"Since you pity these prisoners so much,"
a council staffer finally snapped,
"then why don't you pay out of your own pocket to improve their lives?
Standing on a moral high ground while demanding sacrifice from others—what does that make you?"
As expected, the moment those words were spoken, the confrontation exploded.
But the so-called saints showed not the slightest shame.
They ignored the fury of the Superhero Council members entirely, even mistaking the outrage as proof that the council had "lost its composure."
As for being asked to pay?
A joke.
One hundred dollars per hour was an astronomical figure to them. Even working nonstop for an entire day, most of them wouldn't earn half that amount.
They were saints precisely because morality was cheap.
If they had money, would they still be saints?
Of course not.
So they ignored the accusations, grew louder instead, and doubled down on moral blackmail—weaponizing public opinion, pushing slogans, manufacturing outrage.
In their minds, the logic was simple:
As long as they seized the narrative,
as long as enough people stood behind them,
victory was guaranteed.
To achieve that, they spared no effort in stirring controversy, creating headlines, and inflaming emotions.
The Superhero Council, however, reacted just as swiftly.
Sebastian's directive was crystal clear:
Do not retreat. Do not compromise. Strike once—hard enough to kill the momentum.
From that moment on, both sides began deliberately escalating tensions.
The self-proclaimed humanitarians staged one absurd protest after another—blocking roads, disrupting events, faking victim testimonies—anything to appear weak, pitiful, and morally superior.
Soon after, emboldened by public attention, their leaders took the next step.
They filed a lawsuit against the Superhero Council in federal court.
At the same time, they colluded with a large number of released prisoners, demanding $100,000 per person in compensation for "psychological trauma," "forced labor," and "loss of dignity."
When the Superhero Council's legal department received the court summons, something strange happened.
Driven by greed, criminals who had previously stayed silent suddenly emerged en masse, demanding compensation as well.
Then came the truly absurd part.
Because no representative of the Superhero Council appeared in court, the judge—following procedural rules—ruled in favor of the plaintiffs by default.
Compensation granted.
The ruling sent shockwaves through society.
Everyone knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Homelander
and
the Speaker of the Superhero Council
would never let this end quietly.
Yet… days passed.
Then weeks.
The Superhero Council made no move.
Relief spread among the plaintiffs. They relaxed. They celebrated. They began spending the money.
They forgot one simple rule:
Silence from power is never mercy.
It is preparation.
Then came Homelander's sixteenth birthday.
At Sebastian's suggestion, a grand coming-of-age celebration was announced—lavish, extravagant, held outside the city center.
Famous music groups.
Dancers.
Celebrities.
An event impossible to ignore.
Almost every superhero attended.
Some came to curry favor with the vice-chairman.
Some came out of fear.
Others came for the spectacle.
Regardless of motive, not a single major hero remained behind.
Metropolis' defenses instantly collapsed to their lowest point in history.
When city officials realized what had happened, cold sweat soaked their backs.
They understood immediately—
The Council's retaliation had arrived.
Yet they could do nothing.
All they could do was brace themselves…
and pray innocent civilians would not be dragged into it.
Their prayers were answered.
The attackers were precise.
A coordinated group of super-criminals struck simultaneously, launching a meticulously planned operation.
Targets were clear.
Routes were clean.
Timing was flawless.
The losses suffered by the Superhero Council's opponents exceeded tens of millions of dollars.
With that money, the criminals could live comfortably for years.
Their objective was obvious:
Strip every last cent from the so-called saints and former prisoners who had extorted the Council.
Civilians were left untouched.
Because everyone involved understood the unspoken rule:
Harm ordinary people—and the Superhero Council will annihilate you.
Homelander's birthday wasn't a coincidence.
It was an invitation.
And the criminals were smart enough to accept it.
They knew that if they targeted those extortionists, the heroes would look the other way.
After all—
That money would ultimately be redistributed among the superheroes themselves.
No one was foolish enough to protect people who had just stolen millions from them.
As for the NYPD?
To these criminals, the police were nothing more than background decorations.
The gap in firepower, mobility, and strength made intervention meaningless.
They had all the time they needed.
Under years of brutal suppression by the Superhero Council, these criminals were no longer petty street thugs.
The weak had already been sent to Hero Prison—
to rot in Time Hell as living resources.
Those who survived had grown sharp.
Cunning.
Disciplined.
Ruthless.
They had access to black-market weapons more advanced than anything publicly available.
They cooperated with underground cybernetic surgeons who mastered forbidden prosthetic technology.
And behind them—
stood a loose but terrifying organization:
The Criminal Alliance
Its stability rested on one unshakable pillar.
A man so powerful, so untouchable, that even knowing his location did not grant the courage to strike.
Even the Superhero Council hesitated.
Because the leader of the Criminal Alliance was—
Sandra Miranda.
The brother of Sebastian's mother.
The blood-relative of the Speaker of the Superhero Council.
As long as he lived—
the alliance would never collapse.
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