Chapter 6: Hughie Didn't Turn Dark, Because Someone Helped Him Get Justice
Hughie's fingers rested on the cold doorknob, his palms slick with cold sweat.
The door was being pounded so hard it shook, and a pungent odor of cheap tobacco drifted in through the cracks in the wood.
He gritted his teeth and, steeling himself, twisted the deadbolt.
As soon as the door cracked open, a muddy, thick-soled combat boot was shoved in rudely.
Butcher squeezed into the room like a black bear, bringing with him a draft mixed with the sour stench of the streets.
He slammed the door shut behind him and locked it.
His eagle-like eyes scanned the messy studio apartment.
A blood-stained T-shirt lay on the floor, half a glass of moldy milk sat on the table, and the trash can in the corner gave off a rancid smell.
"Kid, this doghouse reeks."
Butcher sniffed, pulled over a broken wooden chair missing a leg, and sat down with a heavy, imposing air.
His leather trench coat creaked with a strange sound as he moved.
Hughie subconsciously shrank back two steps, his back pressed hard against the peeling wallpaper.
"Who... who are you? You must have the wrong door."
Butcher fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and pulled one out to light up.
The lighter sparked a ghostly blue flame, illuminating his face, which was covered in messy stubble and radiating a fierce light.
"I'm a good Samaritan who can help you get justice, Hughie."
He exhaled a puff of blue smoke, his gaze passing over Hughie's shoulder to stare fixedly at the nightstand.
A gold-embossed Vought Corporation non-disclosure agreement lay flat there, with a check pressed down next to it.
Butcher sneered and flicked off a piece of ash.
"Forty-five thousand dollars to buy your girlfriend's life? Those suit-wearing thugs at Vought Corporation sure know how to crunch the numbers."
He leaned forward abruptly, resting his elbows on his knees, his oppressive presence pushing forward like a mountain.
"Listen, mate, I get it. Your head is a mess right now, and you think this world is beyond saving."
"Those cape-wearing bastards flying in the sky are all a bunch of murderous psychopaths and junkies."
Butcher lowered his voice, slowing his pace, preparing to pull this cowardly kid into the abyss of revenge.
"Counting on the police? Or the courts? Wake up; those are just cages built for the poor."
"If you want to avenge your poor girlfriend, you have to come with me. We're going to smash those hypocritical idols to pieces."
As Hughie listened to this, his gaze shifted to the ink-scented check.
If this were a few hours ago, facing such a menacing madman, he would have already wet his pants and begged for mercy.
But now, he felt his heartbeat was surprisingly steady.
There was a fire in his chest, crackling and burning.
"No."
Hughie spoke suddenly, his voice tight but carrying the hardness of iron.
Butcher's hand holding the cigarette paused in mid-air, his brows knitted together.
"What kind of bullshit are you spouting?"
"I said... I'm not afraid of them anymore!" Hughiestraightened his back, stepped away from the dilapidated wall, and took a big step forward.
A blinding, scorching brilliance ignited in his eyes.
"You weren't there! You have no idea what happened on the street!"
Hughie waved his hands wildly in the air, his chest heaving like a bellows.
"That black guy, that bastard who smashed Robin, he called me a mortal."
"But what happened later? He was howling in the mud like a stray dog! His legs were completely shattered, bone fragments sticking out!"
Hughie's eyes were red, but the corners of his mouth quirked up nervously.
"And Homelander! Can you believe it? Homelander came charging down with red light shooting from his eyes!"
"And the result? That man in the plaid shirt didn't even break a sweat; he threw Homelander away with one hand!"
"Like tossing a bag of stinking trash! Just a casual flick, and Homelander didn't even have the strength to resist!"
Hughie grabbed the non-disclosure agreement from the table and tore it into shreds right in front of Butcher.
The scraps of paper fell to the floor like snowflakes.
He crumpled the check into a ball and slammed it hard into the dusty corner.
"Vought Corporation is nothing! Everything they create is a fake, shoddy product!"
He gasped for air, staring straight at the stunned Butcher.
"I'm not going to complain, and I definitely don't want their dirty money."
"Because I know there is a true god in this world, and he will come to trample these scumbags into the mud!"
The room instantly went quiet, leaving only the sound of Hughie's heavy breathing.
Butcher's perpetual poker face finally cracked.
He had expected to see a coward scared out of his wits by power, someone who needed to be lured by hatred.
But instead, this kid before him was filled with light and hope.
There was no fear in those eyes, only a near-fanatical worship of that "true god."
This was much more useful than simple hatred.
Butcher spat the cigarette butt, burnt down to the filter, onto the floor and ground it back and forth with the hard sole of his leather boot.
He stood up and slapped his rough hand onto Hughie's thin shoulder with a "thwack."
The force was strong enough to make Hughie stumble half a step forward.
"Good lad, you've got guts. I like this death-defying attitude of yours."
Butcher grinned, revealing a calculating, rugged smile.
"Since you believe that Red Cape is a true god, then the two of us will go find him."
He leaned close to Hughie's ear, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Even a god descending to earth needs a mortal follower to lead the way, right? Put on your coat and grab your keys."
