Lynn paused for half a second.
“I wrote what could be confirmed at the time.” Martha stared at him.
After a few seconds, she said, “Next time, write the template text first.” Lynn didn’t argue.
“Understood.” Martha turned to leave.
As she reached the door, she paused.
“However, internal notes can record the facts.” With that, she walked out.
Lynn stood alone in the small meeting room.
That was the first turn of events today.
Martha was no champion of justice.
She had no intention of standing up to Vought.
Yet she knew that records couldn’t consist entirely of lies.
She had given Lynn a crack.
A very narrow one, but a crack nonetheless.
When he returned to his desk, Amy leaned over.
“Did PR give you trouble?” “Just procedural coordination.” “Do you men always think that as long as you change the wording, a problem ceases to be a problem?” “That’s what Vought teaches.” Amy scoffed.
“You learn fast.” Lynn didn’t press the topic further.
He opened the internal notes section.
The external release version was locked, but the internal notes could still be updated.
Within the character limit, he typed: [Initial scene summary indicates the involved hero’s high-speed movement path intersected with victim’s location; victim died on the spot.
Witness Hughie Campbell severely emotionally traumatized.] No mention of “liability.” No mention of “killed.” No emotional descriptors.
Yet the facts were crystal clear.
*Save.* No system prompt appeared.
However, Lynn felt this mattered far more than any system reward.
Sometimes, the real satisfaction didn’t come from delivering an immediate blow, but from driving an unremovable wedge deep into the enemy’s machinery.
At noon, almost nobody in the Records Department went down to the cafeteria.
Everyone ate at their desks.
Kevin chewed on an energy bar while organizing media screenshots.
“They sure delete things fast.” Amy asked, “What?” “The videos.
The scene videos.
As soon as one pops up on social media, it’s gone.” “Vought’s PR department doesn’t mess around.” Kevin lowered his voice.
“I managed to catch a clip.
That guy—Hughie—he was just standing there…” He trailed off midway.
For the first time, his expression lacked its usual levity.
“I used to think these accidents were always so far away from us.” Amy stayed silent.
Lynn glanced at Kevin.
The guy was annoying, liked to dodge responsibility, and slacked off whenever possible.
Yet he wasn’t entirely devoid of humanity.
Inside Vought’s massive machine, not everyone was a demon.
Most were just ordinary people.
They knew certain things were wrong, but they had mortgages to pay, insurance to keep, and jobs to secure.
With every silent compromise, they convinced themselves: *I’m just an employee.* At 1:15 PM, Starlight arrived at the Records Department.
This time, she wasn’t accompanied by her assistant, but by Ivan Lambert himself.
Ivan looked to be in his mid-thirties, with immaculately styled hair and the distinct blend of fatigue and polite professional charm typical of PR executives.
As they walked, he spoke to Starlight in a low tone.
“If reporters ask for your thoughts on the A-Train incident, all you need to say is that the company is handling it, and you trust Vought will provide a responsible response to the public.” Starlight’s expression was grim.
“But someone died.” Ivan paused briefly.
“Which is why we must be all the more cautious.” “What does cautious mean?
Not telling the truth?” Ivan offered a practiced smile.
“Cautious means not harming anyone before the facts are fully confirmed.” Starlight looked at him.
“How much more can a dead person be harmed?” Ivan’s smile stiffened for a moment.
By then, they had reached the entrance of the Records Department.
Martha walked over to greet them.
Ivan explained his purpose.
PR needed Starlight to sign a confirmation form restricting the scope of tomorrow’s interview topics, specifically establishing boundary lines for questions regarding yesterday’s incident.
This required synchronized verification logs from the Records Department.
Lynn sat at his desk, keeping his head down for the most part.
However, Starlight noticed him.
Her eyes lingered on him.
This time, she wasn’t looking at his injury.
She was reading his expression.
Lynn’s face remained completely calm, but somehow, she seemed to glean something from that composure.
A few minutes later, Martha had Lynn bring the documents into the small conference room.
