“If the chicken in the company cafeteria makes you ponder the fleeting nature of life, that ought to count as psychological damage.” Amy said, “You could sue.” Kevin gave it serious thought.
“Legal would turn me into a training case study.” Lynn sat down and booted up his workstation.
Just then, Public Relations sent out a supplementary email.
Ivan was requesting Archives’ assistance in compiling a summary of recent controversies surrounding The Deep’s charitable work, intended for Starlight’s first-week interviews to “avoid topic overlap.” At the bottom of the email was a line: *Please do not mix negative materials regarding The Deep with promotional welcoming materials for new members.* Lynn looked at those words.
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
Vought knew full well that The Deep was a liability.
Yet their solution wasn’t to resolve the issue, but to prevent it from contaminating a new product launch.
Following standard procedure, he pulled up the public controversy summary for The Deep.
One entry stood out: the Atlantic City Aquarium incident.
The internal assessment remained painfully blunt: *Limited strategic value.* *Requires tight control over unscripted speaking opportunities.* *Suitable for eco-friendly, family-oriented, low-risk entertainment packaging.* Lynn didn’t copy it.
He didn’t save it.
He simply memorized a single realization: *Not every member of The Seven has the right to speak freely.* That insight could be used later.
Not now.
He wasn’t close with Starlight yet; barging in with a warning would only make him look bizarre.
But an opportunity would come.
A place like Vought never lacked cracks that allowed people to stumble into the truth.
*** At three in the afternoon, during a standard work break, Lynn pulled his first thread.
The debt collection agency.
He didn’t write a long, emotional accusation.
Nor did he paint himself as an innocent victim.
That was useless.
Collection agencies didn’t care about stories.
They only cared about assets and risks.
In a restrained tone, he sent a supplementary notice to the public contact email of Hudson Debt Management.
The core points were brief: First, Daniel Reed was not entirely out of reach.
Second, the individual maintained a high level of spending power recently.
Third, the individual was suspected of continuing to approach others under the guise of debt restructuring and bridge investments.
Fourth, if the agency continued to pressure only the guarantor, they risked missing the actual recovery target.
Fifth, Lynn was willing to assist by providing non-sensitive public clues, but refused to sign any new documents unreviewed by an attorney.
The phrasing was cold.
No complaints.
No threats.
No exaggeration.
It read like an internal risk memo.
After sending it, he deleted all draft traces and cleared his browser’s temporary history.
Not to achieve perfect invisibility, but simply to prevent an action that could be explained as “debt communication” from turning into an anomaly worth a second look.
Ten minutes later, an automated reply arrived in his inbox.
*Your information has been received.* Lynn closed the tab.
The first thread had been lightly plucked.
*** At four-twenty PM, the second thread.
The accomplices.
For this step, he didn’t contact those two men directly.
That would be stupid.
Instead, using public channels, he posted an apparently routine anonymous warning on an entrepreneur social platform where Daniel had once been active.
The post named no names.
It merely noted: *Recently, someone has been raising funds by dissolving old companies, shifting debts, and repackaging bridge projects.
Investors in related past projects should pay close attention to fund flows and the transfer of contractual liabilities.* No names.
No specific charges.
Nothing actionable in court.
Yet anyone familiar with Daniel’s circle would know exactly who it referred to.
Especially those who already distrusted him.
Suspicion didn’t require complete evidence.
It only required a direction.
After posting, Lynn didn’t linger.
He logged out and closed the page.
He wouldn’t hover around waiting for comments, nor would he try to harvest results immediately.
The biggest mistake in setting a trap was crouching by the water the moment the bait hit the surface to see if a fish bit.
That was a great way for the fish to catch sight of your face.
*** At five-ten PM, he left the third thread untouched for now.
An outside investigator had to be chosen with care.
If he casually picked a journalist, they might blow the story open early for clout, dragging Lynn down with them.
If he hired a lawyer, the cost would be high and the process slow.
If he went to law enforcement, the cost of explaining everything would be prohibitive.
He needed someone who understood debt, understood shady contracts, and was hyper-sensitive to the risks posed by massive corporations like Vought.
Such people were hard to find.
But not impossible.
Lynn already had a lead in mind: an insurance claims investigator.
Those people were absolute experts at sniffing out blood from contracts, accidents, compensation, and liability shifts.
And Vought’s trail of “public losses” and “family support programs” would inevitably intersect with insurance and compensation systems down the road.
If he could find the right person, not only could he resolve the Daniel situation, but he could also place the very first piece of his future “gray network.” *** Before the end of the shift, Marsha stepped out of her office.
“Lynn.” “Here.” “Is the initial draft for Starlight finished?” “Already uploaded.” Marsha glanced at her tablet.
After a few seconds, she nodded.
“PR gave good feedback.
Ivan said your annotations were clean, no unnecessary fluff.” “I just followed the template.” “Keep it up.” Marsha finished speaking, then glanced over at Kevin.
“Kevin, your summary for The Deep was sent back.” Kevin froze completely.
“Why?” Marsha’s face was unreadable.
“You typed ‘low-risk entertainment packaging’ as ‘low-intelligence entertainment packaging.'” The office went silent for a second.
