Sunlight filtered through Manhattan’s steel forest, casting sharp windowpane shadows across the carpet.
Zack Vance opened his eyes.
A sharp numbness tingled in his left arm.
The prickly sensation of restricted blood flow made him frown slightly.
The sofa beside him was empty.
Joanne had already left.
Were it not for the neatly folded blanket resting to one side and the lingering trace of her cool, crisp perfume in the air, the girl who had shed all her defenses last night and curled up in his arms for safety would have felt like nothing but an illusion.
Zack Vance flexed his stiff wrist and stood up from the carpet.
He walked over to the coffee table and picked up his laptop, which was still on standby.
The screen lit up, displaying the long string of digits representing fifty million dollars sitting quietly in Great Wall Capital’s offshore core account.
This massive sum of money was proof that Joanne had completely opened her heart to him.
Zack Vance did not idle.
Holding a cup of black coffee, he sat before the computer and tapped away at the keyboard.
He broke up the fifty million dollars into smaller sums, dispersing them across more than a dozen complex international routing paths.
A portion continued to flow into the Nasdaq, slowly eating away at Vought’s retail shares like ants moving a mountain.
Another portion flowed through the dark web’s encrypted channels to an anonymous underground account in New York under the codename “Frenchie.”
An electronics retail store in Queens, New York City.
The old fluorescent lights on the ceiling hummed with a faint electric buzz.
An entire wall of display TVs was tuned to the same news channel, rolling through Vought International’s latest promotional ads.
Hughie Campbell, wearing a slightly oversized blue employee uniform, held a microfiber cloth and mechanically wiped down the glass display case in front of him.
His eyes were bloodshot, underscored by dark, heavy circles.
He radiated a hollow, gaunt exhaustion born from a prolonged lack of sleep and immense psychological stress.
“…A-Train has broken his own record once again in yesterday’s charity run!
The fastest man in the world says his motivation comes from the love of his fans…”
The female anchor’s high-pitched, enthusiastic voice blared from the television speakers.
Hughie’s hand froze mid-wipe.
His gaze stared blankly at a dark smudge on the glass counter.
It was really just an accidentally spilled coffee stain, but inside his hyper-tense, PTSD-wracked brain, the smudge rapidly reddened and expanded, finally turning into a pool of blindingly bright blood.
Robin’s blood.
The sensation of that warm, metallic, rust-scented liquid splashing across his face, and the horrific image of himself holding nothing but her two severed hands, was like a rusty saw blade dragging across his nerves day after day.
Vought’s lawyers had already visited.
They brought a non-disclosure agreement and a check for forty-five thousand dollars.
In their condescending, patronizing tone, they told him Robin had simply been unlucky to be standing on the curb, and that it was a regrettable accident.
As long as he signed, took the money, and shut his mouth, the matter would end there.
“Hughie, the speaker wires at Counter Six are a mess.
Go sort them out,” the store manager’s voice called out from nearby, breaking Hughie out of his hallucination.
Hughie snapped back to reality, gasping for breath.
He nodded haphazardly, stuffed the microfiber cloth into his apron pocket, and turned toward Counter Six.
The wind chimes on the shop door let out a crisp jingle.
A man in a black trench coat pushed open the glass door and stepped inside, bringing a draft of cold outside air with him.
The man had slightly messy dark hair and a rugged stubble lining his jaw.
His dark brown eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s, taking in the store’s layout, the security camera positions, and Hughie, who was currently sorting the cables, in the single instant he entered.
Butcher strode directly toward the counter where Hughie stood, his heavy black leather boots thudding against the floor.
He fished a pack of cheap cigarettes from his pocket, slipped one between his lips, but didn’t light it.
Hughie noticed the shadow loom over the counter.
He looked up, instinctively flashing a standard retail smile.
“Can I help you find something, sir?
We have a discount on our latest home theater system today.”
Butcher leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the glass counter.
The strong scent of tobacco mixed with a chilling aura made Hughie feel instinctively suppressed.
“I don’t need a home theater, mate,” Butcher said, his voice low, gruff, and carrying a heavy British accent.
