Confirmed.
30,000 Special Popularity Points consumed…
Initiating "Superhero Blind Box" draw…
…Drawing…
Ding! Draw complete!
Congratulations, Host!
You have obtained a Rare Consumable Item:
A Small Bottle of Superman Serum (Red Sorghum Edition)
Item Description:
From a certain red-themed Kryptonian orphan.
After consumption, you gain 30 minutes of complete magic immunity.
⚠️ Warning: Extremely spicy.
Antony stared at the system panel.
"…Red sorghum?"
"…You're kidding me, right?"
He had the distinct feeling he'd just pulled a joke item.
"Magic immunity though…" He narrowed his eyes.
"Not useless. This universe loves its magic bullshit."
BOOM—!!!
Harlem.
Fifth floor of an aging apartment complex—engulfed in flames.
Thick black smoke poured from shattered windows.
A mother clutched her child, crouched on the windowsill, eyes filled with despair.
"Help! Somebody—please!!"
Just before the smoke stole her breath—
WHOOSH—!
A blue blur smashed straight through the wall.
Ignoring the inferno, Antony descended like a god, landing before her.
"Don't be afraid," he said, flashing the smile that could melt half of America.
"I've got you."
One arm each.
In a single motion, he shot out of the burning building like a meteor, landing gently beside police cruisers below.
"Oh my God—it's Homelander!!"
"He saved them!"
"I love you, Homelander!!!"
Cameras flashed. Cheers erupted. Sirens wailed.
Antony handed the mother and child to paramedics, waved casually at the cameras, then struck his classic hands-on-hips pose as the star-spangled cape fluttered behind him.
Ding! Popularity +55
Ding! Popularity +41
Ding! Popularity +63
His smile didn't change.
Inside, he cursed.
"…Sixty-three?"
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
His expression twitched for 0.01 seconds.
"Last time I saved a goddamn cat in Queens, I got more points than this."
That's when it hit him.
Hard.
The 'daily heroics' track… was drying up.
New Yorkers were used to him now.
Fire? Homelander would show up.
Robbery? Homelander would handle it.
He'd gone from a miracle to a premium emergency service.
And that was unacceptable.
Popularity had hit a ceiling.
He needed a new track.
-----
Vought International Media – Headquarters
Midtown Manhattan.
A glass skyscraper that, in just one month, had become a new landmark.
A fully funded subsidiary of Starr Group.
The only official agency representing Homelander.
Top-floor boardroom.
Antony sat at the head of the table in a perfectly tailored suit.
No warm smile. No heroic glow.
Only pressure.
"I want numbers," he said coldly, tapping the table.
"Just numbers."
"Over the past week—global search interest for Homelander is down five percent.
Public engagement and social media discussion—down fourteen percent."
He leaned forward.
"Why?"
"Tell me why."
"Look me in the eyes and tell me why the fuck this is happening."
The room froze.
"Mr. Starr…" the PR director—a sharp blonde woman—spoke carefully.
"This is normal. The Battle of New York hype was never going to last forever. Our strategy—"
"Your strategy is shit."
His voice was calm.
Which made it worse.
"What you're doing is reporting," he continued.
"You're telling people who I saved today."
"Wrong."
He stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Vought doesn't exist to report heroes."
He turned.
"It exists to define them."
Blue eyes swept across the room.
"I don't want gratitude."
"I want my face in every corner of their lives."
"I want them breathing me."
Silence.
"A documentary?" someone offered weakly.
"Fuck documentaries."
"They're for losers who can't control the narrative."
He raised one finger.
"What we're making… is mythology."
"We're making a movie."
A beat.
"A movie—about me."
-----
Hollywood – Beverly Hills
One week later
A discreet private club.
Inside were some of the most dangerous minds in the industry:
– The screenwriter behind Galactic Odyssey (global box office: $3 billion).
– An Oscar-winning black-comedy genius.
– A superhero-film veteran whose movies sucked—but whose dialogue slapped hard.
And several others whose names dominated box office charts.
Antony sat across from them.
Producer.
Investor.
And sole leading man.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, bourbon in hand, presence overwhelming.
"You write hits."
"And I am the hit."
He sipped his drink.
"I want my story."
"But bigger. Sexier. More."
"No sermons.
I want spectacle. Testosterone.
I want every man leaving the theater wishing he were me—
and every woman wishing…"
He smiled.
They were hooked.
"Alright, Mr. Homelander," one writer began eagerly.
"We've got some incredible concepts."
"Concept one: Alien Savior! You're the last survivor of a dying planet—launched to Earth, landing in a Kansas cornfield—"
Antony stared at him.
"…Okay," the writer swallowed.
"Too classic."
"Concept two: Mythic Awakening!" another jumped in.
"You're Odin's secret son! Thor's brother! Your power awakens during the Battle of New York—"
"Get out," Antony said flatly.
"…Understood."
"I've got it!" a veteran writer slammed the table.
"Opening scene—Hamptons! Yacht! Bikinis!"
"You, Antony Starr—billionaire playboy.
You have everything… except fulfillment."
"Then tragedy!" another added.
"A storm! Massive! Biblical!"
"You fall into the sea!"
"But you don't die," the first whispered.
"You're rescued by a mysterious organization…"
"…We'll call them—Chaos."
Antony finally smiled.
Slowly.
Now that…
was a new track.