Chapter 10: Sixty Seconds • Homelander is Still Working Overtime After Lockup
The elevator stopped on the forty-seventh floor.
Chen Mo checked his watch. 23:04. The security shift change window was three minutes and seventeen seconds.
Three days. He had spent three days casing the place. What time the shift change occurred, which direction the cameras faced, what kind of lock was on every door—he had memorized it all. Batman-level precise deduction wasn't just for show.
The fire door clicked shut softly behind him. The corridor lights were voice-activated, so he trod very lightly. His footsteps sank into the carpet fibers, barely audible even to himself.
The archives room was at the end of the corridor. A gray iron door, secured with a keypad and a card reader.
He squatted down and pulled a white card from the hidden compartment in his shoe sole. It was given to him by Allen. The access card of the former Vice President of the Legal Department, which should have been revoked three years ago. But Vought's IT department had a loophole—the access rights of former employees were only frozen, never deleted. As long as no one checked, this card was still active.
He swiped the card and entered the passcode.
Beep.
Green light.
The door opened.
Chen Mo slipped inside. The archives room wasn't large. Four rows of iron shelves, with files organized by year. The air conditioning was on, cold—a humming kind of cold. The temperature was set so low it felt like a walk-in freezer.
He walked straight to the last row, to the section starting with S.
2016. S-017.
The folder was very thin. A manila folder with frayed corners. He unlocked his phone and photographed it page by page. The shutter sound was turned off, with only the lens's light quickly scanning across the paper. He kept his breathing extremely shallow, ears strained—he couldn't miss a single sound, whether it was footsteps outside or the elevator chime.
The first page. Experiment number. Compound V batch records.
The second page. Participant list. Seven names, six of which were crossed out.
The third page. Death report.
The fourth page.
He turned to a photograph. A laboratory. A wreath. A corpse covered in a white sheet. It was identical to the one in Allen's safe.
He took twenty-one photos.
Then he closed the folder. He closed it and then opened it again to check if any other pages had been caught. Confirming everything was fine, he put it back in its original place, backed out of the room, and made sure the door lock reset. He turned and headed toward the fire escape.
He took seven steps.
The elevator chimed.
Ding.
The corridor lights all flared up. Footsteps approached from behind. They were very light, but clearly audible on the tiles.
"Working overtime?"
The voice wasn't loud. It carried a hint of amusement, like teasing a cat.
Chen Mo turned around.
Homelander stood at the elevator entrance. He was wearing dark blue pajamas and holding a glass of milk. It was a glass cup; the milk was hot, with white steam rising from it. He leaned against the doorframe, tilting his head as he looked at Chen Mo.
"Wandering around the office at this hour."
"I was hungry. Going downstairs to get a late-night snack."
Homelander chuckled. He lowered his head to take a sip of milk, then looked up at him. His blue eyes were incredibly bright under the lights. Unnaturally bright. Like surgical lamps.
"Do you think I believe you're here to buy a snack?"
The corridor fell silent. The hum of the air conditioning filled the air. Chen Mo could hear his own heartbeat.
He didn't reply.
Homelander took two steps forward. His bare feet stepped on the floor as he walked over, step by step. Every step felt coiled like a spring—ready to pounce at any second.
"I've been watching you for a long time, intern."
He stopped in front of Chen Mo, half a head taller. The warmth of the milk drifted into Chen Mo's face, sickly sweet.
"Last week, you went to Vermont. Rented a gray car. I don't need to tell you who you met, do I?"
Chen Mo didn't move. His palms were sweating. The back of his shirt clung to his skin, clammy.
"Alan Foster." When Homelander said those two words, his mouth twitched as if he had chewed on something disgusting. "That old fossil is still alive. I thought he was dead already."
He paused, tilting his head.
"Do you know what happened to the last person who went looking for Alan?"
Chen Mo didn't speak.
Homelander leaned closer, his nose almost touching Chen Mo's forehead. His voice dropped an octave.
"They're all dead."
Three words. Very light. As if he were speaking of something entirely trivial.
Chen Mo's stomach tightened, stomach acid rising to his throat. But he didn't back down. His feet felt as heavy as lead.
Homelander's eyes swept across his face like flipping through a book. Then he smiled—a highly satisfied smile.
"You're afraid of me."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Chen Mo took a deep breath. His mouth was dry. He swallowed, then swallowed again, staring into those blue eyes.
"You guessed right. I didn't come to get a snack."
Homelander's smile didn't waver, but the corners of his eyes tightened slightly. It was subtle, like a window opening a tiny crack.
"What did you come to take?"
"Something you don't know about."
The corridor fell silent again. For about three seconds. The wind blew cold from the air conditioning vents. That kind of cold.
Homelander looked at him. The glass of milk paused at his lips, untouched.
"You think you can hear everything," Chen Mo said, his voice steady. "Conversations outside glass windows. Whispers through walls. Your ears are indeed incredible."
He paused.
"But you don't actually hear everything. You just think you do."
Homelander's expression changed. It wasn't anger; it was curiosity. Like watching an ant stand up to talk to him. Very novel.
"Go on."
"When you are on the rooftop, you can't hear the corridor downstairs. When you are in your office, you can't hear the fire escape. When you're eating, in a meeting, being interviewed—your ears are focused elsewhere."
Chen Mo looked at him.
"You can't see what you can't see."
Homelander's hand holding the milk didn't budge. The light in his blue eyes shifted, like a filament suddenly flaring up, brightening and then dimming.
"Do you know who you are talking to?"
"I do."
"Good."
He took half a step back, tilting his head to drain the last sip of milk. The bottom of the glass flashed for a brief second under the light.
He turned and walked toward the elevator.
After two steps, he stopped.
"I'll let you off this once."
Chen Mo remained still.
"Not because you convinced me," Homelander said without turning around. "But because you think you've won. That look—I like it."
He reached out and pressed the elevator button.
Ding. The door opened.
He stepped inside and turned around, looking at Chen Mothrough the closing elevator doors.
"Pick another time next time. Not when I'm drinking milk."
The doors closed. The floor numbers began ticking down. 18. 17. 16.
Chen Mo stood frozen. His back was completely drenched. His fingers were shaking—only starting to shake now, the tremors vibrating all the way up his entire arm.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to turn around.
He pushed open the fire escape door and headed downstairs. His legs were weak as he stepped on the stairs, nearly missing a step. He grabbed the handrail, the iron bar icy cold.
One flight, another flight, and another.
Walking down from the forty-seventh floor, his knees protested with every single step.
He exited the building's lobby. The night breeze hit his face, cool and refreshing. There was hardly anyone on the street. The streetlights were lit. Across the street was a convenience store, its lights stark white.
He squatted by the roadside, his hands still shaking. He pulled out his phone, swiping twice before unlocking the screen. He went through the twenty-one photos he had taken in those forty seconds. Every page was perfectly clear, none of them blurry. Even the handwriting was legible.
He muttered something in a barely audible whisper.
It sounded like 'enough'.
Or perhaps something else.
A notification popped up at the top of the screen.
[S-017 File Parsing... Analysis Progress 40%, Approver: M.E.]
He stared at the line of text, motionless.
Approver: M.E.
Madelyn Stillwell.
She was still alive.
Chapter 11: Reception
Vought's 50th Anniversary Reception.
Chen Mo stood in a corner, holding a glass of champagne.
The champagne was iced; tiny beads of water condensed on the glass, sliding down drop by drop.
The suit was rented. It was dark blue, the cuffs were a bit too long, and the tie was tied slightly crooked.
He had adjusted it in front of the mirror for forty minutes before finally giving up—it just wouldn't tie right.
He learned Batman's fighting techniques quickly, but as for tying a tie, Bruce Wayne had a butler, while he did not.
The hall was packed with people.
Vought executives, The Seven, politicians, reporters, and several Hollywood stars whose names he couldn't recall.
Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, illuminating everyone's faces until they shone.
The champagne tower was stacked three tiers high, looking like a small, transparent mountain under the lights.
Captain America's abilities left his senses wide open.
He could hear everyone's conversation.
It wasn't eavesdropping—it was forced listening.
Voices poured in from all directions, flooding into his ears like a tide.
To his left, two executives were chatting about the quarterly financial report. "The third-quarter profits are up twelve percent, Adeline is very happy."