Meanwhile, in central Manhattan.
Sunlight pierced through the blast-proof glass on the top floor of Vought Tower, scattering shards of gold across the carpet.
The air conditioning blew cold air mixed with the scent of expensive perfume.
Annie took a deep breath of this pure, unadulterated air, the golden star emblem on her chest rising and falling with it.
She had applied exquisite makeup today, and her tight combat suit accentuated her youthful lines without a single flaw.
Her heart was beating so fast it felt like a flock of sparrows fluttering inside.
A dream come true.
Smiling fake smiles on small-town pageant stages since she was a child, practicing her light-emitting power day and night—wasn't this exactly what she had been hoping for?
To become a member of The Seven, fight alongside the top heroes in America, and save innocent people.
She rubbed her sweaty palms, her face full of longing.
At the end of the hallway was a heavy, solid black mahogany double door.
The doorplate was inlaid with a shimmering silver Arabic numeral "7".
Annie cleared her throat and practiced smiling at the polished metal wall.
"Hi everyone, I'm Starlight, and I'm so happy to join... No, that sounds like a salesperson."
She muttered, fiddling with her golden curls.
"Hey guys, ready to go kick some bad guy ass? Yeah, that's energetic."
She nodded in self-affirmation and strode toward the door with her long legs.
Her slender fingers rested on the cold brass handle.
She pushed gently.
The door slid open silently.
There were no flowers or applause in the conference room, nor was there the grand spectacle of heroes gathered together.
Sitting at the huge circular table was only one man.
The Deep.
He was wearing that green scale combat suit, hunched over the table with his back to the door, fiddling with his phone.
Hearing the commotion, he turned around slowly.
The smile on Annie's face only bloomed halfway before it froze stiffly at the corners of her mouth.
The room was filled with a pungent, fishy smell of the sea.
The Deep leaned back into the leather chair, his zipper half-open, his gaze crawling up Annie's legs like slime.
He licked his dry lips.
"The new girl, Starlight, right?"
He pointed to the empty leather chair in front of him, the corners of his mouth curling into a slimy smile.
"Shut the door. If you want to make a place for yourself in this room, the two of us need to go through an in-depth internal communication process first."
Chapter 7: Casting Couch? Starlight stared at The Deep, who had been embedded into the wall, lost in thought.
Annie's stomach felt like it had been filled with a mouthful of ice water.
The scent of cologne, mixed with a fishy, oceanic odor, drilled straight into her nose, making her want to retch.
She froze by the doorway, her golden curls sticking to her cold-sweat-slicked nape, her limbs going weak.
Beside the massive circular mahogany conference table, only one person sat.
The Deep sat with his legs crossed, the zipper of his green scale-patterned suit slid down below his navel.
He picked the dirt from under his fingernails and flicked it onto the expensive Persian rug.
"What's wrong, Little Starlight? If you want to stand in front of millions of people as a hero, you have to pass a little test first."
He rubbed the stiff stubble on his chin, his eyes scanning back and forth over Annie's chest without the slightest concealment.
"Th-this isn't right..." Annie's throat tightened, her palms gripping the doorframe behind her until her knuckles turned white. "They said I got in because I passed the audition, my stats..."
"Stats? Ha!"
The Deep slapped his thigh and burst into laughter, spitting saliva onto the tabletop.
"Don't be funny, kid. This is Vought Corporation, not some community scout camp."
He stood up and sauntered slowly toward Annie.
His foul, fishy breath washed over Annie's face.
"If you cooperate now, you can take pictures alongside Homelander tomorrow. Get what I mean? Be a good girl, take off your cape."
Goosebumps broke out all over Annie's body.
The superhero posters that had plastered her headboard since she was a child were crumbling to pieces in her mind right now.
It was all rotten.
Everything was just a manufactured fake.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she forced them wide open, not wanting this bastard to see her cry.
Her knuckles were white, and a blinding halo of energy had already gathered in her palm.
Even if she got kicked out of Vought Corporation tomorrow, she would still smash this ball of light into his greasy face.
Hundreds of meters up in the sky, cold winds swirled through fragmented clouds.
Clark was hovering, holding a half-eaten red apple, chewing on it with satisfaction.
He had originally just been taking a shortcut back to Manhattan, taking the opportunity to find some peace and quiet in the sky.
His damn Super Hearing just had to drag the commotion from dozens of streets away right into his ears.
That condescending, greasy tone was like a greenbottle fly buzzing around his forehead.
"Can't this damn place pick out a single normal person?"
Clark frowned, crunched down on the last bite of the apple, and casually stuffed the core into a hidden compartment in his suit's belt.
He sighed and leaned his body slightly forward.
In the conference room, The Deep was still pressing forward step by step.
"Hurry up, I have to catch a seafood dinner later... Fuck!"
Boom! The entire reinforced glass wall, claimed to be able to withstand armor-piercing missiles, instantly exploded into a sky full of white dust.
A gale, mixed with the high-altitude chill, poured into the room like a pack of mad dogs.
