"Take a look at this."
Vought's Vice President Madelyn was showing the mayor of Baltimore a photo of a Black man as she casually named her price.
"Three hundred million dollars and he's yours."
Don't get the wrong idea—this wasn't some kind of triangular trade. This was just Vought's annual routine hero contract adjustment, no different from the NBA free agency period.
"An exclusive three-year contract. Three hundred million per year. Nubian Prince, along with his entire campaign operations team, belongs to you. IP merchandise revenue sharing included."
Madelyn wasn't asking for the moon. A superhero carried enormous significance for a city—especially one like Baltimore, where both the proportion of minorities and the crime rate had been rising year after year.
"Two hundred million for this 'Nubian Prince.'"
Every politician was a seasoned businessman, and the mayor of Baltimore was no exception.
"That's the only way I can convince my city council and my voters."
"Think carefully, Steve. Your city's crime rate keeps climbing, and your approval rating keeps falling. You need to take action to change how voters see you."
Madelyn understood these Democratic politicians so well that negotiating with them had become utterly dull.
"Do you really think this money is better spent on a bulletproof superhero we've packaged as a saint—
or on an armed police force that fires at suspects the moment they look a little off."
Mayor Steve of Baltimore thought, damn right it's better spent on the police. They're the ones actually risking their lives and following orders, while most superheroes are just putting on a show.
Of course, that was something he could only think to himself. After all, most of his voters would choose the former.
Everyone wanted an all-powerful superhero to save them from their miserable reality. Very few wanted to know that Vought's superheroes were still just people—not saints or messiahs from the PR posters.
But the mayor knew.
"What if I told you I know about Compound V..."
The mayor leaned forward, fixing his gaze on Madelyn with a threatening posture. As stated before, every politician was a qualified businessman—and businessmen always had bargaining chips.
"Madelyn, we're friends, aren't we? Friends help each other."
At the mention of 'Compound V,' a ripple passed through Madelyn's heart, but her expression didn't change.
"Three hundred million. If you don't buy, we'll just sell it to Atlanta."
---
What an inefficient revenue model.
Stan Edgar thought this as he reviewed Vought's quarterly financial report.
He had never liked Vought's current core business.
Since entering the 21st century, with the rise of new media, Vought had expanded its influence across nearly the entire entertainment industry. From Hollywood to San Fernando Valley, landing a Vought contract was a badge of honor. The stock price kept climbing—anyone could see the company was thriving.
By selling superheroes to cities, Vought achieved stable revenue. But this method of making money was ultimately a means, not the end.
Stationing superheroes in cities to maintain public order openly established their law enforcement authority, while tying them to political campaigns allowed Vought to infiltrate both houses of Congress.
The next step was the most critical one: Weaponizing superheroes.
Any usable superhero was a top-tier weapon of mass destruction. Using them to patrol cities or scam fans as celebrities was like using a ten-thousand-ton ship to go fishing—utterly wasteful.
Of course, that line was for public consumption. The vast majority of Vought's superheroes lacked discipline and courage. Sending them into real combat would be like driving a fully loaded oil tanker into a warzone—look at it the wrong way and it explodes.
Still, Vought had already pushed enough propaganda to make people believe superheroes truly belonged on a much larger stage.
All that remained was legislative momentum—until Vought's ultimate goal was reached, and its product, superheroes, officially transitioned from entertainment to the military sector.
The combined annual box office of Hollywood's five major studios barely scraped together a few hundred billion dollars.
The Department of Defense's annual budget was nearly eight hundred billion.
Which one made more money was obvious.
If you could carve out a piece of a bigger cake, why fight over scraps at a small table?
Not to mention that entering the national military system granted access to things money alone couldn't buy.
---
After some back-and-forth, Hughie finally reached a deal. He would go alone to Vought to accept compensation, sign the NDA, and receive a personal apology from A-Train.