To his right, a reporter was on the phone: "Yes, Homelander hasn't appeared yet; everyone is waiting for him."
Behind him, a female star was complaining about her high heels: "The designer of these shoes definitely hasn't walked anywhere before."
Chen Mo took a sip of champagne.
The ice-cold liquid slid down his throat, carrying tiny bubbles.
He closed his eyes, trying to filter out the voices.
But it was useless.
Captain America's abilities didn't have an off switch—if he heard it, he heard it, and every word was crystal clear.
Then he heard footsteps.
High heels, the rhythm neither fast nor slow, cutting through the crowd and getting closer and closer.
He opened his eyes.
Starlight stood before him.
A blue dress.
Not that kind of sparkly, formal-wear blue, but a deep blue, like the surface of the ocean in the dead of night.
The hem reached her knees, revealing a length of fair calf.
Her hair was pinned up, exposing her neck and collarbone.
There was a tiny mole on her collarbone.
Chen Mo was taken aback for a moment.
"You look like you're about to run away," Starlight said.
Chen Mo looked down at himself—holding the champagne, leaning in the corner, his body slightly angled toward the door.
It was indeed a posture ready to bolt at any moment.
"I actually do want to run away," he said.
Starlight smiled.
That smile wasn't as restrained as usual—the corners of her mouth curled up a bit more than normal, and her eyes crinkled along with them.
It was as if she were genuinely amused.
"Don't run."
Chen Mo looked at her.
"We agreed to embarrass ourselves together," Starlight said. "If you run off, what's the point of me embarrassing myself alone?"
Chen Mo couldn't help but laugh.
"Fine. Embarrass ourselves together."
Starlight reached out her hand.
Chen Mo looked at that hand—slender fingers, nails painted with clear polish, shimmering slightly under the lights.
He hesitated for about half a second, then placed his hand on hers.
Starlight's hand was cooler than his.
Perhaps because she had been holding a champagne glass.
But her palm was warm.
"Do you know how to dance?" Starlight asked.
"No."
"Great. Neither do I."
They began to dance.
Calling it dancing would be less accurate than saying they were stepping on each other's feet to the music.
Chen Mo stepped on her three times—the first time on the hem of her dress, the second on the toe of her shoe, and the third on her foot.
Starlight stepped on him twice—once while he was turning, and once when he was trying to recover from his previous mistake.
"Sorry."
"It's okay."
"I'm really sorry."
"I said it's okay."
"I stepped on you again."
"Stop counting."
Chen Mo laughed out loud.
Not the restrained, polite kind of laugh—a real laugh, one where his chest vibrated.
He didn't know how long it had been since he'd laughed like this.
Perhaps not since he arrived in this World.
Starlight was laughing too.
When she laughed, she tilted her head back slightly, revealing the curve of her neck.
The mole on her collarbone rose and fell with her breathing.
"You know," Starlight said, her breath still uneven, "the last time I danced was at my high school prom."
"And then?"
"Then my dance partner stepped on me fourteen times."
"Then I'm better than him. I've only stepped on you twice."
"Three times. You stepped on me three times."
"Oh. Still better than him."
Starlight laughed again.
This time the laugh was very light, the kind of laugh that comes after letting out a deep breath.
The music continued.
It was a slow jazz track, the sound of the saxophone drifting through the air like a thin layer of mist.
People flowed around them—clinking glasses, chatting, taking pictures.
But those sounds were distant, as if separated by a pane of glass.
Starlight leaned in a little closer.
Her lips were almost touching his ear.
Her breath was warm, carrying the scent of champagne and peppermint.
"Do you have something else to do today?"
Chen Mo's body stiffened for a moment.
"Your eyes keep looking toward the elevators," Starlight said. "Since we started dancing, you've looked six times."
Chen Mo didn't speak.
"If you know, then don't stop me," he said.
Starlight pulled back a little and looked into his eyes.
Her eyes were bright under the lights, as if something were swirling inside them.
It wasn't tears, but something else—as if she, too, were making some kind of decision.
"I won't stop you."
Chen Mo paused.
"But you have to promise me one thing."
"Go ahead."
"Come back alive."
Four words.
Very light.
So light they were almost drowned out by the music.
But Chen Mo heard them clearly.
He looked at her.
She was looking at him too.
The two of them just stood there in the middle of the dance floor, with people flowing around them, the music still playing, and the crystal chandeliers still shining overhead.
"Okay," Chen Mo said.
Starlight let go of his hand.
Chen Mo turned, wove through the crowd, and walked toward the elevators.
His pace was neither fast nor slow.
He could feel Starlight's gaze resting on his back—it wasn't like Homelander's gaze.
Homelander's gaze was like needles pricking the back of his neck.
Starlight's gaze was like a hand, gently resting on his shoulder.
He walked to the elevator and pressed the up button.
The elevator doors opened.
He stepped inside and pressed the button for the 68th floor.
The moment the elevator doors closed, he pulled something out of his suit's inner pocket—
A trash can lid.
Silver, circular, with slightly curled edges.
It was something he'd picked up from behind a trash can in the reception kitchen.
Neither too big nor too small, just right to cover his chest.
Vought Tower's security system would detect metal weapons, but it wouldn't detect a trash can lid.
Because it wasn't a weapon to begin with.
Chen Mo held the trash can lid up in front of him and looked at his reflection on the silver surface.
It was distorted—his face was stretched out long, like a funhouse mirror.
He curled the corners of his mouth.
The elevator began to ascend.
The numbers ticked up one by one. 35, 36, 37.
Chen Mo took a deep breath.
He began to run through the plan in his mind—Homelander was at the reception and would need at least half an hour to get away.
There should only be security guards on duty and cleaners on the 68th floor right now.
He had already memorized the locations of the three security cameras.
The bug was still under the desk.
He only needed ten minutes—get into the office, search the desk and the safe, and find any paper documents related to The White House.
38, 39, 40.
He remembered Starlight's words from just a moment ago.
Come back alive.
He pressed the trash can lid tightly against his chest; the metal was ice-cold, seeping through the fabric of his shirt.
41, 42, 43.
The elevator was still ascending.
He closed his eyes.
Come back alive.
—He didn't know if he could keep that promise.
Chapter 12: The White House
The 68th floor.
When the elevator doors opened, the corridor was empty. The low hum of the air conditioning drifted down from the ceiling, making it feel like a completely different Worldfrom the noisy cocktail party downstairs.
Chen Mo stepped out, the trash can lid pressed against his chest, hidden inside his suit jacket. His footsteps were very light—not because he was intentionally keeping them quiet, but because Batman's ability was automatically controlling them. The soles of his feet touched down, outer edge first then inner, each step landing on the thickest part of the carpet.
At the end of the corridor was a white door.
There was no room number. No sign. It was just an ordinary white wooden door, identical to the other office doors on this floor. If he hadn't heard Homelander mention "come in through the white door" over the wiretap during a phone call, he wouldn't have noticed anything special about this door at all.
Chen Mo reached out and grabbed the doorknob.
Unlocked.
He pushed the door open, slipped inside, and gently closed it behind him. Click—the sound of the lock latching back into place sounded like a gunshot in the quiet corridor. He held his breath and waited for five seconds. No one came.
He turned around.
The living room was ridiculously large.
The ceiling was at least five meters high, with a crystal chandelier hanging down like an inverted iceberg. Floor-to-ceiling windows took up an entire wall, with Manhattan's night view sprawling out outside—the Empire State Building, the glimmer of the Statue of Liberty, and the dotted lights of ships on the distant Hudson River. The furniture was all dark solid wood, the sofa was white, and an open magazine lay on the coffee table—Vought Weekly, with Homelander's face on the cover.
Chen Mo quickly scanned the entire space. A living room, an open kitchen, and a hallway leading to the bedroom—this was a duplex apartment, not an office. Homelanderhad turned this floor into his private residence.
His eyes fell on the second door at the end of the hallway.
The study.
Chen Mo walked over and pushed the door open. The study was smaller than the living room, but still ridiculously large. Three of the walls were lined with bookshelves, packed with books from floor to ceiling. But Chen Mo noticed that the spines of many books were brand new, with no signs of having been read. Some books hadn't even had their plastic wrap removed.