Dozens of pages of non-disclosure agreements and colorful flyers flew chaotically through the air.
Annie screamed and subconsciously covered her face with her arms.
A pair of red combat boots stepped onto the glass-littered floor, making a harsh, crunching sound.
The Deep was so scared he jumped, landing hard on his butt on the carpet.
With his zipper stuck at the top of his thigh, he scrambled to pull it up, only to look up and meet those cold blue eyes.
"Wh-who the hell are you? This is Vought Corporationheadquarters! Security—where the hell are they!"
The Deep shrieked at the top of his lungs like a wild cat that had its tail stepped on.
Clark brushed a piece of broken glass off his Red Cape.
He looked down at the man who reeked of salted fish.
"Go on, take it off. You were so enthusiastic just a moment ago, continue."
Clark's voice was calm, without even a hint of emotional fluctuation.
The Deep swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing wildly in his throat.
He recognized the red and blue suit.
The internal network at headquarters had been going crazy about the menace who beat Homelander until he didn't know which way was up!
A-Train and Translucent were still lying in the intensive care unit with tubes down their throats!
"Br-brother, it's a misunderstanding, it's all a misunderstanding!"
The Deep scrambled backward on his hands and feet, leaving ugly creases in the carpet.
"I was just running lines with a new colleague! We're rehearsing for next month's theatrical release!"
Clark took a small step forward. With just that one step, he crossed half the distance of the conference room.
He reached out and grabbed the tuft of curls on the back of The Deep's head.
The feel was slippery, coated in cheap hair gel, and Clarkwrinkled his nose in disgust.
The Deep felt a tearing, excruciating pain in his scalp, and his feet instantly left the ground.
His 180-plus pound body felt as light as a ragdoll in Clark's hand.
"Go rehearse the script with the load-bearing wall."
Bang! The dull thud made the floor of the entire floor jump.
Clark shoved most of The Deep's body into the adjacent wall, as if hammering a nail.
Red bricks shattered, and steel bars were twisted into pretzels.
Concrete chunks fell with a rustle, and dust covered The Deep's head and face.
"Ugh, ahhh—my lower back!"
The Deep's face was jammed tightly into the brick crevice, his nose crooked from the impact, and two streams of blood dripped down his chin.
His hands clawed uselessly at the wall, his fingernails curling back.
His legs kicked blindly in mid-air, looking just like a sea turtle pinned to a cutting board.
The room was filled with the choking smell of dust.
Annie leaned blankly against the door, her chest heaving violently.
She looked at The Deep, who was twitching while embedded in the wall, and then at the tall figure standing in the dust.
Clark let go, pulled two tissues from a box on a nearby table.
He carefully wiped away the hair oil from between his fingers and threw the ball of paper precisely into the wastebasket.
He turned around and met Annie's still-shaken gaze.
That oppressive chill vanished instantly.
Clark pushed up his non-existent black-rimmed glasses and nodded at her.
"It's okay now. You're safe."
His voice was rich and gentle, radiating a warmth that put people at ease.
Annie opened her mouth, her tongue feeling a bit tied.
She wiped the tear stains off her face in a rush.
"Th-thank you... Are you that Red Cape everyone talks about online?"
She looked down at her own impractical costume, suddenly feeling the irony.
It turned out that a real hero wouldn't even deign to sit in a room as opulent as this to negotiate terms.
"Just a small favor."
Clark turned and walked to the wall, grabbing The Deep by the back of his collar with one hand.
Accompanied by the teeth-gritting sound of grinding brick and stone, he forcibly ripped the lump of green meat out of the hole in the wall.
"Ouch, ow, ow... Big brother, it's broken, it's really broken!"
The Deep rolled his eyes in pain, his hands hanging limply at his sides.
Clark carried him to the broken window frame, where the cold wind was blowing straight inside.
Annie subconsciously took two steps after them. "Wait, where are you taking him?" She was a little worried if this guy would just be thrown down and smashed into a pulp.
Clark stepped one foot onto the windowsill, the gale snapping his Red Cape.
He turned his head, a careless cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
"The seafood smell in this room is too strong."
Clark carried The Deep outside, leaving behind a light, airy final remark, "I'm taking him to the Pacific Ocean to wash his brain."
Chapter 8 The Deep: He told me to clean up all the trash in the Pacific Ocean before I'm allowed back on shore.
The clouds were rudely smashed open, leaving a gaping hole.
The North American continent shrank beneath their feet, looking like tattered rags.
Clark held The Deep by the back of his collar, not even bothering to provide a wind shield for the guy.
At an altitude of 8,000 meters, the temperature was terrifyingly low.
Blade-like gale winds mixed with ice shards poured directly into The Deep's wide-open mouth.
"Mmph… Achoo! B-Big brother! I really can't take it anymore!"
The Deep kicked his legs aimlessly in mid-air.
The two streaks of snot hanging under his nose were frozen solid into crystal-clear icicles.
His green fish-scale suit was already thin, and now it was frozen stiff, no different from being wrapped in an icy bedsheet.
"I'm afraid of heights… Ugh! I'm really afraid of heights!"
