from outcomes that could happen.
He tells his aunt a story about helping Captain America.
In truth, he is simply speaking about future events as though they have already taken place, letting reality itself become the proof of his words.
Moreover, compared to Nolan, who kills people as easily as slaughtering chickens, it's much easier for his aunt to accept a familiar World War II hero with a noble personality rising from his frozen grave to save the world. And Nolan? He's just a minor supporting character in the story, swept up by passion and circumstance.
Of course, Nolan doesn't expect his aunt to believe everything wholesale. As long as she's no longer shocked by things that defy common sense, that's enough.
For example, his body will continue changing rapidly in the coming period. For example, more money or equipment from unknown sources will appear.
Even if his aunt is only half-convinced, she won't report him. She'll choose to protect him instead.
And once Stark reveals his identity as a superhero, once he kicks off the chaotic era where villains and heroes run rampant, Nolan believes his aunt will gradually adapt to the new reality.
After explaining everything, Nolan prepares lunch for his aunt, who sits on the sofa questioning her entire existence. Then he gets busy with other tasks.
The basement reinforcement is complete, and the borrowed tools need to be returned. Nolan also needs to handle the renovation and preparation of the restaurant. After all, his aunt's career isn't just a business. It's a kind of spiritual anchor for her.
Even though Nolan still has plenty of money left, he doesn't dare bring it out for now. He's afraid the stimulation would be too much, that his aunt wouldn't be able to digest it properly. Being too shocked can cause a cerebral hemorrhage.
The filial Nolan glances toward his aunt before heading out.
He finds her fiercely stuffing lunch into her mouth while simultaneously counting banknotes with one hand. She occasionally makes vague murmurs and small chuckles between bites.
Is this... going well?
Nolan breathes a sigh of relief.
Then, cautiously, he calls out a goodbye to his aunt. In return, he receives a blank look that clearly says "don't bother me." Smiling, he walks out of the apartment.
This is what family means. This is what drives Nolan to fight.
Nolan first goes to the basement and packs all the tools and equipment. He lifts them easily, the weight barely registering, and returns to the second floor of the apartment building.
Mr. Herman Schultz is the neighbor who kindly lent Nolan the tools. However, he recently lost his job and can only stay home, helpless and idle.
Nolan knocks on the door and expresses his gratitude to Mr. Schultz, who looks haggard from unemployment. Dark circles hang beneath his eyes like bruises.
Then Nolan offers to hire him to renovate The Evening Hearth Restaurant.
Mr. Schultz, whose hands are covered with calluses and whose frame is tall and sturdy, suddenly lights up with excitement. Even his dark-skinned face gains some luster, life returning to his features.
Just a simple job offer makes the man look refreshed instantly.
Nolan begins discussing the construction timeline and price with him. Furthermore, Nolan rejects Mr. Schultz's deliberately lowered price. Instead, he offers a price higher than market rate, which he considers a thank you for lending the tools.
Mr. Schultz is extremely grateful, nearly emotional.
After agreeing to meet tomorrow morning to discuss details, Nolan leaves the apartment.
The sky over New York remains cloudy. However, the rain has gradually become sparse, leaving only continuous drizzle falling stubbornly from gray clouds.
Despite the weather, groups of people, twos and threes, march through the streets with excitement and high morale. Even some uninformed passersby quickly learn what's happening. They join the parade with great indignation, shouting slogans about protecting children.
Obviously, this storm of public opinion that Nolan himself started has barely entered its first half. There are signs of intensification everywhere.
Like an ordinary citizen who knows nothing, Nolan walks against the crowd toward a nearby supermarket.
Maybe it's because of his muscular physique. Or maybe it's because of the fierce aura he unconsciously projects. Either way, as Nolan keeps moving forward, the people around him subconsciously avoid him, as if afraid of touching him at all.
Nolan, lost in thought about what he needs to buy, doesn't pay much attention. He simply lowers his head slightly, pulls up the hood of his sportswear, and quickens his pace.
Nolan has never had any particular dress code. His aunt used to take him shopping, so when he faces the dazzling array of clothing types, his mind goes blank.
He can only choose clothes that look strong and durable. He tells the salesperson, "Ten pieces of the same style."
He finishes buying clothes simply and crudely, then purchases five pairs of sturdy military boots. This way, whether for daily life or killing people and disposing of bodies, his wardrobe will meet all requirements.
Nolan carries numerous heavy shopping bags and pays efficiently.
However, before he can step out of the store with satisfaction, two white police officers, sweating profusely and obviously lacking in physical fitness, suddenly block his path.
At the same time, a young officer with freckles dotting his face carefully places one hand on the holster at his waist. His eyes are alert as he speaks.
"Sir, please stop moving! Also, show your ID or driver's license!"
Nolan's brow furrows slightly. A flash of cold light flickers in his eyes, there and gone in an instant.
Then he slowly arranges his features into a smile. Very friendly, he asks, "Hello, officer. What happened?"
"Nothing serious. Someone called and reported seeing a tracksuit gangster."
Another middle-aged officer glances at Nolan a few times. His entire demeanor visibly relaxes. He smiles and says, "But apparently the caller was mistaken. You're not Slavic."
Before he finishes speaking, Nolan maintains his smile, but the tense muscles in his body relax instantly. It's just a routine check. No need to escalate.
Nolan shakes his head slightly and pretends to complain. "Damn, I just came out to do some shopping."
The middle-aged officer shrugs helplessly. "Sorry, sir. Please show me your ID and then you can leave."
Nolan sets down his bags. He pulls out the ID he carries from his pocket.
The middle-aged officer takes it casually, glances at it for a few moments, then hands it back to Nolan. He says apologetically again, "Sorry to disturb your day."
Nolan nods, collects his purchases, and leaves the mall.
Only after Nolan's back disappears into the crowd does the middle-aged officer walk up to the dejected-looking young officer. Expressionless, he whispers, "The age is wrong. The report says the suspect is between twenty and forty years old. That young man was physically imposing, sure, but he's only eighteen. Too much youthful development."
"Shouldn't we be arresting criminals from the tracksuit gang? What's the point of searching for a murder suspect? Didn't you read the report? That suspect is the hero who saved those children!"
The young officer's face fills with indignation. His voice is suppressed but angry as he speaks.
"You're so naive. If the suspect who killed the gangsters is a hero, then what does that make us as police officers?"
The middle-aged officer sneers, his expression unchanged.
Then, suddenly, he says to the young officer, "Forget it. Go back to the car and rest. I'll look around a bit more before heading back."
The young officer storms out of the mall, visibly furious.
The expressionless middle-aged officer quickly pulls out his mobile phone and starts recording something.
On the phone's interface, more than a dozen names are densely recorded, each with an ID number and home address. These are all the suspects he's stopped and checked before.
Nolan's information is also recorded by the middle-aged officer!
After everything is done, the middle-aged officer hesitates for a moment, then chooses to send it.
"Damn it, I'd better get at least triple my usual payment this month. Otherwise, the current situation makes it too risky to help them."
The middle-aged officer mutters to himself.