Just for show.
Moving his gaze away from the bookshelves, he began to scan the entire room. Batman's ability automatically activated—searching for a safe. Not looking for an obvious safe, but looking for "places where a safe should be hidden."
Behind the bookshelves? He tapped the wall—solid.
Under the floorboards? He crouched down and tapped twice—also solid.
Behind the painting? An oil painting hung on the wall, depicting Homelander standing atop a mountain peak with his cape billowing in the wind. Chen Mo walked over and lifted the painting—
No safe.
He took a step back and re-examined the entire room. The desk, desk lamp, leather chair, bookshelves, painting, carpet, green plants—
The green plant.
In the corner of the room stood a giant monstera plant, its leaves as large as washbasins. The pot was ceramic, white, and at least half a meter in diameter.
Chen Mo walked over and tried to push the pot.
It didn't budge.
He squatted down and ran his fingers around the bottom of the pot—he felt metal.
He moved the pot outward. With Captain America's strength—the pot was very heavy, but it was nothing to him. The monstera's leaves brushed against the ceiling, making a rustling sound. Once the pot was moved aside, a square metal plate on the floor was revealed.
A hidden compartment.
Chen Mo lifted the metal plate. Beneath it was a safe. It was gray, embedded in the floor, with only the top face exposed. A rotary combination lock, three numbers per set, four sets in total.
He reached out, gripped the dial, and tried to force it with a hard twist.
With Captain America's strength—the door of the safe groaned, deforming slightly. But it didn't open completely. High-strength alloy wasn't something that could be pried open by brute force alone.
He released his grip and flexed his fingers.
Then he would use his hearing.
Chen Mo pressed his ear against the safe door and gently turned the dial. One turn, two turns, three turns—calibration. Then he began to rotate it clockwise, listening intently to the sound inside the lock cylinder as each increment passed.
Click.
First number—14.
He took a deep breath and rotated it counterclockwise.
Click.
Second number—27.
His hand was steady. His heartbeat was steady. Batman's ability was helping him—controlling his heart rate, controlling his breathing, controlling every tiny tremor in his fingers.
Clockwise.
Click.
Third number—8.
Counterclockwise.
Click.
Fourth number—33.
Chen Mo opened his eyes, gripped the handle, and pressed down.
The safe opened.
He glanced at his watch—four minutes and seven seconds.
Inside the safe was a stack of documents. White A4 paper, without any Vought logo. Each page had only a single table—Compound V Special Orders. Order number, product quantity, consignee, remarks.
Chen Mo picked up the top sheet.
Order Number: S-017-004.
Product Quantity: 50 vials.
Consignee: None.
Remarks: Stan Edgar.
He flipped to the second sheet.
S-017-007. 75 vials. Consignee: None. Remarks: Stan Edgar.
The third sheet.
S-017-012. 100 vials. Consignee: None. Remarks: Stan Edgar.
Chen Mo flipped through them one by one. Every single sheet had "None" as the consignee, and every remarks column had the same name written in it—Stan Edgar.
Stan Edgar.
The CEO of Vought. The man at the helm of the entire Vought empire. The old man who always smiled at press conferences and spoke flawlessly. The one who claimed that "Vought doesn't need superheroes, Vought needs brands."
The orders for Compound V had the consignee listed as Homelander's White House, but the remarks column was signed with the CEO's name.
Chen Mo pulled out his phone and took photos page by page. His hands were extremely steady, and every picture came out perfectly clear. The sound of the shutter was exceptionally distinct in the quiet study—click, click, click.
He took twenty-three photos.
He put the documents back into the safe, closed the door, and spun the dial to scramble the combination. Then he pushed the pot back to its original position. The leaves of the monstera shook a few times before settling back into silence.
Just as he straightened up—
Footsteps came from outside.
Not in the corridor, but in the living room. The footsteps were heavy, each step landing firmly. It wasn't the stride of a security guard—guards wouldn't walk with such confidence.
Chen Mo's pupils contracted sharply.
Homelander.
He quickly scanned the study—no windows. The only exit was that door leading to the living room. He listened to the direction of the footsteps—in the center of the living room, heading toward the study.
No time to get out.
Chen Mo flipped over and rolled behind the sofa. It was a dark brown leather sofa with a high back, just enough to hide a person. He curled up in the gap between the sofa and the wall, holding the trash can lid in front of his chest and holding his breath.
The footsteps drew closer and closer.
The door opened.
The light in the study was switched on—with a click, light poured down from overhead.
Then, a silence fell.
Chen Mo could hear his own heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump—he tried to suppress it using Batman's ability, but this time he couldn't.
Homelander stood in the center of the room.
Silence.
Those few seconds felt as long as a century. Every single one of Chen Mo's nerves was strained, his fingers tightly gripping the edge of the trash can lid. The metallic edge was somewhat sharp, cutting into his palm.
Then Homelander spoke.
"My friend behind the sofa, are you going to come out on your own, or should I throw you along with the sofa off the 68th floor?"
Chen Mo's fingers tightened on the edge of the trash can lid for a moment, then released.
He stood up.
He walked out from behind the sofa, still holding that silver trash can lid—blocking his chest. He knew it was stupid. A trash can lid couldn't block Homelander's Heat Vision. But it was the only thing he could hold in his hands right now.
Homelander looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
"Intern?"
Chen Mo didn't speak.
Homelander looked at the trash can lid in his hand, the corners of his mouth slowly curling up. It wasn't an angry smile, but an amused one.
"You brought a trash can lid to steal from me?"
Chen Mo lowered the trash can lid.
"A trash can lid is actually quite useful," he said. "Lightweight and environmentally friendly."
Homelander stared at him for two seconds. Then—he laughed. Not a fake smile, but a genuine laugh. The laughter echoed in the study, carrying a sense of disbelief.
"You're pretty fucking interesting!" Homelander said.
Chapter 13: Standoff
Chen Mo stood up from behind the sofa.
Homelander sat in the leather chair in the study, legs crossed, holding a glass of red wine in his hand.
The wine slid slowly down the side of the glass, deep red, resembling congealed blood under the light of the desk lamp.
He was smiling.
It wasn't the kind of smile he wore in front of the cameras.
It wasn't the kind of smile he wore at morning meetings.
It was a smile—where the corners of his mouth turned up, but his eyes didn't move, even colder than if they hadn't moved at all.
That smile was not one of appreciation.
It was the smile of "I've already figured out how to kill you."
Chen Mo stood in the center of the study, still holding that trash can lid in his hand.
He knew he looked ridiculous right now—an intern, wearing a rented suit, holding a kitchen trash can lid, standing in the private study of the most dangerous person in the World.
But he didn't put it down.
Homelander took a sip of red wine and placed the glass on the table.
His movements were slow and composed, as if he were entertaining an uninvited guest in his own home.
"I knew it," he said.
Chen Mo looked at him.
"A background that's too clean must have problems," Homelander leaned back in his chair, hands crossed over his abdomen. "Orphanage background, average grades, no criminal record, no social media accounts. The resume is so clean it looks bleached. I thought at the time—this guy has issues."
Chen Mo didn't speak.
"But I didn't expect you to be this bold." Homelander stood up, holding his wine glass, and walked over to him.
He was close enough to smell the cologne.
A woody scent, mixed with the smell of red wine.
Chen Mo could clearly see every wrinkle on his shirt collar and the blue stubble on his chin where he had just shaved.
"I just took a wrong turn," Chen Mo said.
Homelander raised an eyebrow.
"A wrong turn to the sixty-eighth floor into my study?"
Chen Mo didn't respond.
"Your sense of direction is quite unique," Homelander said. "Taking a wrong turn from the first-floor reception to the top-floor private residence, while bypassing three security doors along the way. With this sense of direction, I suggest you apply to the Vought security department."
Chen Mo stared into his eyes.
Those blue eyes were very bright under the light, unnaturally so—as if there was light flowing inside them.
Captain America's ability was running silently within his body.
Chen Mo could hear Homelander's heartbeat—thump, thump, thump, much slower than a normal person's.
About forty beats per minute.
It wasn't nervousness; it was absolute confidence.
This man stood in front of him with a heartbeat steadier than someone who had just finished yoga.