When he stepped inside with the folder, Starlight was seated at the table, while Ivan was answering a phone call.
“Yes, I understand…
No, I won’t let her improvise…
I know, Ashley, I’m handling it.” Lynn placed the documents on the table.
“These are the interview restriction confirmation form and yesterday’s public stance summary.” Starlight flipped open the file.
The first page read: [Regarding yesterday’s high-speed public incident, Starlight is strictly prohibited from offering unauthorized personal comments.] The second page: [Recommended response: “My heart goes out to everyone affected.
The company is actively addressing the situation, and I trust Vought will address the public responsibly.”] Starlight stared at the lines, her expression growing colder.
She looked up at Lynn.
“Did you guys write this?” “That is PR’s stance.” “What about the Records Department?” Ivan was still on the phone.
Lynn looked at her without answering immediately.
She had asked a smart question.
She hadn’t asked, *What do you think?* She had asked about the Records Department.
About the records.
About the facts.
Lynn picked up another sheet of paper.
It was the summary of internal notes—low-clearance, but not classified core secrets.
He didn’t hand it to her; he simply laid it flat on the desk, resting his fingertip near one of the lines.
The distance was short enough for her to read clearly.
[Victim died on the spot.
Witness Hughie Campbell severely emotionally traumatized.] Starlight’s pupils narrowed slightly.
She saw Hughie’s name.
And she saw “died on the spot.” This wasn’t PR spin.
This was the truth.
Ivan hung up his phone and turned around.
Lynn had already pulled back his hand, the movement as natural as if he were merely sorting paperwork.
Ivan asked, “Is there a problem?” Starlight looked down at the confirmation form.
After a few seconds, she said, “No.” Yet the hand gripping her pen was white-knuckled.
Lynn turned to leave.
As he reached the doorway, Starlight suddenly spoke.
“Lynn.” He stopped.
Ivan raised his head.
Starlight’s tone was calm.
“Thank you for bringing the files.” Lynn nodded.
“You’re welcome.” He stepped out of the room.
It wasn’t a showdown.
It wasn’t an alliance.
It wasn’t even explicit assistance.
He had simply allowed Starlight to see a single line of truth that PR hadn’t sanitized.
That was enough.
For someone who still wanted to believe in the meaning of being a hero, the truth itself was a spark.
At 2:40 PM, the log from the Legal Department’s contact with Hughie was routed back to the system.
When Lynn opened it, his fingers instinctively slowed.
The record was incomplete—just a summary.
*Hughie Campbell rejected the initial compensation.* *Extremely emotional.* *Expressed intense anger toward A-Train and Vought.* *Legal recommendation: Schedule a follow-up meeting; increase compensation if necessary; prevent target from contacting the media.* Attached was a note from the legal team: [Target is psychologically fragile; estimated ultimate acceptance likelihood is moderate.
Recommend emphasizing the dignity of the deceased, litigation costs, and personal future financial pressure.] *Target.* *Psychologically fragile.* *Ultimate acceptance likelihood.* Lynn stared at those words.
If Daniel was a petty predator, then Vought was an industrialized predatory ecosystem.
Daniel relied on friendship, debt, and threats to push people into a corner.
Vought relied on legal teams, public relations, and settlements to pack human grief neatly into a contract.
There was no fundamental difference between the two.
One operated in dark alleys; the other, in executive boardrooms.
The system’s voice echoed in his mind.
[Perception of Target Deepened.] [Kill Value +1.] [Current Kill Value: 5.] Lynn’s gaze flickered slightly.
*This increases it too?* [Vigilance does not begin with violence; it begins with recognition.] The line left him silent.
*Recognition.* *Archiving.* *Prioritizing.* *Vigilance.* The system’s underlying logic was becoming clearer.
It didn’t reward killing for the sake of killing.
It rewarded the protagonist’s ability to recognize, suppress, and eliminate malignant threats.
That made it feel more like a tool.
And much more like a temptation.