No one dared to act rashly.
What if they really killed Sandra—and Sebastian turned on them afterward?
Even if there was no immediate fallout, who could guarantee there wouldn't be a reckoning later?
Trusting a leader's words when it involved family was the most dangerous gamble of all. Doing so wouldn't just implicate the executor—it would put the leader himself in an impossible position.
What's more, Sandra Miranda was the youngest child of the Miranda family.
He wasn't particularly outstanding, but he was deeply favored—especially by Theresa, Sebastian's mother. Their relationship alone was enough to deter anyone outside the Miranda or Xiao families from touching him.
Ironically, that very protection turned Sandra into a reckless drifter.
He spent his early years loafing around with unsavory friends, chasing thrills rather than responsibility—living a life defined by excess and excitement.
But everything changed after Sebastian rose to power.
With Sebastian's meteoric ascent came staggering wealth, and as an in-law family, the Mirandas rose alongside him.
With family backing and unlimited funding, Sandra transformed overnight—from a nobody gangster into a dominant underworld figure.
Every man dreams, at some point, of being a godfather.
To rule from the shadows.
To decide life and death.
To command loyalty with a word.
When Sandra gained the capital to chase that dream, he never hesitated.
He paved roads with money, recruited relentlessly, and within a single year established the Mishnari Family—the largest mafia organization in the United States.
Backed by money and guided by ruthless intelligence, Sandra rapidly became the underground emperor controlling the majority of America's criminal networks.
Once the Mishnari Family stabilized, they launched their core businesses:
Advanced weaponry
Mechanical prosthetics
Their products were powerful, reliable, and frighteningly refined.
Black-market merchants flocked to them.
Before long, the Mishnari Family became the most trusted arms supplier in the underworld.
Cutting-edge weapons and high-tech prosthetics flowed endlessly into the hands of ambitious men across the globe—while enormous profits quietly cycled back into the ecosystem that fed the Superhero Council itself.
The clash between super-criminals and the NYPD lasted hours.
In the end, the criminals vanished into the crowd—carrying tens of millions in stolen cash.
The equipment gap was simply too great.
Their bullets pierced armored vehicles and curved mid-flight.
Officers stared down at the Glock 19s in their hands and felt nothing but despair.
No one forgot the sight of that cyborg enforcer.
Encased in metal, radiating cold menace, standing in the open street like a god of war—unfazed by gunfire.
One punch.
A reinforced armored vehicle was sent flying like cardboard.
That image burned itself permanently into the nightmares of the NYPD.
Without superheroes stepping in, the police never stood a chance.
As a result, countless so-called saints and former prisoners were captured by the super-criminals.
They were tortured.
Beaten.
Forced to hand over every dollar they had extorted.
During the crossfire, hostages died in droves.
Only a handful survived—those unlucky enough to be robbed by ordinary criminals instead.
By the time it ended, hours had passed.
Only then did the superheroes finally arrive.
Drunk.
Staggering.
Reeking of alcohol.
They surveyed the devastation and expressed their deep concern with hesitant voices.
People couldn't help but wonder:
Were they late…
or had they waited until everyone was dead?
Regardless, the hero who should have been on duty fell to his knees, sobbing, and apologized to the victims' families.
The Superhero Council followed immediately with an official statement.
They condemned the dereliction of duty and announced the hero would be stripped of frontline responsibilities and reassigned to the Justice Frontier's logistics department—to "read newspapers."
The public applauded.
But everyone inside the system knew the truth.
This was killing the chicken to warn the monkeys.
Logistics was the fattest department of all.
Real power.
Real money.
Real safety.
Frontline heroes—unless famous—were expendable errand boys. Overworked, underpaid, and discarded once their usefulness faded.
Even ministers earned little.
This wasn't punishment.
It was promotion disguised as disgrace.
No one dared say it out loud.
Because if superheroes couldn't maintain justice, that would be the real crime.
Later, Homelander personally addressed the public.
He apologized.
He claimed he never expected his birthday celebration to lead to such consequences.
Two years later, he acted again.
He dismantled multiple criminal dens and captured many offenders—but only recovered a fraction of the stolen money.
Then, quietly…
The matter was buried.
"That's all."
Sebastian pressed the massive seal onto the final document.
The June 17 Incident was officially closed.
The secretaries collected their files and departed one by one, leaving the office silent.
The truth remained—
Some crimes were punished.
Some justice was performed.
But the godfather still lived.
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