"Do you know why I don't kill you?"
Chen Mo's breathing stopped for a split second.
"Because I'm curious," Homelander tilted his head, like a cat examining a mouse. "Where did your ability come from?"
Chen Mo's heart suddenly accelerated.
He felt it—his heart slammed heavily against his chest, like it had been hit with a hammer.
But his expression didn't change.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Homelander smiled.
"Your heart rate accelerated," he said. "Your pupils dilated. You're lying."
Chen Mo looked at him.
The distance between the two was less than half a meter.
He could feel the heat radiating from Homelander—not heat in a metaphorical sense, but real heat.
It was as if there was a furnace inside him, which could be felt even across the air.
"Anyone would have an accelerated heartbeat if they were caught hiding behind Homelander's sofa," Chen Mo said.
Homelander stared at him for five seconds.
During those five seconds, Chen Mo felt like he was under a microscope.
That gaze swept across his face—forehead, eyes, nose, mouth, chin—as if dissecting a map, not missing a single inch.
Then Homelander took a step back.
It wasn't weakness; it was relaxation.
It was like a hunter who, after confirming the prey couldn't escape, decided to play with it first.
"You're right," Homelander turned and walked back to the desk, picked up his glass, and took another sip. "Anyone would have an accelerated heartbeat if they were caught hiding behind Homelander's sofa. That is a reasonable explanation."
Chen Mo didn't relax.
He knew this was just the beginning.
"But those photos you took—" Homelander said, with his back to him, looking at the night view outside the window, "I don't care."
Chen Mo's fingers tightened on the edge of the trash can lid.
"You can go ahead and show them to Butcher," Homelander turned around, leaning against the edge of the desk, holding his wine glass, his posture very casual. "Anyway, he wouldn't believe it. An intern, holding a stack of photos, saying the Vought CEO is secretly delivering Compound V to Homelander—do you think he would believe you?"
Chen Mo didn't speak.
"Oh right, you would indeed show them to him. Because you have already met." Homelander scoffed lightly. "That bar, the Underground Room, the Nokia phone. Did you think I didn't know?"
Chen Mo's blood froze for a second.
"I know everything about you," Homelander said, his tone very light, as if he were talking about the weather. "What your name is, where you're from, what time you get up every day, what you eat for breakfast, who you've met, what you have in your pockets. I know."
He put down the wine glass and walked over slowly.
"But I don't care."
He stopped in front of Chen Mo, even closer this time.
Close enough for Chen Mo to see his own reflection in his pupils.
"Because in this World, knowing the truth isn't important. What's important is—who has the ability to make the truth disappear."
He reached out and patted Chen Mo's shoulder.
That hand was heavy, pressing on his shoulder like a piece of iron.
"Those photos you took will disappear from your phone tomorrow. The documents you saw tonight will be replaced with a new batch tomorrow. Everything you tell Butcher, I will know. Everything you do is on my chessboard."
Chen Mo stood where he was, his palms covered in sweat.
He felt his muscles tightening slightly—Captain America's power surging within him, ready to erupt at any moment.
But he suppressed it.
It wasn't the time.
Homelander released his shoulder and turned toward the liquor cabinet.
With his back to him.
"But you must remember—"
His voice became very soft.
So soft it almost didn't sound like he was speaking, but like he was reciting a spell.
"I can make The Deep 'accidentally die,' and I can make Park Soon-ja 'accidentally die.' Every step you take, you must think clearly about who that step might kill."
Chen Mo stood where he was.
The edge of the trash can lid cut into his palm.
The metal was cold.
But he couldn't feel the pain.
He wasn't afraid.
It was anger.
That kind of anger rose from his stomach, crawled up his spine, and burned to his throat.
He thought of Park Soon-ja—the auntie who gave him an extra scoop of braised pork in the cafeteria.
He thought of the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled.
He thought of her saying "Young man, eat more."
Homelander knew her name.
That was enough!
Chen Mo took a deep breath.
Captain America's ability helped him control his breathing—inhale for four seconds, hold for two seconds, exhale for four seconds.
The anger was suppressed.
Not dispelled—but hidden.
Like hiding a knife in one's sleeve, waiting for the right moment to pull it out.
"Thanks for the hospitality," he said. "The red wine is good."
Homelander turned his head and glanced at him.
There was a hint of surprise in that look—as if he hadn't expected this intern to be able to say such things after being threatened.
"You are indeed quite interesting," Homelander said. "I'm starting to understand why Starlight likes you."
Chen Mo's brow twitched.
"Oh, you didn't know?" Homelander smiled half-heartedly. "The way she looks at you is different from how she looks at others. I've known her for many years, I can tell the difference."
Chen Mo didn't respond.
He turned and walked toward the door.
"Intern."
He stopped, without looking back.
"Call before you come next time. So I can prepare some good wine."
Chen Mo walked out of the study, crossed the living room, opened the white door, and walked into the hallway.
The moment the elevator door closed, he leaned against the elevator wall and closed his eyes.
His hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
It was rage.
He put the trash can lid on the floor and took his phone out of his pocket—the photos were still there.
Homelander said they would disappear tomorrow.
That meant he still had tonight.
The elevator was descending.
The numbers ticked down one by one.
He opened his eyes and looked at his distorted reflection in the elevator wall.
Stan Edgar.
Compound V.
The White House.
Homelander knew everything, but he didn't care.
Because he felt he was in control of everything.
Chen Mo put his phone back in his pocket and bent down to pick up the trash can lid.
In control of everything?
The corners of his mouth twitched.
You don't even know what my true ability is!
Chapter 14: Starlight's Heartbeat
When Chen Mo walked out of the elevator, his legs were weak.
It wasn't fear.
It was anger!
That anger was like a ball of Fire stuck in his chest, burning his throat dry.
Homelander knew everything.
He knew about Butcher, he knew about Nokia, he knew about Park Soon-ja, and he knew about the photos Chen Mo had taken.
But he didn't care.
Because he felt he was in control of everything—every chess piece was on his board, and every step was within his expectations.
Chen Mo walked through the crowd.
The reception was still ongoing, the crystal chandeliers were still shining, and the champagne tower was still bubbling.
Everyone was laughing, clinking glasses, and chatting.
No one noticed a pale-faced intern walking out of the elevator.
A hand grabbed his wrist.
He turned around abruptly—Starlight.
She looked at him, saying nothing.
But her eyes said it all.
She pulled him through the crowd, bypassed the champagne tower, pushed open a side door, and walked into a quiet corridor.
At the end of the corridor was a small balcony, and outside was the night sky of Manhattan.
Starlight closed the door.
The music and conversation were cut off outside the door.
It was quiet on the balcony, with only the occasional sound of car horns from afar.
"Did you see him?" Starlight asked.
Chen Mo leaned against the railing, looking down at his hands.
They were still trembling slightly.
"He knows everything."
Starlight was silent for a moment.
"Then you know now—in this World, the more you know, the faster you die."
Chen Mo looked up at her.
The night wind blew over, stirring the loose hair on her forehead.
Her blue skirt fluttered gently in the wind.
"Then why aren't you dead yet?" he asked.
Starlight looked at him.
There was a lot in that gaze—exhaustion, helplessness, and a little bit of... tenderness.
"Because I pretend I don't know anything."
Chen Mo looked into her eyes.
He suddenly realized—Starlight had been in this hell for three years.
Three years.
Smiling every day in uniform.
Saying things she didn't believe in front of the camera every day.
Spending every day with people she detested.
Pretending every day that she didn't know anything.
He looked at her face.
It wasn't the face on the magazine cover, nor the smiling face at the morning meeting.
It was the real her—with faint lines of exhaustion at the corners of her eyes, her lips slightly pursed, as if she were enduring something.
"I deleted your location history for you."
Starlight was stunned.
"From now on, no one will know what you do."
Starlight was dumbfounded.
She just stood there, looking at him.
The night wind blew between them, carrying the scent of the city—exhaust fumes, the aroma of hot dog stands, the fishy smell of the distant Water.
For the first time in this World, she felt someone protecting her.
It wasn't the kind of protection that said, "I will defeat the bad guys."
It wasn't the kind of protection that said, "I am a superhero, so I can protect you."
It was the kind of protection that said—I know you are trapped, so I will help you unlock the cage.