Clark straightened his arm in disgust, moving a bit further away from that snot-covered face.
The weight in his hand was light, just like carrying a dead chicken fresh out of a freezer.
"Shut up. Don't get spit on my sleeve."
He didn't even spare a glance downward.
The terrain below shifted rapidly from grayish-brown mountains to a deep blue plain.
A thick, salty, fishy smell rolled up with the air currents.
The Pacific Ocean had arrived.
"You know how to swim, right?" Clark asked out of the blue.
The Deep was stunned for a moment.
The two snot-icicles wobbled along with his head.
"N-No duh, I am the King of the Ocea— Ahhhhhh, f*ck!"
Before he could spit out the word "King," the iron pincer on his neck let go.
The Deep sprawled out like an 'X' and plummeted straight down.
The wind screamed in his ears.
Bang.
A white splash over ten meters high exploded on the surface of the sea.
The salty seawater instantly flooded his lungs.
The fleshy gills on The Deep's sides snapped open.
Like a shriveled sponge soaking up water, the muscles all over his body visibly engorged and expanded.
His frozen fingers regained sensation.
The Deep flipped over ten meters underwater, exhaling a dense stream of bubbles.
He looked up, watching the blurry red and blue shadow above the water.
The courage that had been scared out of him earlier, after soaking in seawater, puffed back up like rising dough.
"Damn it… I can't beat you on land."
He gritted his back teeth, water flowing over his fish-scale suit.
"But in the water, I'm the daddy of this ocean!"
The Deep closed his eyes, veins bulging on his forehead.
A low-frequency brainwave, inaudible to ordinary people, spread rapidly through the seawater.
He was calling for backup.
In less than half a minute, a turbulent current surged up from the deep blue trench below.
An adult great white shark, nearly six meters long, swished its tail and darted up like a torpedo.
Its sharp dorsal fin sliced through the current, its mouth full of inverted triangular serrated teeth gleaming with a chilling light.
The Deep surfaced, treading water, and wiped the seawater from his face with newfound confidence.
The great white shark circled beneath his feet.
"Grandson! Come down here if you've got the guts!"
He pointed at Clark in mid-air, the muscles in his face twitching from smugness.
"My brother here has been starving for half a month; he can chew you into mincemeat in one bite!"
Clark hovered less than two meters above the sea surface.
Not even a drop of water touched his boots.
He pushed up the black-rimmed glasses on his nose that he didn't even need.
He glanced down at the shark still wandering aimlessly in the water.
Just a little bit.
He leaked just a tiny bit of the aura belonging to the apex of the Kryptonian food chain.
The great white shark jolted violently.
In its walnut-sized brain, ten thousand alarms instantly went off.
That wasn't prey at all.
That was a stellar monster capable of boiling the entire ocean.
Slap!
The shark's tail whipped violently, an emergency brake followed by a 180-degree turn.
The massive tail fin slapped directly against The Deep's forehead, sending stars spinning before his eyes.
Immediately after, this overlord that had been so ferocious just a moment ago didn't even dare to make a sound.
It tucked its tail and dove headfirst into the Mariana Trench.
It fled faster than it would have from a sperm whale.
The Deep held his swollen, slapped face, staring blankly at the empty sea.
His mouth was open wide enough to fit a sea urchin.
"Hey… Big White? Big White, come back! Why the hell are you running?"
Clark slowly descended.
The soles of his boots were almost touching the water, and the seawater beneath his feet was pressed into a shallow depression by an invisible force.
"Your fish brother doesn't seem to be giving you much face."
The voice wasn't loud, but it exploded in The Deep's eardrums like muffled thunder.
The Deep shivered all over.
That arrogant attitude from before, like someone had pulled the valve core, instantly deflated completely.
He covered his head with both hands, half his body submerged in the water, looking as cowardly as an overturned turtle.
"B-Brother, I was wrong! I just misspoke! I'm the grandson, I'm the grandson, okay?!"
"Your mouth is quite annoying."
Clark frowned, looking at this guy's ridiculous, pathetic appearance, and really couldn't muster the interest to kill him.
"I heard there's a garbage island weighing tens of thousands of tons in the middle of the Pacific Ocean?"
The Deep froze, then nodded hurriedly, splashing water all over his face.
"Yes, yes! Those bastards who dump waste everywhere did it; plastic bottles are everywhere."
"Go pick it up." Clark gestured casually in the direction behind The Deep.
"What?"
"Clean it all up." Clark's tone carried a dead silence that brooked no negotiation.
"That garbage island is as big as France! Me alone… Gulp!"
Clark's eyes turned cold, and the temperature around the water surface instantly skyrocketed.
The seawater began to churn and bubble uneasily.
"If you're missing even one plastic bottle, or if you dare to come ashore before you're done…"
Clark paused, his lips pulling into a temperature-less arc.
"I'll slice you into sashimi and feed you to the stray cats in Central Park."
Boom.
A sonic boom cloud exploded over the sea, kicking up three-meter-high waves.
Clark's figure had long since disappeared into the clouds.
