It really was just a fleeting temptation—barely 0.01 seconds.
Herman quickly snapped out of it.
With the All-Seeing Eye granting him a new identity every week, there was no telling when he might get assigned the identity of a rich man.
There was no need to take risks for a bit of petty profit, and certainly no reason to cut corners on film expenses.
After all, someone else was footing the bill. Anyone who could live in a castle, even if not as wealthy as Iron Man, could easily handle the cost of an extravagant production.
"That's illegal! We're a legitimate company! And I'm a legitimate director!" Herman decided he had to stick to being an upright, responsible, down-on-his-luck director. He grabbed a copy of For Him Magazine from the desk and tossed it at Skye.
All because of this troublesome girl!
She almost led him astray!
"Fine, forget it. You clearly don't appreciate my skills." Skye dodged the magazine with ease, stuck out her tongue at him, and walked out of the office.
Herman didn't stay long in the office either. He still needed to track down a professional props team to create custom gear for his film.
Especially the uniforms… If he didn't supervise the work himself, they would never come out the way he wanted. Herman spent the entire afternoon handling prop orders, spending extra time discussing the lead role's Homelander uniform with the costume designer.
"I want the blue uniform to highlight explosive muscle definition, and the cape has to be the stars and stripes—symbolizing our land of freedom!" Herman examined the designer's sketch, pointing out every detail he wanted.
"You're trying to shoot a superhero film, aren't you?" The costume designer, chewing on a pencil, looked troubled.
"To achieve that muscular look, we'd need to pad it heavily with fake muscles. But even then, it would still look off."
She was right—fake muscles were notoriously hard to make convincing, no matter the budget.
"Isn't there another way? I can pay more." Herman didn't care about the money, since none of it came out of his own pocket.
"There is. Honestly, the best way is for you to wear it yourself. Don't you think it'd be a shame not to show off that physique?"
"As a director… You shouldn't be lacking in acting skills, right?"
The designer, a sharp and intellectual woman, had secretly stolen glances at Herman's build more than ten times since they'd met. In her eyes, it was a waste not to put such a perfect body on screen.
"Huh?"
Herman froze. His physique was naturally well-proportioned, and after his physical enhancements, his muscles were even more defined.
But playing Homelander himself? Just thinking of that character's twisted behavior made him shake his head furiously inside.
Drinking milk like that? Way too perverse. The last thing he wanted was to walk down the street and have people greet him with, "So, did you drink your milk today?"
That would be pure social death!
"No way! Even if you beat me to death, I wouldn't do it!" Herman flatly rejected the suggestion, insisting they use the most expensive fake muscle padding available.
After leaving the props workshop, Herman stopped by a Chinese restaurant on the street, ordering takeout—General Tso's Chicken and Boiled Beef in Spicy Broth—before heading back to Stellar Tower.
Skye, living in the West, could probably handle dishes like General Tso's Chicken, but Herman thought it tasted awful.
The spicy boiled beef, though, smelled incredible—good enough to make him eat three bowls of rice in one go. Looking at the takeout in his hands, his stomach growled.
As he stood on the roadside with the food, swallowing hungrily while waiting for a taxi, a black Chevrolet sedan slowly rolled past him.
"Hm?"
Herman saw a handgun slide out of the lowered window of the slowing Chevrolet, aimed straight at him as he waited for a taxi by the curb.
Bang!
A flash of sparks erupted from the black muzzle; the report of the shot cracked abruptly down the New York street.
"Target neutralized."
The driver was a woman in sunglasses, her high cheekbones unmistakably Western. She seemed supremely confident in her marksmanship. After firing, she quickly drew the pistol back, rolled up the window, and spoke into her earpiece to report.
She slammed the gas.
If she could clear the block within three minutes, the arriving police would be too late to catch her. Everything had been calculated; the operation ran like clockwork. To her, this was just another routine hit.
But—
The engine revved and the tires screamed, yet the Chevrolet didn't surge forward. The sound of the wheels spinning filled the air, but the car barely moved—like it was stuck in place.
"What the—?"
She kept her foot to the floor, but even at full throttle the car wouldn't budge. The weirdness made a cold knot form in her stomach. Without thinking much longer, she grabbed the pistol, ready to abandon the vehicle and melt into the crowd.
Then the car door opened on its own.
Before she could register what was happening, the sight made her pupils snap tight—the target she'd shot at wasn't dead. He was standing right outside her door.
"I expect an explanation. Do as I say and..." Herman toyed with a small bullet casing between his fingers.
His smile was warm, but his eyes were ice. Even a woman used to brutality felt a chill run down her spine.
"I might consider granting you a quick death."