Starlight took a step forward.
Then she kissed him.
It wasn't a passionate kiss.
It wasn't the kind of kiss from the movies—where music starts playing and fireworks explode the moment lips touch.
It was a "thank you" kind of kiss.
Very light.
Very brief.
Lips touched lips, lingering for about two seconds.
Then she pulled away.
Chen Mo stood where he was, not moving.
Starlight lowered her head and smiled.
That smile was different from all her previous ones—it wasn't a polite smile, not a restrained smile, not a bitter smile.
It was the kind of smile—that she herself hadn't expected to make.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because... I don't know. Maybe it's because I've never done anything like this before."
Chen Mo looked at her.
The tips of her ears were red.
It wasn't very clear in the night, but he saw it.
"It's okay," he said.
Starlight looked up into his eyes.
The two of them just stood there, neither of them speaking.
Outside the balcony was the night view of New York, with thousands of lights.
In the distance, the top floor of Vought Tower was still lit—Homelander was still up there.
"Do you know?" Starlight said, her voice very soft, as if afraid it might be carried away by the wind.
Chen Mo looked at her.
"You are the first person to make me feel that this World is still worth saving."
Chen Mo didn't answer.
He didn't know how to answer.
Because he himself wasn't sure if this World was worth saving.
He wasn't even sure if he could survive until tomorrow.
Homelander knew his name, knew his background, and knew how many coins were in his pocket.
He was like an insect in a glass jar, every antenna under someone else's gaze.
But he knew one thing—he now had a reason not to die.
It wasn't Butcher's mission.
It wasn't Batman's responsibility.
It was her.
Chen Mo looked down at Starlight leaning on his shoulder.
Her eyelashes were long, casting a small shadow under the streetlights.
Her breathing was steady, as if she had finally found a place where she could relax.
He remembered the first time he saw her in the cafeteria—she was carrying a tray, her eyes fixed on the ground, as if afraid to make eye contact with anyone.
He remembered her saying, "Everyone in this building is smiling, but under the table, everyone's hands are stained with something."
He remembered her saying that her mother cried when she saw her glow for the first time.
She was also a person trapped in a cage.
But he had just unlocked the cage for her.
Starlight leaned on his shoulder.
Her hair smelled of shampoo—not the expensive perfume kind, but the ordinary kind you can buy at the supermarket.
Sweet orange scent.
Chen Mo looked up at the night sky.
You couldn't see any stars in the sky over Manhattan.
Only the lights of a few airplanes moved slowly across the sky, like slow-motion meteors.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
"No."
"You are trembling."
Starlight was silent for a moment.
"Okay, a little cold."
Chen Mo took off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
The jacket was a bit big, slipping off her shoulders a bit.
Starlight pulled the lapels, wrapping the jacket tighter around herself.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
The two of them continued to stand there.
In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard, approaching and then fading away.
The city is never quiet at night, but on this small balcony, everything seemed to have been pressed on pause.
"What are you going to do next?" Starlight asked.
Chen Mo looked at the lights of Vought Tower in the distance.
"Keep investigating."
"Until what?"
"Until I find the truth."
Starlight didn't speak.
She buried her face in the collar of his jacket and took a deep breath.
"Then I'll go with you."
Chen Mo looked down at her.
"No need," he said. "You've already helped me a lot."
"I'm not helping you," Starlight said, looking up into his eyes. "I'm choosing which side to stand on."
Chen Mo looked into her eyes.
Those eyes were bright in the night.
"Which side?"
"Your side."
Chen Mo didn't speak.
He reached out and gently held her hand.
Starlight's fingers twitched, then she squeezed his hand back.
Their hands held each other in the night wind, neither very warm, but both holding on tightly.
The lights on the top floor of Vought Tower in the distance went out.
Homelander turned off the lights.
But Chen Mo didn't look in that direction anymore.
He looked down at Starlight.
The corners of her mouth turned up slightly.
It wasn't a restrained smile, but the kind of smile that comes from finding someone you can trust.
Chen Mo smiled too.
It wasn't the smile of a plan succeeding.
It wasn't the smile of "I have an extra trump card."
It was the smile of "So, I'm not alone."
Chapter 15: Starlight
It was past midnight when the reception ended.
Starlight said her apartment wasn't far from here. Chen Moagreed. The two did not call a car and walked south along Fifth Avenue.
The night breeze was cool, blowing away the scent of perfume and champagne that had lingered on their clothes from the reception.
Starlight was still draped in his suit jacket; the sleeves were too long, making her look like a child wearing an adult's clothes.
There was no one on the road. Occasionally, a taxi would drive by, its headlights sweeping over them before vanishing into the night.
Starlight walked slowly, her high heels clicking crisply against the sidewalk. Chen Mo walked beside her, slowing his pace to match her rhythm.
They didn't speak, but the silence wasn't awkward—it was as if both of them knew that some things needed to be said in a safer place.
Starlight's apartment was on a quiet street. It wasn't one of those luxury high-rises; it was on the fourth floor of an old brick building with no elevator.
The lights in the stairwell were voice-activated, so they had to stomp their feet every time they went up a floor.
She took out her keys and opened the door.
The apartment was small. A one-bedroom, with the kitchen and living room connected. But it was clean.
There were no hero posters on the walls, no trophies, no Vought logos—nothing related to Vought.
On the windowsill sat a pothos plant, its leaves drooping and swaying gently in the night breeze. A plush throw pillow was tossed on the sofa; it was beige and slightly worn at the corners.
Chen Mo stood at the doorway, scanning the space. This was the least "The Seven" member-like residence he had ever seen.
"Make yourself at home," Starlight said.
Chen Mo sat on the sofa. It was a bit soft, sinking in when he sat down. Starlight went to the kitchen, poured two glasses of Water, brought them over, and sat beside him. There was a fist's distance between them.
The glasses of Water were placed on the coffee table. The surface of the Water was calm, reflecting the light from the ceiling.
The two remained silent for a long time.
It wasn't the kind of silence where they didn't know what to say. It was the kind where there was so much to say, but they didn't know where to start.
Starlight spoke first.
"You know?"
Chen Mo looked at her.
"The first day I joined The Seven, Homelander made me kill someone."
Chen Mo's fingers tightened on his knees.
"An ordinary person. Not a villain, not a criminal. Just an ordinary person who saw something they shouldn't have." Starlight's voice was flat, as if she were telling someone else's story. "He was tied to a chair with a cloth stuffed in his mouth. Homelander handed me a gun and said, 'Kill him.'"
She lowered her head and looked at her hands.
"I refused."
Chen Mo didn't speak.
"He said—'If you don't kill him, I'll kill your whole family.'"
Starlight's breathing became very light. It was as if her chest would automatically tighten whenever she spoke those words.
"I killed that person."
She raised her head and looked at the opposite wall. There was nothing on the wall—a white wall, not even a painting.
"Since then, I haven't been a hero."
Chen Mo looked at her profile. Her eyes weren't red—it was as if she had told this story so many times that she couldn't cry anymore.
He reached out and took her hand.
Starlight's fingers were cold.
"You are not a murderer," Chen Mo said.
Starlight didn't move.
"You are a victim."
Starlight's fingers twitched. She turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were red—not the kind of red that precedes a breakdown, but the kind that comes from holding it in for so long and finally having someone see the truth.
"You are the first person to say that."
Chen Mo didn't let go of her hand.
Starlight looked at him. For a long time. Then she leaned in and kissed him.
This kiss was different from the one on the balcony.
It wasn't gratitude.
It was "I need you."
Chen Mo could feel her lips trembling. It wasn't nervousness; it was as if she had been holding back for so long and had finally found an outlet. Her fingers gripped the front of his shirt tightly, her knuckles turning white.
Chen Mo reached out and wrapped his arms around her back.
The two slid off the sofa; he didn't know who moved first. Their knees hit the edge of the coffee table, the glasses of Water wobbled, and ripples spread across the surface. Then they fell onto the sofa, Starlight looking down at him from above, her hair hanging down to create a semi-enclosed space. In this space, there were only the two of them.
No Homelander. No Vought. No Butcher. No mission. Just her and him.
Starlight lowered her head and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her breath was hot, hitting his skin rhythmically.
