*Too Late to Love You*
After finalizing the deal with Butcher, John didn’t choose to act immediately.
Instead, he pulled out the phone he had obtained from “robbing the rich to help the poor,” found The Deep’s number, and sent him a message.
“Make a few more copies of the original files from the archives, and other documents too.
Leave them at the usual spot.”
After sending the message, John put the phone back in his pocket and looked up at the early morning sky over New York.
The clouds hung incredibly low, wrapping the beacon lights atop distant skyscrapers in a blanket of grey fog.
It looked almost dreamlike.
Compared to his primitive life back on the Kent Farm, this place was obviously far more exciting.
Yet, between the two, John cared more about his family.
Therefore, his time was running out.
One week.
Butcher had given him a deadline of one week to rescue Becca, but only John knew that his actual window of opportunity was much tighter.
Lucifer, that Satan, had only given him three months.
With every passing minute, the dark red membrane over Jonathan’s heart grew a little dimmer.
Before that, however, he needed a hand to speed up the research.
Researching Compound V required a massive amount of samples and materials.
A single dose was nowhere near enough to support a full analytical study.
This was something John had learned back at the farm from self-studying high school physics and chemistry textbooks.
And transporting massive amounts of Compound V required secrecy, speed, and high-quality logistics.
When it came to efficiency, John had to admit—what could possibly compare to a speedster?
But before going to see A-Train, John first went to the “usual spot” where The Deep left files: a slot behind an aquarium signboard.
He tapped the slot with his knuckle, and a faint metallic click immediately echoed from within as the lock popped open.
Inside was a roll of paper documents wrapped in a sealed plastic bag.
The bag had a label:
[Original V1, Soldier Boy Batch]
Below it was a line of small, handwritten text in ink that had nearly dissolved from moisture:
[Only copy.
Paper format.
Do not input into system.]
John pulled the files out of the plastic bag.
He flipped to the first page.
Printed on the header was Soldier Boy’s codename and his injection date.
Below it were dense rows of handwritten chemical formulas, with the name of the researcher in charge and cross-validation signatures noted next to each molecular structure.
It seemed this was indeed the original file.
However…
Just as The Deep had said, apart from the molecular formula pages, the subsequent synthesis equations had been torn out.
Judging by the ragged edges, the tears were clearly fresh.
As for who had torn them out, John frowned as he cast his mind back, and a likely suspect emerged. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Currently, Soldier Boy—his biological father—was still playing the role of a human popsicle over in Russia.
Aside from Madelyn and that black guy Edgar, the only ones who could freely access Vought’s database were Liberty—or Stormfront, as she would later be known, the literal Nazi he would end up playing hide-the-salami with.
In his past life, he might have been kept in the dark, but in this life, John, who had undergone ideological education, knew better.
Stormfront only fancied him to use him as a tool for her bullshit dream of Supe world domination.
Even if they did reach the top, Stormfront’s sheer cunning meant there might not actually be a place for him.
And frankly, capital alone was enough to keep all Supes firmly under heel.
You could say Stormfront was one of the founders of Vought, that she was capital itself, but she still had to obediently listen to Edgar.
There was a reason why Vought had stood strong for so many years.
Shaking his head, John tucked the files away, left the aquarium, and headed straight for A-Train’s apartment.
This being his second visit, John knew the way well.
A-Train’s living room wasn’t large.
The coffee table was cluttered with energy bar wrappers and a few half-finished sports drinks.
The television was on but muted.
The screen showed Vought’s official channel, broadcasting a rerun of last month’s media conference in Chicago for The Seven.
A-Train stood by the sofa leaning on a crutch, his left leg still in a splint, his knee slightly bent as he shifted all his weight onto his right leg.
He held a tablet terminal exclusive to The Seven.
On the screen, Ashley, that big-nosed bitch whose nostrils looked wide enough to stuff two hundred dicks in, had sent him an email:
“Dear Mr.
A-Train, we suggest utilizing your recovery period to reevaluate your personal brand positioning.”
Translated from corporate-speak, this load of horseshit meant that his injury had caused sales of his co-branded sneakers to plummet, and the board of directors was already discussing whether to remove him from The Seven’s starting lineup.
*Knock, knock, knock—*
(Grandpa Cash has come to visit.)
Hearing the knock, A-Train closed the email with a grim expression, limped over to the door, and habitually peeked through the peephole.
*Fuck!*
He nearly dropped his crutch.
Black mask, old leather jacket, hands in his pockets, standing in a relaxed posture.
The man tilted his head slightly and jerked his chin toward the peephole as if saying hello.
But A-Train knew the guy was an unreasonable demon.
His current misery was entirely the fault of the monster outside, yet he couldn’t show even a shred of his anger.
He could only swallow his teeth and bear it.
*What is he doing here?*
*Wasn’t what he did to me enough…?*
A-Train’s fingers froze on the doorknob.
Two voices clashed in his head.
One said, *Don’t open it!
Jump down the fire escape and run on your unbroken right leg.
Run as far as you can.*
The other voice said, *Are you fucking retarded?
You think you can outrun him? Visit g.com for the full chapter.
If you run, you might just be a literal train-head on a platter tomorrow.*
With that thought, A-Train could only take a deep breath, steel himself, and turn the lock.
“Y-You…
how did you know I lived here—”
A-Train’s raspy voice caught in his throat.
He instinctively took a step back, and his left leg splint bumped against the edge of the shoe rack, making him wince in pain.
John didn’t answer.
He simply brushed past him, walking straight into the living room.
He glanced at the energy bar wrappers on the coffee table and the smiling Homelander on the television screen, then sat down on the sofa.
“Honey, who’s here?”
Popclaw, sporting a professional bob, poked her head out of the kitchen, still clutching a kitchen knife she hadn’t put down yet.
She had been chopping onions, and bits of onion still clung to her fingers.
When she saw a strange, masked man sitting in the living room, her gaze instantly turned wary.
She had never seen her boyfriend with such a bizarre friend—certainly not one who would hide his face behind a black mask.
“Reggie?
Who is this?”
*Fuck!
Why did she have to see him…*
A-Train’s jaw twitched, his masseter muscles contracting violently out of fear, making his entire face look like it was being squeezed from both sides.
Like a puckered sphincter.
“Babe, it’s Vought stuff.
Official business.
Go wait in the room for a bit and don’t come out.”
He limped over to Popclaw on his crutches and pushed her toward the hallway, trying his best to act nonchalant, though his fingers trembling against her shoulder gave him away.
“Alright, but make it quick.
I haven’t finished cooking dinner yet.”
Popclaw stumbled slightly under his push.
She glanced back at him, then at the masked stranger on the sofa, opening her mouth as if to say something.
A woman’s intuition told her something was terribly wrong.
Ultimately, however, she chose to trust her boyfriend.
She placed the kitchen knife on the shoe rack, turned, and walked into the bedroom, clicking the lock shut behind her.
Seeing Popclaw leave, John leaned back comfortably against the sofa, crossing his legs and jerking his chin toward the bedroom.
“You have a girlfriend?”
This display of affection almost fooled him.
If he remembered correctly, in his past life, A-Train had constantly propagated his “single” persona to the public, and eventually ended up killing Popclaw himself.
Talk about putting career over family.
Meanwhile, A-Train turned around on his crutch, a thin layer of cold sweat already breaking out on his forehead.