The scent of home hit first—rosemary chicken, detergent, a hint of fresh wood polish. Laughter echoed faintly down the hall as the front door clicked shut behind him. Ben loosened his tie with one hand, the other slipping his keycard into his jacket pocket. His shoulders finally relaxed.
"Hey, Dad!"
Alan rounded the corner, hoodie half-zipped, a golden trophy tucked under one arm and a cocky grin playing on his face. His voice carried the charge of victory.
"I told you I'd get the trophy."
Ben's lips curled into a grin, arms opening wide in mock surrender.
"Of course you did. They never stood a chance."
Alan approached, still catching his breath from the run. Ben ruffled his hair—though Alan squirmed and rolled his eyes, he didn't pull away. The hand lingered a second longer than it needed to.
From the kitchen, Diana glanced over her shoulder, apron powdered with flour and hair tied in a messy bun. Her voice had that teasing warmth only love could afford.
"You're late, Ben."
He moved toward her, unhurried. Slipped an arm around her waist and leaned into her neck, breathing her in like a memory he needed to keep close.
"Got caught up saving capitalism, Diana."
She chuckled and nudged him with an elbow. "Well, save some of that charm for dinner. Winchester Enterprises isn't going to run itself forever. I've got this—you need to rest."
He smiled—unguarded, free. The kind of smile reserved for exactly two people in the world. But in the brief silence that followed, something flickered behind his eyes. A shadow that never left.
Moonlight spilled through the high windows of his private study, casting long shadows across shelves of philosophy books and awards. The house was quiet now. Alan asleep. Diana reading in the bedroom.
Ben stood before the tall oak shelf by the far wall, eyes fixed on a particular leather-bound volume of The Republic. He pulled it.
The entire shelf groaned, then clicked. With a slow, seamless turn, it rotated inward, revealing a hidden chamber dimly lit by strips of blue LED. At its center stood a sleek manikin, clad in black-blue and silver armor—his second skin. The armor's silver veins pulsed faintly, like breath in a sleeping beast.
Ben stepped forward, wordless. He stripped his dress shirt, revealing a flawless physique shaped by years of discipline.
He slid into the armor piece by piece, practiced and silent. Finally, he reached for the upper half of the mask—dark, angular, emotionless—and placed it over his face.
Black Mentis emerged.
In the next instant, he was gone—a blur of motion slicing through the study window without a sound, vanishing into the Ember City skyline.
HeroCorp Headquarters towered above downtown like a cathedral of glass and steel. Its logo—a stylized phoenix wrapped in circuitry—glowed against the night sky. Billboards flickered with looping footage of heroes in flight, triumphant smiles, civilians clapping in slow motion. In the atrium, a hologram cycled through dramatic headlines:
"BLACK MENTIS SAVES EMBER CITY FROM METEOR STRIKE!"
"NEW HERO RISES TO RANK D: WHO IS HE REALLY?"
"VILLAINOUS SHOWDOWN: LIVE FOOTAGE AT 8PM!"
Inside, the upper levels buzzed with polished smiles and rehearsed soundbites. PR teams and minor heroes chatted mid-hallway, practicing their 'victory nods' and camera-ready expressions.
But deeper down—far beneath the spotless glass—another world stirred.
Concrete walls replaced glass. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Monitors displayed live feed from various fight zones across the city—some clearly chaotic, others suspiciously well-framed for broadcast.
Two media interns rushed past, arms full of flash drives and clipboards.
"We need a fresh script! Make the Mentis footage more dramatic—like the meteor almost hit a school."
Another chimed in, not looking up: "And cut to the new guy fighting that fire-breather. Keep the shaky cam, it'll look raw—audiences love raw."
Down another corridor, lab coats clustered near a machine humming with faint red light. Two doctors whispered while monitoring vitals on screen.
"This treadmill rig—it boosts speed response by 300% if they train six days straight. Pushes their limits."
The other adjusted a vial of glowing serum. "Forget speed. Their blood… there's something evolving. I'm close to mapping the trigger."
Elsewhere, past reinforced doors and retinal scans, sparring chambers rumbled with real fights. Some new heroes tested their strength, knuckles raw. Others fought chained villains, each clash filmed from multiple angles.
Black Mentis passed them all, his presence commanding silence even in shadow.
Not every battle was staged. Not every villain was fake.
But behind the action… behind the lights and headlines… was something far more calculated.
And Black Mentis knew exactly where the truth lived.
Black Mentis sat in the dimly lit conference room deep within HeroCorp's HQ. His armored fingers tapped rhythmically on the metal table. Around him, a semicircle of flickering screens played footage from city zones—emergency calls, villain activity, and the aftermath of his most recent mission: a collapsing overpass, dozens saved, enemy subdued.
He leaned forward, eyes scanning every frame with the cold precision of a surgeon. But beneath that focus, his jaw was tight.
A voice slithered into the silence.
"Excellent work out there, Black Mentis."
Victor Sinclair stepped into view, hands clasped behind his back, suit crisp and charcoal-dark. His grin was shallow, all teeth, no sincerity. His voice, as always, smooth as oil.
"Your actions today have boosted our ratings significantly."
Mentis didn't look at him right away. He waited a beat. Then two. Finally, his head turned, mask reflecting the ambient glow of the screens.
"I don't need your fake praise," he said, voice even but sharp. "If there's another mission, just get on with it… or fuck off."
Victor's smile didn't falter. If anything, it deepened with amusement.
"My, my. Testy today." He strolled casually across the room, pausing to glance at a paused feed showing Mentis shielding civilians. "Richard wants you in his office. And for the record—"
He stepped closer now, just inside Black Mentis's peripheral.
"—you've become quite disrespectful lately. Don't mistake my silence for weakness."
He leaned in, voice lowering.
"You're powerful. No one's denying that. But remember something important: we are the ones in control."
A pause, deliberate.
Victor straightened and turned away, heading for the exit with his usual infuriating calm.
"Oh," he added, almost as an afterthought, "we're changing HeroCorp's system. More heroes. Less exclusivity. Expansion across Europe. Exciting times ahead."
The door hissed shut behind him.
Black Mentis remained still. Only his clenched jaw betrayed the storm brewing beneath the mask.
((Thanks for reading this chapter, if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment, I could use suggestions, feedback or ideas. If you want to support me. Then I accept red stones or gifts etc… it keeps me motivated, plus with enough support your OC could appear in future arcs just dm their info))