Leaving only The Deep to tumble in the waves.
The waves crashed over him, making him swallow several mouthfuls of bitter, salty seawater.
He sniffled his red, frozen nose, wiping away tears while shivering as he swam to the side.
Just then, a broken plastic beer ring floated over and got stuck tightly around his neck.
The Deep tore at the plastic ring choking his neck, wailing in a breakdown.
"I'm at least in The Seven, The Seven! With an annual salary of eighty million…"
A wave slapped him hard, forcing the rest of his words back into his stomach.
He could only grit his teeth, slip the broken plastic ring onto his wrist, and kick his legs toward the garbage island.
"Wuu wuu wuu… what kind of sin did I commit… It's as big as France, I'll be picking this up until I hit menopause…"
...
Cutting back to New York, the top floor of Vought Tower.
It was already late at night.
CEO Stan Edgar sat behind that pure black desk.
The expression on his face was darker than the night outside.
Vice President Madelyn was wrapped in a thick cashmere shawl, her teeth chattering.
The blast-proof glass wall of the conference room was now a gaping hole letting the night wind blow straight through.
On the load-bearing wall next to it, there was still an eye-catching human-shaped dent.
Greenbottle flies on the carpet were crawling over the pool of blood left by The Deep.
"The Deep's tracker signal has disappeared; it was last seen in the middle of the Pacific Ocean."
Madelyn rubbed her goosebump-covered arms, her high heels clicking irritably on the floor.
"This is the fourth one today! Edgar! Our The Seven is about to be dismantled into scrap!"
She bit her red-lipstick-coated lips, her voice trembling.
"The investors have been blowing up my phone; my phone died and shut off half an hour ago! The stock market crashed right after hours!"
Edgar didn't say a word, tapping his fingers twice on the desktop.
Tap. Tap.
He looked up at the big hole.
The wind blew, causing his suit tie to sway slightly.
"Where is Homelander?" His voice was dry, like sandpaper rubbing against wood.
"Hiding in his room, having burned several security personnel to ash; no one dares to go near him now."
Madelyn's head was splitting, and she rubbed her throbbing temples hard.
"Where on earth did this monster come from? He doesn't even wear clothes with a logo!"
Edgar stood up and walked over to the smashed load-bearing wall.
He reached out and touched the broken rebar.
The cut was terrifyingly smooth.
He tugged at the tie around his neck, feeling a tightness in his breathing.
This was definitely not a defective product created by compound v.
Vought's pride-and-joy god-making assembly line was like a paper toy box in the face of this absolute violence.
"Blocking the news is useless; notify the politicians to put the Superhero Act on hold."
Edgar turned around, a flash of outlaw-like ruthlessness in his eyes.
"Madelyn, forget about that idiot picking seaweed."
He stared at the on-site laboratory report that had just been delivered.
"Go drag Dr. Vogelbaum out of bed."
"If that kid really doesn't have any genetic defects, then we are in big trouble."
"Go, and while you're at it, have security get that mad dog on the lowest level of the lab ready; I have a terrible premonition."
Chapter 9: Vought Executives Stay Awake All Night, Did Our Product Encounter a True God?
High-altitude cold wind poured directly into the conference room through the hole.
Files and papers collided in mid-air like kites with broken strings, making a rattling noise.
Madelyn wrapped her wool shawl tighter around herself.
Her high heels left messy marks on the carpet, and her lipstick was completely smudged.
The questioning from the other end of the phone gave her a splitting headache, so she simply cut the signal and slammed her phone onto the leather sofa.
In the corner.
Homelander huddled in the shadows of the sofa.
His usually straight back was slumped now, like a deflated ball.
He stared fixedly at his right hand.
The back of his hand was a ghastly purple-red, his index and middle fingers were swollen like two carrots, and the joints were completely deformed.
A piercing pain crawled up along the bone crevices.
Homelander's breathing was heavy.
He tried to clench his hand into a fist.
As soon as he moved it even a little, cold sweat broke out on his forehead and rolled down the bridge of his nose.
"Fake... a trick."
His teeth chattered as he gritted them.
He wanted to trigger his Heat Vision, but as soon as the capillaries around his eye sockets began to engorge, that abyss-like sense of oppression emerged from his brain.
The red light flickered once, then was forcibly suppressed.
He didn't even have the guts to burn a chair anymore.
Madelyn turned her head, looking at this perfect product who was usually held up to the heavens.
"What kind of nerve are you having now, John!"
Her voice cracked, "The Deep's signal disappeared in the Pacific Ocean! The ICU just issued a critical condition notice, and Translucent is ruined!"
Heavy footsteps came from outside the corridor.
The thick wooden door was pushed open.
Stan Edgar walked in, clutching a blue folder.
The wrinkles on his face were deep, expressionless, bringing in a chill that made it hard to breathe.
The room instantly fell silent, leaving only the sound of the wind.
Stan Edgar walked to the table and slapped the folder onto the mahogany desktop with a bang.
"Four."
His voice wasn't loud, but it made Madelyn shudder all over.
"Within one day, four members of The Seven have been ruined."
