Three days.
That’s all it took for Vought to twist disaster into prime-time advertising.
I was sitting outside my apartment on a rusty fire escape.
Not exactly a palace—just another Bronx dump I paid for in cash.
I messed around with a steel ball bearing, pinched between my fingers.
Just a hint of force, and it went flat.
Steel, squished like gum.
The Soldier Bloodline changed everything.
Not just a boost—more like waking up and finding out the world’s made of paper and glass, and you’re the bull in the middle of it.
Opening doors meant concentrating so I didn’t rip the knob clean off.
Got bored, flicked the steel across the roof.
It zipped over the alley and drilled itself deep into the brick across from me.
Felt good to do something with precision.
Inside, I had a stolen TV, tuned to Vought News Network.
Cameron Coleman was on.
Serious face, perfect hair, and a voice that could sell poison as medicine.
“Vought’s telepathic experts confirm A-Train was the victim of a malicious mind-control attack,” he said.
Not even a tremor in his voice.
“An unregistered, highly dangerous super-terrorist hijacked the hero’s nervous system, forcing him into a collision course with innocent civilians.” I couldn’t help myself, laughed—a sharp, angry sound.
Mind control.
Genius.
Made A-Train look like a victim, painted me as the devil, and gave Vought free rein to hunt me down.
But on the street, word kept spreading.
It wouldn’t stop.
I watched Hughie Campbell.
Vought’s lawyers cornered him and Robin at a hospital cafeteria.
They slid a check over—forty-five grand and an NDA.
Hughie refused.
Wanted an apology.
The lawyers just scoffed, walked away.
That was all Butcher needed.
He found Hughie, wound him up, and handed him a job: take the deal, shake hands with the enemy, and plant a bug inside Vought Tower.
Hughie went through with it.
He did his part but didn’t know Vought had invisible security.
Midnight.
Tech district.
I hovered fifty feet above Hughie’s electronics store.
I was silent, hidden, watching through the skylight.
Inside: Hughie and Butcher’s heartbeats.
Then another heartbeat.
Slower.
Thick blood flowing through those carbon-metamaterial veins.
Translucent.
He tracked the bug straight to Hughie.
I stayed up there, freezing, listening in.
Vought needed to take a hit.
Butcher needed something to set him off.
If I babysat them, they’d never turn into the weapons I needed.
Listening, I caught the fight.
Glass shattering, Butcher getting tossed, Hughie swinging blindly.
Then the sound of an electrical wire sparking, as Hughie shoved it right through Translucent’s invisible chest, shorting him out.
They bundled Translucent up, dumped him in Butcher’s trunk, and sped off.
I kept to the clouds, trailing them.
Two days.
They argued in a warehouse, damp and musty.
Two days of Translucent stuck in a zinc cage, smug as hell, thinking Vought would show up.
I wasn’t close—sitting on a billboard a mile out—when the warehouse flashed dim and held that muffled boom.
Hughie pressed the button.
Translucent—gone.
Just a red mark inside a metal cage.
The plot shifted, loud and fast.
I grinned.
Everything was set now.
But hiding out wasn’t enough.
If I stayed off the grid, they’d send Noir or Homelander to wipe me out without a sound.
I needed something stronger than armor.
I needed PR.
So, for four days, I went to work.
No mask.
No costume.
Just a cheap leather jacket, jeans, heavy boots.
Tuesday, Brooklyn—mercenaries tried to jack a Vought bank truck.
I dropped out of the sky, let the bullets bounce off, grabbed their truck by the axle, and flipped it down the block.
Wednesday night—a C-list Supe went wild in a nightclub.
I dragged him outside by the neck and tossed him at a police cruiser.
Thursday morning—a crane collapsed in Midtown.
I caught the steel hook fifty feet up, waited for everyone to clear, then set it down nice and slow.
No interviews.
No speeches.
Threat dealt with, and gone—a sonic boom behind me.
The internet lost its mind.
People started calling me the ‘Alleyway Guardian.’ Or ‘the Rogue.’ The guy who broke A-Train was out here doing what The Seven hadn’t done all year.
Clips of me walking through bullets and tossing trucks went viral everywhere.
Vought’s “mind control” story collapsed.
The public saw some guy in a jacket doing real hero work, while Vought shot commercials.
I became a viral legend.
Marketable.
Untouchable.
And that meant it was time for business.
Friday evening.
Walking through Queens, groceries in hand.
A black armored SUV peeled around the corner, rolled up quietly beside me.
Tinted glass slid down.
Madelyn Stillwell sat in the back.
White suit.
Calm face.
Eyes empty.
“You’re a very hard man to find,” she said softly.
I stopped, faced her, stayed silent.
Checked the SUV.
Bulletproof glass, reinforced doors.
I could shred it in seconds.
She knew.
“Vought International is pragmatic,” Stillwell continued.
“We ran the numbers.
The public loves you.” She gave me a corporate smile.
“We also know Translucent is missing.
The Seven is now six.
Homelander wants a team—and you don’t look like someone who wants to rot in a Bronx dump forever.” She handed me a thick folder.
I stared at it.
Cold satisfaction.
They couldn’t kill me, so they were trying to leash me.
They thought a paycheck and a penthouse could buy me.
I took the folder.
“Seventy-five million a year, base salary,” she said, smile a bit wider.
“Penthouse in Vought Tower.
Step into the light, wear the suit, and we wipe the slate clean.” Inside, the contract.
Pages and pages.
Up front, a blank for a superhero name.
I snapped it shut, looked at her.
“Tell Homelander to clear a seat.” Didn’t wait for a reply.
Turned and walked off, contract heavy in my grip.
And then The System pinged—a sharp blue line across my vision.
[Status Update: Infiltration Successful.
The Rot begins from the inside.]