"Don't go," she said.
"I won't."
They moved from the sofa to the bedroom. It wasn't frantic passion—it was the tenderness of "I need you here." Every movement was slow, as if confirming each other's existence. Starlight's fingertips traced his back, leaving a faint sensation. Chen Mo's fingers ran through her hair, strands winding between his fingers.
Afterward, Starlight buried her head in his chest.
Her hair spread out, covering the pillow, shimmering faintly in the light from the streetlamp. Chen Mo's chin rested on the top of her head, and he could smell the scent of sweet orange shampoo.
"You are the first person who has made me feel safe," she said. Her voice was very soft, as if she were afraid of being overheard.
Chen Mo didn't speak. He tightened his arms, holding her a little closer.
Starlight's hand rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. One, two, three—rhythmic, steady.
"Your heartbeat is very steady," she said.
"Is it?"
"Yeah. Like my dad's heartbeat."
Chen Mo looked down at her.
"Your dad?"
"When I was little and couldn't sleep, I would lie on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. I'd always fall asleep listening to it."
Chen Mo didn't respond. He felt Starlight's breathing slow down, and her body gradually relax.
"Do you hate him?" he asked.
Starlight was silent for a moment.
"Who?"
"Homelander."
Starlight didn't speak. She moved her hand from his chest and placed it by her side.
"I don't know," she said. "Sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I think he's a victim too—created by Vought, locked in a cage since he was a child. But most of the time, I think he's just an asshole."
Chen Mo curled his lips slightly.
"That's a pretty accurate assessment."
Starlight smiled too. It was a faint smile, heavy with sleepiness.
"Do you still have work tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yeah. Hero Relationship Department, at eight-thirty."
"Then you have... six hours left."
"That's enough!"
Starlight didn't speak. Her breathing became slower and deeper. Chen Mo felt her body relax completely, as if she had finally let down all her defenses.
He looked down at her.
She was asleep.
She didn't look like a member of The Seven. She didn't look like that superhero who shone in front of the cameras. She looked just like—an ordinary twenty-three-year-old girl. Her eyelashes were long, her breathing was light, and the corners of her mouth were slightly upturned, as if she were having a good dream.
Chen Mo watched her for a long time.
Then he gently kissed her forehead.
He reached out and picked up his phone from the nightstand. The light from the screen illuminated his face. He opened his messages and sent a text to Butcher:
"Regarding S-017, I'm going to get to the bottom of this."
Butcher replied instantly: "Finally figured it out?"
Chen Mo didn't reply. He put the phone aside and lay back down.
Starlight turned over in her sleep, burying her face in his shoulder. Her breath hit his collarbone, warm and even.
Chen Mo looked at the ceiling.
Outside the window, the sky was beginning to brighten. The first ray of light filtered through the gap in the curtains, drawing a thin line of gold on the wall.
He didn't sleep.
He was thinking—how he could survive and finish this.
Chapter 16: The Death of The Deep
The phone buzzed.
Less than three minutes after Chen Mo left the archives, the spare phone in his pocket vibrated like a death knell.
He pulled it out and took a look—it was The Deep's number.
The text message had only one line:
"Atlantis base, save me! He's going to kill me—"
The timestamp was thirty seconds ago.
Chen Mo's blood ran cold.
He checked the time. It took forty minutes to drive from here to Atlantis. An hour by taxi.
Not enough. It really wasn't enough.
He rushed into the stairwell and closed the door. No one was around.
"Damn it... damn it..."
Chen Mo gritted his teeth and pulled that speed line out from within his body.
The next second—
A loud explosion of air erupted in the stairwell.
His feet shattered three steps, and the sound of cracking concrete was left far behind him.
The Flash speed.
This was a new ability he had rolled last week. He hadn't fully adapted to it yet. Every time he activated it, the whole World turned into an old movie playing frame by frame.
The sound of the wind froze in his ears.
He rushed out the back door of Vought Tower and sprinted along the street.
The traffic on the street was frozen in place like sculptures. A child riding a bicycle was tilted in mid-air, the front wheel thirty centimeters off the ground.
Chen Mo bypassed him, vaulted over a taxi parked at the intersection, and the moment his feet pushed off, a shallow pit exploded in the asphalt.
Fifteen seconds.
He counted silently in his mind.
From here to the Atlantis base by the sea, the straight-line distance was eleven kilometers.
Twenty seconds.
He had already rushed past the third block.
Thirty seconds.
The smell of the sea breeze drilled into his nose.
Chen Mo saw that domed building, a mix of glass and steel—the surface entrance to the Atlantis underwater base.
Forty seconds.
He screeched to a halt at the entrance.
The security guard at the entrance was looking down at his phone and didn't notice anyone had arrived at all—from the guard's perspective, it was just a gust of wind blowing past.
Chen Mo pushed the door open and rushed in.
The hallway was long. Following the route The Deep had reported to him, he rushed down three flights of stairs and traversed a damp corridor.
Fifty seconds.
He saw the door.
On the door was written "The Deep · Private Area".
The door was not closed.
Chen Mo pushed the door open violently—
And then he stopped.
The room was very quiet.
The lights in the water tank were still on, and blue water ripples swayed on the ceiling. There was a faint smell of rust in the air.
The Deep was lying on the ground.
There was a fist-sized hole in his chest. The edges had been seared by high heat, and charred muscles were curled outwards. The blood had drained away, spreading across the floor in a dark red patch.
His eyes were still open.
His mouth was also open, as if his last words were stuck in his throat, unable to be said in time.
Chen Mo stood at the doorway.
One second. Two seconds.
His breathing was heavy.
"You're late."
A voice came from the depths of the room.
Chen Mo looked up.
Homelander stood at the other end of the room, his back to the water tank, holding a white handkerchief in his hand.
He was wiping his hands.
Wiping them one finger at a time.
From index finger to little finger, each one was wiped very carefully. The handkerchief was stained with blood, so he folded that side in and continued wiping with a clean part.
"I told him many times," Homelander said in a casual tone, as if chatting about the weather, "don't pass messages to outsiders. He just wouldn't listen."
Chen Mo didn't speak.
He stared at the hole in The Deep's chest. The edges were very neat. Heat Vision, one hit, instant death. He didn't even have time to struggle.
"Do you know how he begged for mercy?" Homelandertilted his head. "He cried like a girl."
Chen Mo's fingers clenched tight. His nails dug into his flesh.
But he didn't move. He couldn't move.
He looked at The Deep's right hand.
That hand was pressed under his body, unable to be pulled out. But just outside the fingertips was a very shallow scratch, crookedly carved into the floor.
It was words.
Written by The Deep with his last ounce of strength before he died.
Chen Mo's pupils constricted.
He wasn't noticed by Homelander looking at the floor. He withdrew his gaze, straightened up, and looked at Homelander's face.
"You're right."
Chen Mo's voice was very flat.
"There's one more."
Homelander's hand-wiping motion paused for a second.
He looked at Chen Mo, as if looking at an interesting object.
"What, do you want to avenge him?"
"No."
Chen Mo said.
"I'm just remembering."
Homelander laughed. He threw the blood-stained handkerchief on the floor and walked towards the door.
When he passed by Chen Mo, he paused.
"Next time," he said, "you'd better not appear in front of me."
Then he left.
The sound of footsteps gradually disappeared in the corridor.
Chen Mo stood in the room, not moving for a long time.
A fish in the water tank bumped into the glass, making a "thud" sound.
He squatted down. Squatted beside The Deep.
This was the first time he had seen a dead person up close.
No. This was the first time he had seen someone he knew die up close.
Yesterday, The Deep was still complaining to them about the Vought cafeteria at the dinner table. Today he was lying here, a hole in his chest, eyes open.
Chen Mo reached out and gently covered The Deep's eyelids.
Three seconds. He closed them.
"You're right."
Chen Mo's voice was very soft. So soft that only he could hear it.
"You are not a coward."
He stood up to look at the words on the floor.
The words were carved with fingernails. The bloodstain had congealed, but the strokes were clear.
"The waterproof box is under the third water storage tank, password 0704."
Chen Mo read it twice and memorized it.
He turned and walked towards the water tank on the other side of the room.
The third water storage tank.