Stan Edgar pulled out a chair and sat down.
"A-Train's leg bones are shattered into two hundred pieces; the doctors say he'll be dependent on a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Translucent is even worse; bone shards pierced his internal organs, and he's still not out of the danger zone."
Madelyn collapsed into her chair, her lips pale.
"This is impossible... Stan, could this be a new weapon created by those people in black robes?"
"Shut up."
Stan Edgar didn't even look at her.
"Don't use mortal weapons as an excuse for yourself."
He turned his head and stared at Homelander in the corner.
"And you, John."
Stan Edgar's gaze swept over the swollen, purple hand, "This is the first time you've been injured by someone. And it's the first time I've seen fear on your face."
Homelander, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, stood up abruptly.
"I'm not afraid! He took advantage! I wasn't prepared at the time..."
He choked for a long time, his fist clenching and then loosening in pain, finally falling back onto the sofa with a thud.
He couldn't refute a single word.
Stan Edgar withdrew his gaze and pressed the intercom phone in front of him.
The loudspeaker lit up with a red light.
"Vogelbaum, give me a conclusion."
A rustling sound of flipping through documents came from the other end of the phone.
The old man's voice was trembling.
"Mr. President... the lab results are out. That bit of skin tissue brought back on Black Noir's suit, I, I oversaw the analysis myself."
Stan Edgar curled his fingers and tapped the table.
"Did some laboratory downstairs develop a new generation of compound v without authorization?"
"No!"
Vogelbaum was almost screaming on the other end, his voice sounding like he was about to cry.
"There is absolutely no trace of compound v! Good heavens, his genetic chain is stronger than titanium alloy; it's simply not the structure of an Earth organism."
The old man swallowed, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper grinding against a wall.
"In these decades of gene banks, you absolutely cannot find this kind of sample. He didn't take any injections; he was born this way!"
The call was hung up.
The top-floor office was as cold as a morgue.
Madelyn pulled at her hair, her makeup completely ruined.
"We didn't create him? Then where did he come from? He couldn't have just fallen from the sky!"
Stan Edgar looked at the blurry surveillance screenshot on the table.
In the photo, the man with the Red Cape was choking Translucent; there was no pressure, only absolute power.
He reached out and picked up the photo.
"Vought has been in business for seventy years."
Stan Edgar crumpled the photo into a paper ball and threw it into the trash can.
"We used potions to package mortals as gods, deceiving billions of people. Now it seems, retribution has arrived."
He stood up straight and adjusted his tie.
"What we created were just expensive products. But today, you encountered a true god."
These words struck Homelander's ears, causing the nails he was digging into the sofa to snap off.
Stan Edgar walked to the door, with his back to them.
"Search the whole city for the Red Cape. Use all resources."
His voice was as cold as ice shards.
"Street cameras, satellite positioning, even the homeless in New York must be mobilized for me."
"The PR department needs to clean up the mess."
Stan Edgar pushed the door open, "Tell the media that A-Train was preventing a pileup, and Translucent had a sudden rare illness. If you can't come up with a good excuse, have Ashley go clean toilets tomorrow."
The door slammed shut tightly.
Seven in the morning.
The lead-gray clouds over New York finally dispersed.
Sunlight reflected off the glass walls of the skyscrapers, shining on the steam rising from the sewer manhole covers.
The streets had a bit of life in them.
At the traffic light intersection, a yellow taxi honked its horn.
The driver stuck his head out and cursed at the people walking slowly on the crosswalk.
Clark stood next to a newsstand.
He was wearing a slightly faded plaid shirt, with a cheap khaki jacket over it.
The soles of his canvas shoes were stained with a bit of mud.
In his hand, he held a cup of two-dollar coffee from a hot dog stand.
The cheap paper cup was a bit hot to hold, and a brown coffee stain seeped through, leaving a mark.
He raised his hand and pushed his newly bought black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.
He got them from a convenience store for ten dollars; the plastic frames were pinching the back of his ears a bit.
Clark looked down at the few coins he got back in change and stuffed them into his trouser pocket.
His original glasses fell into a gutter yesterday, so this was another expense.
The speakers on the street were playing the morning news.
"Vought official statement: The Seven encountered an organized terrorist attack; A-Train was heroically injured..."
Clark listened to this nonsense report and took a sip of lukewarm coffee.
It was too bitter.
Should have grabbed two extra packets of free sugar earlier.
He casually stuffed the free newspaper he had finished reading into a trash can.
He turned and blended into the crowd of the morning rush hour.
No one gave him a second look.
No one knew that this big guy, who was frowning because his glasses were pinching his ears, had just poked a hole in the sky of New York last night.
The destination was just ahead.
The old building of the Daily Planet stood in the morning light.
The bricks on the outer wall were dusty, bearing a bit of greasy grime from the years.
Clark sniffed.
A scent of freshly printed newspaper ink drifted from the lobby.
He slumped his shoulders, withdrawing all his presence.
Like the most inconspicuous rookie intern.
Holding that cheap cup of coffee, he stepped onto the stairs, pushed open the revolving glass door, and walked into the building.
