Stan Edgar’s office is in the southeast corner of the top floor of Vought Tower.
It is a disproportionately large circular room, with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides offering views of all of Manhattan.
At this moment, the night view of New York stretches beneath his feet like an ocean of light, with the lights of countless office buildings reflecting off the Hudson River, swaying slowly with the ripples.
Stan Edgar sits behind a massive solid wood desk, holding a glass of whiskey, its ice cubes making a faint clinking sound in the glass.
The next instant, the office door is completely torn from its frame.
The hand of Stan Edgar holding the glass does not tremble.
He doesn’t even stand up, only slightly raises his eyelids, looking at the blond man in the doorway—covered in blood and with a wound on his left cheek—with the calm gaze he uses when reviewing financial reports.
“Homelander.”
He calls him by name, in a calm tone: “You’ve gotten blood on my carpet.”
Homelander stands in the doorway, his chest heaving violently.
In front of Stan Edgar, he hesitates.
It’s an inexplicable fear he’s carried since childhood.
Blood continues to drip from the fingers of Homelander’s right hand, staining the carpet.
In Homelander’s eyes, two visible beams of light burn deep in his pupils, a sign that his laser vision is about to erupt.
The red light, slightly trembling and intense, flickers at the edge of his irises, making the temperature in the entire office seem to rise a few degrees.
“Soldier Boy.”
He says through gritted teeth: “You sold him to the Russians.
You locked him in a laboratory for forty years and then made up the story that he died on a mission.”
“You made me stand in front of his grave to mourn, made me bow before his old military uniform, and made me say in an interview that ‘Soldier Boy is a great hero.'”
“And you knew where he was from beginning to end.”
“From beginning to end you knew he was strapped to an operating table, being constantly tortured.”
“You even knew he was my father, and you still did it!”
His voice becomes increasingly shrill, the last words almost bursting out with a roar.
After his roar, the floor-to-ceiling windows of the office vibrate simultaneously, emitting a low, continuous hum, as if the entire building is trembling.
Stan Edgar places the whiskey glass on the desk, leans slightly forward, and his gaze toward Homelander lacks fear or panic.
“Yes,” he says, “And then what?”
Homelander’s pupils suddenly contract.
He takes a step forward, his boots crunching on the scattered fragments of the door.
Subsequently, Homelander continues approaching Stan Edgar.
The distance between them is less than three steps.
It would take just a finger movement or a glance to kill Stan Edgar.
Kill Stan Edgar.
This thought appears in Homelander’s mind.
Kill that bastard sitting behind the desk, looking at him with total indifference.
And in less time than it takes to blink, there would be a headless corpse in this office.
But his hand stops.
Not only because of the fear he was born with.
Also because another phrase echoes in his mind.
“After you discover the truth, don’t act impulsively.
Show the report to Stan Edgar.
He, of course, knows how to contact me.”
Don’t be impulsive.
That’s the tone of a father speaking to his son.
Perhaps, Soldier Boy is thinking of getting revenge himself.
Homelander’s breathing becomes increasingly agitated.
Stan Edgar watches this scene, with the same unchanging expression.
He even picks up the whiskey glass again and takes a sip.
However, his fingers pause briefly on the rim of the glass.
“He seems to have told you quite a bit.”
Stan Edgar’s voice remains steady: “So what do you want now?
We can still talk about everything, can’t we?”
Although Stan Edgar also doesn’t know how Soldier Boy knew these things.
Could it be through former team members?
Homelander places his bloodied hand on Stan Edgar’s desk, with rigid, abrupt movements.
He looks up at Stan Edgar, the murderous intent in those bright red eyes not completely dissipated.
“Soldier Boy wants you to contact him.”
Homelander says in a hoarse voice.
After saying this, he turns and leaves the office.
…
The next morning.
When the phone rings, Benjamin is brushing his teeth.
At 6:30 in the morning, sunlight floods through the apartment window.
From yesterday afternoon until now, no one has come to bother him.
As for A-Train, the PR team has already taken measures.
The screen lights up, and a series of unknown numbers without a contact name flash on it.
Benjamin stares at the series of numbers for two seconds, spits out the toothpaste foam in his mouth, and presses the answer button.
“Soldier Boy.”
The voice on the other end of the phone is firm, with the smoothness of someone with long experience in the business world: “This is Stan Edgar.”
Benjamin holds the phone between his ear and shoulder and turns on the faucet to rinse his toothbrush.
The sound of running water echoes for a moment, and then he responds unhurriedly: “I know who you are.”
Stan Edgar’s voice comes through again.
“Talk about what?
Talk about how I kill you and then chop up your corpse to feed to the dogs?”
Stan Edgar’s tone doesn’t change: “The situation has changed.
You and I both know that once some things come to light, there’s no turning back.”
“Vought International can still handle one Homelander.
But a Homelander filled with hatred, plus his father…
even Vought International can’t handle that.”
Benjamin leans on the edge of the sink and wipes the corner of his mouth with a towel.
He doesn’t speak, waiting for Stan Edgar to reveal his ace in the hole.
“This is your problem, isn’t it?
Your damn Vought International should have gone bankrupt a long time ago.”
“But before that, both you and Homelander will be ruined.
Your good son cares about this matter; at least for now, Vought International controls public opinion across the entire United States…”
“Are you threatening me?”
Benjamin snorts coldly: “If Homelander and I are condemned for treason because of Vought International, or ruined by other aspects of public opinion.”
“Then, perhaps I’ll take my son and transform all of New York…
to make it less cowardly.”
“No, perhaps I’ll destroy all of America with him and then take him to another continent.
There are many places in the world where Vought has no reach.”
“Oh, of course, I don’t care if you’re recording.
You have to know, after the masks come off, who loses more?”
“Homelander and I will simply live somewhere else; you, Vought International, and the United States will disappear.”
Benjamin’s tone is full of anger.
“Of course, Benjamin, calm down…
so I suggest we talk in person.”
Stan Edgar says: “Not as enemies, but as two adults who need to solve the same problem.
You choose the place, you choose the time.
We can certainly reach an agreement, can’t we?”
Benjamin throws the towel over his shoulder, looks at his face in the mirror—which had been sat on by the Queen of England—and the corners of his lips curl slightly.
“Then this afternoon,” he says, “at the café downstairs.
Come alone, if you’re not worried about me finishing you off.”
He hangs up the phone, tosses it back onto the edge of the sink, and continues brushing his teeth.