In a corner. The lid wasn't locked. He pulled the lid open, and underneath was a pitch-black waterway.
He took a deep breath and jumped down.
The water was very cold.
Chen Mo opened his eyes and dived down. Underwater visibility was low, with only a few underwater lights emitting a ghastly white light.
He swam down. The deeper he went, the darker it got.
About ten meters underwater, the bottom was a concrete platform. A few boxes were piled on the platform.
Chen Mo swam over. The light of the flashlight swayed back and forth underwater.
He flipped through one box—it wasn't it. Flipped through another—not it. The third one.
It was a black waterproof box, with an electronic lock, smaller than the others.
His heart rose.
What if it was empty? What if the password was wrong? What if Homelander had already taken it?
He steadied himself. Steadied again. Steadied his breathing again—doing this action underwater was a bit silly—and then entered the password.
Zero seven zero four.
Beep—the lock opened.
Chen Mo pulled the box open. Inside was a waterproof file bag. A thick stack.
He opened the bag, and the flashlight shone inside.
On the first document, there was a signature.
Stan Edgar.
Chen Mo's eyes lit up.
He flipped through them quickly—they were all there, all the black accounts inside Vought. Funding supervillains. Creating "accidents". Covering up the truth of shipwrecks. Destroying experimental records.
Every page had Edgar's signature.
Chen Mo clutched the file bag to his chest, zipped up the waterproof zipper, and kicked his legs to swim back.
When he rushed out of the water, he gasped for air. His chest was full of the smell of seawater.
He put the file bag on the floor and sat down. It was quiet for three seconds. Then he laughed.
Not a happy laugh. It was the laugh of "Fuck, this evidence is enough to overturn Edgar."
"The Deep..." he whispered, "you fucking did it."
The phone rang. Butcher.
Chen Mo answered.
"What's the situation on your end?"
"The Deep's life." Chen Mo said.
Silence on the other end of the phone.
"Homelander killed him. Right in front of me."
Another silence. Butcher's voice was very low.
"The Deep isn't a good person. But he shouldn't have died so miserably."
"He won't die in vain." Chen Mo looked down at the file bag in his hand.
"I got the Vought black accounts that The Deep hid. The original copies signed by Edgar."
A low breath came from Butcher's side.
"Does it have weight?"
"Enough to overturn the entire Vought board of directors."
Butcher was silent for three seconds.
"Good lad."
"There's one more thing." Chen Mo said.
"Speak."
"From today on, this isn't a mission anymore."
Chen Mo looked at the pool of blood on the floor that hadn't dried yet.
"This is a debt."
Butcher didn't speak. After a long time, he said in a hoarse voice.
"Put mine on it."
Hung up the phone. Chen Mo sat on the ground.
He took out his phone and opened Park Soon-ja's chat box.
Typed a line: "The Deep is dead."
Deleted it. Typed again: "Are you free tonight?"
Deleted it. Typed again: "It's nothing, get some rest early."
Deleted it. He stared at that chat box for a long time.
Then put the phone back in his pocket. Stood up. Picked up the file bag. Walked out of the Atlantis base.
It was already starting to get dark outside. The sea breeze was strong.
Chen Mo looked back at the brightly lit glass dome.
"The Deep." He said, "Your debt, I'll keep track of it for you."
Chapter 17: Red River Operation
The door of the abandoned warehouse creaked open.
Chen Mo walked inside, and a musty smell hit him. Only one pendant lamp was lit in the warehouse, casting a dim, yellow light onto the wall—the entire wall was covered with photos of all Vought heroes, connected by red strings, looking like a giant spiderweb.
Butcher stood in front of the wall, holding a bottle of beer, not turning around.
"You're here."
"Yeah."
Chen Mo closed the door and walked to the table. Mothers Milk was sitting in the corner with a pile of documents spread out in front of him. Frenchie was leaning against the wall, smoking, the cigarette butt glowing in the darkness. Kimiko sat on an old sofa, hugging her knees, a cup of untouched tea in front of her.
Butcher turned around and pointed at the photos on the wall with his beer bottle.
"The Deep is dead."
"I know."
"Do you know what this means?" Butcher looked at him. "Homelander is cleaning house. The Deep took the fall for him. Who's next?"
Chen Mo didn't speak. He walked to the wall and looked at the photos. Homelander's photo was in the center, surrounded by the other members of The Seven—Maeve, Starlight, Black Noir, The Deep (crossed out), and A-Train. Further out were Vought's other contracted heroes, dozens of faces, densely packed. Red strings extended from Homelander's photo to every other one, connecting everyone like blood vessels.
Mothers Milk looked up from the pile of documents: "We've tracked down the next stop for Compound V."
He pushed a photo over. On it was a white building surrounded by high iron fences, with a sign on the gate— "Red River Child Psychology Rehabilitation Center."
"Red River Institute," Mothers Milk said. "On the surface, it's a child psychology rehabilitation center."
Frenchie flicked the ash from his cigarette: "In reality, it's a child testing base for Compound V."
Chen Mo froze. He stared at the photo, his fingers stopping on the edge of the table.
"Children?"
"Yeah." Butcher walked up to him. "They inject children with Compound V. Four years old, five, six—the younger, the better. Because children's bodies have stronger adaptability, and the survival rate is higher."
Chen Mo felt his stomach churn. He thought of Park Soon-ja. He thought of that letter from her son, Nighthawk— "Mom, if something happens to me one day, don't trust Vought."
"What's the survival rate?"
Mothers Milk turned a page of the document: "Over the past twenty years, more than three hundred children. The survival rate—twelve percent."
Chen Mo's fingernails dug into his palms. Three hundred children. Twelve survived. The remaining two hundred and sixty-plus—died.
Was Nighthawk also from there?
"We're going to take it down," Butcher said.
Chen Mo looked up: "How?"
Butcher pointed to the structural diagram of the Red River Institute on the wall. "Twelve security guards. About forty children. The target is the laboratory on the second basement level. All the experimental records are there."
"Getting the experimental records will prove that Vought is using children for human experimentation," Mothers Milkadded. "This is the irrefutable proof to take them down."
Chen Mo's gaze landed on the diagram. Second basement level. Laboratory. Experimental records.
"When is the operation?"
"Monday night," Butcher said. "Vought's security system undergoes routine upgrades on the weekend, and Monday night is the window."
Chen Mo nodded.
Butcher looked at him: "Are you sure you want to go?"
"I'm sure."
"You're a fucking intern who hasn't even touched a gun, are you sure?"
Chen Mo looked directly into Butcher's eyes: "I have my ways."
Butcher looked at him for a few seconds. Then he laughed—not a friendly laugh, but a "you're fucking interesting" kind of laugh.
"Fine. Not going to ask me what my ways are?"
"I won't ask." Butcher took a sip of beer. "Everyone has their own secrets. As long as your secrets can help us take down Homelander, that's all that matters."
Chen Mo didn't speak. He walked to the wall and looked at the red strings. "What are these lines?"
"A network of relationships," Mothers Milk said. "Homelander controls everyone through Compound V. Whoever doesn't listen gets cut off."
Chen Mo's gaze followed those red lines. They were like blood vessels, connecting everyone together. And Compound V was the blood flowing through those vessels.
"Is the Red River Institute the source?"
"It's one of them," Frenchie said. "The largest production base is under Vought headquarters. But Red River is the earliest one—they started experimenting twenty years ago."
Chen Mo turned around: "Nighthawk—Park Ji-hoon—did he come from Red River?"
Mothers Milk turned a page of the document: "Park Ji-hoon, codename Nighthawk. Vought's official records show he joined the hero training program at eighteen. But our data shows—he was sent to Red River at six."
Chen Mo's breathing stopped for a second. Six years old.
He remembered the image of Park Soon-ja making the bed. He remembered the light in her eyes when she said, "My son used to be like you." He remembered that yellowing letter— "Mom, if something happens to me one day, don't trust Vought."
She had waited for ten years. She didn't know her son had been sent into that hell at six years old.
"Can I have a copy of the file?"
Mothers Milk looked at Butcher. Butcher nodded.
Mothers Milk pulled a folder from the pile of documents and pushed it to Chen Mo.
Chen Mo took it without opening it. He tucked it under his arm.
"What time on Monday night?"