Chapter 10: Clark, First Day on the Job as a Reporter, and the Editor-in-Chief Wants Me to Investigate Superman?
Clark pushed open the revolving glass door.
The lobby was full of the roar of photocopiers and the clatter of keyboards.
A strong, cheap smell of ink drilled into his nostrils.
This scent, mixed with the sour smell of yesterday's lingering pizza, made one feel a bit nauseous.
He took a breath and shrank his tall frame down a bit.
His shoulders were slightly hunched, his chin hidden in the collar of his khaki jacket.
He held a thick stack of personnel files and blank photocopy paper in his arms.
"Excuse me, please move aside..."
Clark kept his head down, cautiously navigating through the crowded office aisles.
His left foot happened to strike a tin trash can on the side of the aisle.
A dull thud echoed.
The trash can tipped over, and balls of waste paper rolled all over the floor.
He pretended to slip, stumbling forward.
The A4 paper in his arms flew out with a rustle, scattering onto the dusty carpet.
His side slammed heavily into the corner of a nearby desk.
"Ouch."
Clark squeezed out a cry of pain.
He clumsily crouched down, haphazardly gathering the papers on the ground.
That impact hadn't even broken a single hair on his body.
The solid wood corner of the desk, however, had silently dented inward.
No one noticed this detail at all.
"Newbie? Watch where you're walking, don't spill coffee on my keyboard!"
The bald editor next to him looked irritable, slamming his mouse loudly.
"Sorry, sorry, I'll clean it up right now."
Clark pushed up the black-rimmed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
He scrambled to gather the scattered files back into his arms.
He looked just like a timid, inexperienced country bumpkin.
Just then, the door to the editor-in-chief's office at the end of the hallway was kicked open.
"Where the hell is everyone! Can't you answer the damn intercom!"
Perry roared at the top of his lungs.
His tie was pulled askew, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
He clutched a roll of freshly developed color photos tightly in his hand.
The noise in the entire office area stopped instantly.
Only the air conditioner in the corner continued to hum.
Everyone shrank their necks, not daring to breathe.
Perry strode to the central editorial desk.
Smack!
He slammed the photos in his hand onto the wooden table surface.
"Look! Everyone open your eyes wide and look!"
Perry pointed at the blurry red and blue afterimage on the photo.
His short, thick fingers tapped loudly on the table.
"A load-bearing wall of Vought Tower has been smashed into a hole!"
"The Deep from The Seven is missing, and A-Train has turned into a puddle of mush in an abandoned factory area!"
He panted heavily, spitting onto the face of the reporter in the front row.
"Word is spreading like crazy outside, saying some guy in a Red Cape has pinned Homelander to the ground and is rubbing his face in it!"
"Such big news, a once-in-a-decade exclusive headline!"
Perry was so angry that the flesh on his face was trembling.
"And our newspaper's front page today is actually writing about the Mayor's wife's missing poodle?"
The senior reporter in the front row wiped the spit off his face.
"E-Editor-in-Chief, Vought Corporation's public relations department has completely blocked the news."
"They announced it was a series of terrorist attacks... no one dares to dig for the truth inside."
"Bullshit!"
Perry grabbed a metal stapler from the table and threw it into the trash can next to him.
"What is Vought Corporation anyway! I run a newspaper, I'm not a eunuch writing fluff pieces for capitalists!"
He braced his hands on the edge of the table, his gaze sweeping across the group of employees with their heads down.
"I want all the information on this Red Cape!"
"Looks, name, home address, even what kind of sandwich he likes!"
"Whoever gets an exclusive interview with him will be the chief reporter here!"
No one dared to respond.
Digging up dirt on Vought Corporation was no different from jumping into a meat grinder.
Perry's gaze circled the crowd.
Finally, it locked onto Clark, who had just stood up from the ground.
Clark was looking down, brushing the dust off his pant legs.
He was still clutching a crumpled sheet of photocopy paper.
He was too tall, his frame too broad; standing among a bunch of cowering office staff, he was very conspicuous.
"You."
Perry pointed his finger in that direction.
"What's your name?"
Clark froze for a moment, then quickly stood up straight.
"C-Clark, sir. Clark Kent."
"I'm an intern who just reported for duty today."
His voice sounded a bit weak, and his eyes darted to the side uncomfortably.
"You're it, rookie."
Perry walked over quickly and shoved the blurry photo of the Red Cape into Clark's arms.
"You go watch Vought Corporation's movements, stake out the streets, go dig through their back-alley trash cans."
"Use whatever underhanded methods you want."
"Dig up this guy in the cape for me."
Clark lowered his head.
He looked at the photo of his own back as he flew in mid-air.
The photo paper still carried the warmth of being freshly printed.
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
He quickly bit down hard on his lower lip, stifling the laughter that almost escaped.
The muscles on his face were twisted in a somewhat comical way from holding back the laughter.
"Editor-in-chief, I... I just arrived, such big news..."
Clark stuttered, putting on a troubled look.
"Where do you get off with so much nonsense!"
Perry slapped Clark heavily on the shoulder.