Amy lowered her head, her shoulders shaking violently.
Kevin’s face flushed deep red.
“That was a typo!” Marsha said, “I suggest you stop relying on auto-suggest.” Lynn didn’t laugh.
But when he picked up his coffee, his hand was steady.
Vought’s daily absurdity didn’t require artificial drama.
It grew naturally on its own.
*** At six-thirty PM, Lynn left Vought Headquarters.
The lights of Manhattan flared up, traffic moving like a slow, luminescent river.
Just before entering the subway station, his phone vibrated.
Daniel.
*What did you tell the debt collection agency?* Lynn looked at the text.
No reply.
A few seconds later, a second message arrived.
*Are you out of your mind?
Do you have any idea what you’re doing?* A third message: *You think this solves anything?
You’re only making things worse.* The fourth message followed after a dozen seconds: *We need to talk.* Lynn looked at the screen and calmly pressed the power button, locking the display.
The first thread had drawn a reaction.
Faster than he expected.
Daniel was panicking.
Panicking beautifully.
He walked down into the subway station.
The platform was packed with people.
On the billboard display, Starlight smiled out at the crowd.
The next second, the screen shifted.
Homelander stood suspended in the air, cape billowing, looking down over Manhattan.
Lynn stood amidst the crowd, glancing up briefly.
Gods were on the screens.
Scammers were inside the phone.
Debt collectors were at the other end of the email.
Shady partners lurked in the shadows.
Everyone thought they were holding the reins.
But the ropes were already beginning to entangle.
*** At eight-five PM, Queens.
Lynn had just stepped into his apartment building when his phone vibrated again.
Not Daniel this time.
An unfamiliar number.
The text contained only one sentence: *You said Daniel is moving funds.
Do you have proof?* Lynn paused in the hallway.
Dim yellow light fell across his face.
He stared at the text message, his gaze gradually settling into profound stillness.
The second thread had moved too.
He didn’t reply immediately.
He simply slid the phone back into his pocket and continued upstairs.
The stairwell smelled of old carpet mixed with industrial cleaner.
The elevator was broken.
He had no choice but to take the stairs.
One flight.
Two flights.
Three flights.
His footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell.
Lynn suddenly thought that this wasn’t bad.
Climbing stairs helped a man stay calm.
It also served as a reminder: he was still just an ordinary person.
An ordinary person setting a trap couldn’t rely on raw power.
He could only rely on sequence.
*** Back home, he turned on the lights, washed his hands, and changed clothes.
Then he retrieved the black notebook from the bookshelf.
Flipping to the middle, beneath last night’s line—*Not revenge, but ordering*—he added a line: [First thread: Signaled.] Then another: [Second thread: Signaled.] As for the third thread, he hadn’t written it down yet.
Because a truly valuable asset couldn’t be chosen at random.
Lynn closed the notebook.
Just then, his phone lit up again.
Daniel once more.
This time, there were no threats.
Only a single line: *Lynn, we can renegotiate.* Lynn looked at those words and gave a soft chuckle.
Last night, Daniel had told him he had no choice.
Tonight, Daniel was asking to negotiate.
That was the power of sequencing.
The exact same set of facts, arranged in a different order, and the hunter begins to wonder if he’s the one standing in a trap.
Lynn didn’t reply.
He flipped the phone over, face down on the table.
In the kitchen, the kettle began to heat up.
The hiss of steam rose bit by bit.
*** Meanwhile, at Vought Headquarters in Manhattan.
The Public Relations floor remained brightly lit.
Ashley Barrett hurried across the office carrying a stack of files, her phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, her speaking speed like a machine gun.
“I don’t care if The Deep feels he’s misunderstood, he cannot do tomorrow’s interview alone.
He can’t.
Absolutely not.
Have Ivan run through every single prompt card again!” She paused at the door of a conference room, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.
On the room’s massive screen, Starlight’s promotional video was playing on a loop.
In the footage, Annie smiled brightly.
Looking at that face, Ashley only felt a throbbing headache at her temples.
“New blood is great,” she said to everyone in the room.
“But new blood also means unpredictable variables.
Before she learns how to speak the truth, we need to teach her what she isn’t allowed to say.” *** On another floor of the same building, inside the Hero Lounge.
A-Train sat on the sofa, clutching his phone tightly.
The glow of the screen reflected off his face.
His leg bounced uncontrollably, fast as an overheating engine.
On the adjacent television, a news rerun of Starlight’s debut played.
The host smiled and declared, “The Seven welcomes a ray of new hope.” A-Train glanced up, his eyes laced with intense irritation.
He slammed his phone face down, stood up, and walked toward the bathroom.
The door closed.
A few seconds later, the sound of a running faucet came from inside.
Then, the faint, delicate sound of a small plastic bag being torn open.
The camera lingered no longer.
Night settled over the city.
Everyone was managing their own disasters.
Some managed public opinion.
Some managed debts.
Some managed addictions.
And some had no idea what they would lose tomorrow.
Lynn’s kettle clicked off.
He poured himself a glass of hot water.
No coffee tonight.
He didn’t need a boost to stay awake.
He was already more than clear-headed.