"Eleven o'clock," Butcher said. "I'll wait for you at the intersection east of Red River. Don't be late."
"I won't."
Chen Mo turned and walked toward the door.
"Kid." Butcher called out to him.
Chen Mo stopped, not turning back.
"Red River isn't a convenience store. It has armed security. It has surveillance. It has an alarm system. You'd better come out alive."
Chen Mo looked back at him: "Don't worry. I'm tough."
He pushed the door open and walked out.
It was raining outside. New York's night rain—not heavy, but dense. Chen Mo stood in the rain without an umbrella. The rainwater streamed down his hair and dripped from his chin onto the ground.
He looked down at the folder in his hand. Six years old.
He gripped the folder tightly, his fingernails almost piercing the paper. Rainwater hit the paper, leaving dark watermarks.
He remembered the herbal tea Park Soon-ja brewed for him. He remembered the sound of her voice when she said, "You're a good person." He remembered her hunched back as she made the bed.
He owed her justice.
But those children—those children currently locked up in Red River—they couldn't wait ten years.
Chen Mo looked up. Rainwater hit his face, running along his brow bone and into his eyes. He didn't wipe it away.
He took out his phone and sent a message to Starlight: "Don't look for me on Monday night."
After a while, Starlight replied with one word: "Okay."
No asking why. No follow-up questions. She knew.
Chen Mo put his phone back in his pocket and walked into the rain. The rain looked like glowing threads under the streetlights, and his silhouette passed through those rays of light, disappearing into the darkness where the streetlights couldn't reach.
Chapter 18: Wolverine
11:59 PM on Sunday.
Chen Mo sat on the folding bed in his apartment; the cat wasn't there—it had been fostered out to a colleague's house.
The room was quiet, save for the occasional sound of cars passing outside the window.
He stared at a crack on the ceiling that stretched from the corner of the wall to the light fixture, looking like a dried-up riverbed.
He looked down at his hands.
Captain America's abilities were still there.
That power flowed through his muscles—like a quiet river, steady and unhurried, yet capable of turning into a torrent at any moment.
He clenched his fist, and his knuckles made a faint sound.
He had grown accustomed to this power—accustomed to the feeling of being able to punch through a wall, and the feeling of being able to touch the ceiling when he jumped.
Three seconds left.
Two.
One.
Something was drained from his body.
It was like a taut string suddenly going slack.
The fading of Captain America's power felt strange—it wasn't painful, but rather a hollow sense of loss, like suddenly discovering one's wallet was missing from their pocket.
His muscles went soft in an instant, and the power flowed away from his fingertips like Water.
Then—
The wheel spun.
Chen Mo closed his eyes.
Deep within his consciousness, that wheel rotated, spinning faster and faster.
Red, blue, gold, silver—lights of various colors flashed in the darkness.
His heartbeat accelerated to the rhythm of the wheel, and his palms began to sweat.
Click.
Stop.
A strange power erupted from his chest, surging through his veins toward his limbs like lava.
His hand clenched abruptly, his knuckles popping with a sharp sound.
Then—ten bone spurs pierced out from between his knuckles.
They didn't grow from the surface of the skin.
They came from within.
The moment the bone claws pierced his skin, he gasped in pain.
That pain wasn't the pain of an external wound—it was the pain of bones growing out from within the body, like teeth breaking through gums, but a hundred times more intense.
He could feel the bones piercing through muscle, fascia, and skin—breaking through layer by layer.
Blood dripped down between his fingers.
One drop, two drops, landing on the wooden floor with a faint sound.
But a few seconds later, the wounds healed.
The Healing Factor surged within his body, like a warm tide washing over a beach.
Those wounds closed, scabbed over, and fell away at a rate visible to the naked eye—eventually leaving not even a scar.
His skin became smooth again, as if nothing had ever happened.
Chen Mo raised his hand, looking at those ten bone claws.
Under the light of the desk lamp, the bone claws gleamed with an ivory-White luster.
They extended from between his knuckles, about thirty centimeters long, their tips as sharp as scalpels.
He tried clenching his fist—the bone claws tightened along with it, as if they were a part of his body.
He spread his fingers, and the bone claws spread with them.
He moved his wrist, and the bone claws traced several silvery-White arcs in the air.
He stood up and walked over to the mirror.
The person in the mirror looked a bit pale.
There was a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.
But his eyes were bright—not because of excitement, but because he was thinking about something.
The previous abilities—Spider-Man, Batman, Captain America—were all non-lethal.
Spider-Man used webs to bind people.
Batman used his intellect.
Captain America used his shield.
But Wolverine—born for slaughter.
Chen Mo looked at himself in the mirror.
The bone claws reflected a cold light under the lamp.
He slowly retracted the bone claws—they slid back into the spaces between his knuckles, and his skin closed up again, as if nothing had happened.
He touched his fingers; the skin was intact, and he couldn't feel any traces.
Chen Mo stared at the screen.
The faces of those children in the Red River Instituteflashed through his mind.
Park Soon-ja's tears.
Nighthawk was sent into that hell at the age of six.
Those serial numbers on the experimental records—R-001 to R-347, behind every number was a child.
He typed: "What do you want me to do?"
Butcher replied in a second: "Operation tomorrow night. Leave no survivors."
Chen Mo stared at those four words for a long time—"Leave no survivors."
Homelander sat on a chair in The White House, legs crossed, holding a glass of red wine, smiling as he said, "I can make The Deep have an accidental Death"—he would never forget that smile for the rest of his life.
It wasn't a smile of anger, nor a smile of threat; it was the kind of smile that said, "I am playing a game, and you are just a pawn on the chessboard."
When Starlight said, "I killed that person," she was as calm as if she were telling someone else's story.
But her eyes betrayed her—in those eyes, there was fear, guilt, and the nightmare that had never faded for three years.
The female intern at the door of The Deep's office—"Don't do this," her voice was as small as a mosquito's.
Seven people passed by, and not one stopped.
Not one looked back.
He replied with a message: "Understood."
Then he threw his phone on the bed and walked into the bathroom to wash his face.
Cold Water hit his face, flowing down his chin into the sink.
He raised his head, looking at himself in the mirror.
Droplets of Water hung on his brow bone, like sweat.
He extended his right hand.
The bone claws pierced out from between his knuckles—this time, there was no pain.
There was only the pleasure of power being released, as if a long-held breath had finally been exhaled.
The bone claws gleamed with cold light under the bathroom lights, their tips pressing against the tiles, making a faint scratching sound.
He looked at those five bone claws.
Not fear.
Not anger.
It was a strange calm—as if he finally had a handy tool.
A handy tool that could be used to protect those who needed protecting.
He retracted the bone claws and wiped his face with a towel.
Returning to the bedroom, he sat on the bed and picked up his phone.
There were no new messages.
He opened the chat history with Starlight.
The last message was sent by her—after "Don't look for me on Monday night," the "Okay" she had replied.
He thought for a moment and typed a line: "Good night on Sunday."
After sending it, he stared at the screen and waited for a while.
There was no reply.
He put down the phone and lay down.
The crack on the ceiling was still there.
A car passed by outside the window; its lights swept across the ceiling and then disappeared.
He stared at that crack, remembering the first day he moved into this apartment—the walls were White, the ceiling was White, and there was nothing.
Now there was a crack on the wall, the table was piled with photocopies of experimental records brought back from Red River, and a folding knife bought from a convenience store was hidden under his pillow.
Three months ago, he was just an intern who couldn't even hold a cup of coffee steady.
Now, he had bone claws on his hands that could cut through steel plates.
He closed his eyes.
The bone claws were restless between his knuckles.
They were right under his skin, ready to pierce out at any moment.
The feeling was strange—as if he had an extra organ in his body, a weapon that could be used at any time.
He remembered what Butcher had said—"Leave no survivors."
He didn't know if he could do it tomorrow night.
He had never killed anyone before.
Spider-Man didn't kill, Batman didn't kill, Captain Americadidn't kill.
But Wolverine—Wolverine's bone claws were born to penetrate other people's bodies.
He turned over, facing the wall.
There was a Water stain on the wall shaped like a bird with its wings spread.
He didn't know if he would kill anyone tomorrow night.
But he knew one thing—he had to save those children.
No matter what it took.