"If you can't do it, get lost back to Kansas to grow corn tomorrow! We don't keep idlers here."
"O-okay, sir, I'll investigate."
Clark hunched his shoulders and quickly tucked the photo into his jacket pocket.
The surrounding colleagues looked at him with sympathy.
Offending Vought Corporation, this rookie probably wouldn't last until his first paycheck.
Clark walked to his cramped workspace.
The chair was missing a plastic spacer, and it creaked as soon as he sat down.
He opened the drawer and shoved the personnel files inside.
Investigate Superman?
He reached out and pushed up his hard plastic black-rimmed glasses.
This job wasn't difficult at all; he could get first-hand clues just by looking in the mirror every morning.
The fat guy at the next desk leaned over, lowering his voice.
"Brother, you're on your own."
The fat guy stuffed a french fry into his mouth, his cheeks bulging.
"Perry is furious today, and Vought Corporation's legal department is not to be trifled with."
"The last reporter who went to the headquarters to sneak photos is still sitting in the precinct in Brooklyn."
"Thanks for the warning, I'll... be careful."
Clark tapped the keyboard twice, and the screen lit up with a yellowish light.
For the rest of the day, he sat in that creaky chair.
He looked through old news about Vought Corporation in the newspaper's internal system.
Playing an ordinary person for a day, constantly suppressing the strength in his muscles that could overturn the entire building at any moment.
This was even more exhausting than sending Homelanderflying yesterday.
The bell for the end of the workday finally rang.
Clark turned off the broken computer with the loud fan.
He squeezed into the evening subway station with the flow of people.
The carriage was filled with a strange mixture of sweat and cheap perfume.
He grabbed the overhead ring, swaying with the train.
Exiting the subway station, the sky over New York was already completely dark.
Neon lights were reflected in the puddles on the road, shattered into pieces.
The cold wind swept up the fallen leaves on the ground.
Clark turned into a budget supermarket at the corner of the street.
The fluorescent light tubes had poor contact, emitting a buzzing electrical sound.
He pushed the small shopping cart, heading straight to the discounted fresh food section.
He picked up a box of lettuce that was about to expire.
The edges of the leaves were wilted and yellow, and a fishy smell of soil seeped through the plastic wrap.
Ninety-nine cents.
Clark glanced at the price tag and tossed it into the basket with satisfaction.
He also picked out two tomatoes with pitted skins and a box of discounted eggs.
As an intern reporter living on a base salary, careful budgeting was a necessary skill.
At checkout, the middle-aged cashier was staring at the TV screen overhead.
In the news, a Vought Corporation spokesperson was still tearfully condemning the violence.
"That's three dollars and fifty cents."
The woman scanned the lettuce and deftly packed it into a plastic bag.
Clark took out a few crumpled bills and handed them over, then carried the plastic bag out of the supermarket.
The handles of the plastic bag dug into his skin a little.
Clark walked into the dilapidated apartment building where he rented a room.
The motion-sensor lights in the hallway had long been broken.
There was a damp, moldy smell everywhere.
Stepping on the wooden stairs, the floorboards let out an unpleasant groan.
He lived at the end of the top-floor hallway.
It was so quiet around that he could hear the dripping of water in the pipes.
Clark stopped in front of his door.
It was pitch black through the crack in the door, not a sliver of light coming through.
He switched the plastic bag to his left hand.
His right hand fished a set of keys out of his jacket pocket.
The brass keys clinked together, making a crisp jingling sound.
Clark deliberately slowed his movements.
In fact, the second he stepped onto the stairs, his Super Hearing had already penetrated the walls.
It captured the unusual anomaly in the room.
A heavy, vigilant breathing sound.
Mixed with the pungent smell of gun oil.
And the subtle sound of rough fingertips rubbing against a metal trigger.
Someone was waiting for him inside, with undisguised murderous intent.
Clark's face remained expressionless.
He gripped the key and inserted it into the rusty keyhole.
Click.
The bolt popped open.
The old security door was pushed open a crack, and the draft from the hallway flowed into the room through the gap.
Clark stepped inside.
He closed the door behind him.
The room was pitch black.
The heavy curtains were drawn tightly, blocking out all the streetlight from outside.
He didn't even make a move to reach for the light switch on the wall.
In the darkness.
A faint red light suddenly lit up.
Like the tongue of a venomous snake, it instantly pierced through the pitch-black room.
It landed precisely in the center of Clark's brow.
A red laser aiming point.
It was locked tightly onto his head.
Sitting on the worn-out fabric sofa directly opposite was a tall, dark shadow.
The air was filled with the bitter smell of burnt, low-quality tobacco.
Butcher was wearing that wrinkled black trench coat.
He sprawled back against the sofa.
Those eyes in the darkness shone with a wolf-like ferocity.
He was holding a large-caliber, custom sniper rifle with an exaggerated design.
The dark muzzle was held steadily on his knees.
The infrared emitter was mounted under the barrel, the red dot fixed motionless on Clark's skin.
Butcher didn't speak.
His rough fingers were already resting on the trigger.