Security on the first floor of Vought Tower far exceeded Hughie's expectations. Armed guards controlled all entrances from the second-floor balcony. Hughie felt that even a squad of Navy SEALs would have trouble breaking through a setup like this.
As he passed through security, Hughie broke into a sweat. The listening device was hidden inside his phone case. If the guards paid even a little attention, he'd be done for.
"Thank you for your cooperation, sir."
Like most office workers, the security guard chose the easiest possible approach—briefly glancing at the phone, pretending to scan it, then waving Hughie through.
By the time Hughie was about to reach the conference room, the Seven's morning meeting had just ended. He even caught sight of that new superhero who had recently made his first public appearance—Superman.
He was surprisingly young. Judging by his face, Hughie thought the guy might not have even finished high school.
The young man was currently arguing with someone who looked like an assistant.
"I'm not going. Don't use Madelyn to pressure me—I don't even know her!"
Conference room → excuse to use the bathroom → take out the bug → return to the conference room → stick it somewhere hidden → sign the papers → get out.
Just as Hughie was mentally rehearsing the entire process, Superman walked over from a distance. Hughie's brain overloaded, and he walked straight into him.
The collision knocked Hughie off balance. In his tense state, he couldn't steady himself and was about to faceplant.
Joey reflexively caught the unlucky guy who had bumped into him. He'd been arguing with the new assistant Vought assigned him and hadn't been paying attention.
"Sorry—are you okay?"
Hughie felt like he might have superhero PTSD. The moment Superman touched him, every hair on his body stood on end.
Thankfully, the fear vanished as quickly as it came once contact ended. Otherwise, Hughie wasn't sure he'd even be able to walk into the conference room and plant the bug.
While Hughie was preparing to pull a James Bond act on Vought, Joey was busy sabotaging the company in his own way.
"Which son of a bitch thought it was a good idea to send me to a church lecture?"
The assistant being scolded remained calm and composed.
"Marketing ran the numbers. Your target demographic overlaps heavily with religious audiences. Attending sermons is a win-win—you gain fans from believers, and the church gains believers from fans."
"Besides, as part of your public image, you're a Kansas farm boy with strong faith. Attending religious events in God's name makes perfect sense."
"My faith is that if the god you're talking about wants me to go, he'll text me."
Joey pulled his phone from the chest of his poorly made Superman suit—there was literally nowhere else to put it.
Damn it. Why hadn't he told the costume department to add pockets?
At moments like this, Joey felt Batman's utility belt made a lot of sense. At least you'd never worry about where to put your phone.
Ding~
Out of nowhere, a text message arrived from an unfamiliar number:
[You should go.]
Cold sweat instantly broke out on Joey's back. He typed back:
[God?]
[Not God. Raven.]
"What the fuck, you're still spying on me?!"
Joey shouted, instinctively looking at his shadow. The assistant beside him nearly jumped out of their skin.
[Yes. But not through shadows. I'm using a crystal ball.]
Joey could already picture it: a sinister witch in black robes, lurking in a dark basement, hands hovering over a crystal ball, cackling evilly.
In reality, Raven was curled up comfortably on a hotel sofa. She'd taken off her black cloak and corset, now wearing a loose black T-shirt that covered most of her body.
She was staying in one of the rooms at the same hotel Superman was currently lodging in.
Less than thirty meters from his room.
Close enough to perform divination on him without any effort.
Raven scrolled through short videos on her phone, occasionally glancing at the crystal ball on the coffee table—recently activated and nearly buried under snack wrappers.
She texted Superman while stuffing snacks into her mouth.
Spying on people through divination was deeply unethical. Raven knew that.
But letting Superman continue spending time with those morally bankrupt people? Anything could happen under that kind of influence.
After investigating New York and its surroundings, Raven decided intervention was absolutely necessary.
Otherwise, this Earth wouldn't even last long enough to resist the hell dimension.
It would be finished long before her father—Trigon—ever arrived.