“I’m looking for…
a security camera that can record high-frequency moving objects.
Ideally, something that can capture even a blue blur in crystal-clear detail.”
Hughie’s fingers froze on the wires.
The words “blue blur” were like a needle, stabbing precisely into his rawest nerve.
He stared at the dark-eyed man before him.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he forced himself to stay calm.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.
Our security cameras here are consumer-grade.
They can’t capture the kind of high-speed footage you’re talking about.”
Butcher smirked, flashing a completely cold grin.
He reached into his inner trench coat pocket and whipped out a black badge wallet, flashing it quickly before Hughie’s eyes.
Hughie only caught a glimpse of the words “Federal Bureau of Investigation” before it was tucked away again.
“Special Agent Billy Butcher.”
Butcher dropped his fake smile, his gaze turning as sharp as a blade.
“I’m not here to buy electronic junk, Hughie Campbell.
I’m here to talk about Robin.”
Hughie’s face instantly drained of color.
He took an involuntary step back, his spine colliding with the metal shelves behind him.
Over the past week, that name had been a nightmare he desperately tried to escape, as well as a taboo that Vought had strictly forbidden him from ever mentioning to anyone.
“I…
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Vought already handled this with the police department.
It was an accident,” Hughie stammered, his eyes darting away.
Butcher looked at the terrified young man and let out a disdainful snort.
He rounded the counter, stepped right up to Hughie, and grabbed his arm, pulling him half-forcefully toward a blind spot in the back of the store, away from the security cameras.
“An accident?”
Butcher pinned Hughie against the wall.
His voice was low, yet carried a bone-chilling weight of intimidation.
“Forty-five grand.
That’s the price Vought puts on a human life.
They want you to sign a non-disclosure agreement, curtsy to that check, and live your life believing there’s actual justice in this world.”
Hughie yanked his arm free, his chest heaving violently.
“Then what do you want me to do?!
They’re Vought!
They have the best lawyers, a media network that controls the entire country, and superheroes who can fly and level buildings!
I’m just an electronics clerk, I have to pinch pennies just to pay rent!”
Hughie’s voice trembled with suppressed despair.
“Am I supposed to sue them?
The police won’t even file a report!
Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Robin’s blood.
But I can’t do anything other than sign that agreement!”
Tears welled in Hughie’s eyes.
It was a profound sense of utter helplessness.
In the face of massive corporate capital and godlike superpowers, an ordinary person’s rage was like dust in the wind, making no sound when it fell.
Butcher watched Hughie teeter on the edge of a breakdown, his eyes showing no sympathy.
He simply needed this bottled-up rage.
This was the very kindling he had been searching for.
Whether it was the strange scent he had caught at that Asian kid’s apartment the night before, or this grieving clerk in front of him—as long as it could be used to burn Vought to the ground, he would exploit it without hesitation.
“That’s just the illusion they want you to see, son.”
Butcher slowed his pace, speaking like a seasoned hunter coaxing his prey into a trap.
He pulled a micro-player from his pocket and held it in front of Hughie’s eyes.
The screen showed a somewhat blurry piece of security footage.
The setting of the video was a secluded back alley.
Several blurry streaks crossed the frame.
Following a series of dull impacts, a figure was violently thrown against a wall, their fate unknown.
Meanwhile, the source of those blurs was paused at the edge of the screen, clad in his signature blue super-suit, holding a vial of some unknown glowing blue substance.
Hughie’s pupils dilated instantly.
That was A-Train.
“Vought told you he was fighting crime,” Butcher sneered, tucking the player away.
“The truth is, that high-as-a-kite bastard was completely tweaked out on some chemical.
He couldn’t control his speed at all.
He didn’t just run right through your girl on that street—he also plowed through two fire hydrants.”
Butcher locked eyes with Hughie, not missing a single micro-expression.
“Those superheroes aren’t angels sent by God.
They’re a bunch of spoiled, entitled sociopaths whose heads are filled with nothing but drugs, booze, and depraved desires.
And Vought is the cleanup crew hired to wipe those bastards’ asses.”
Hughie leaned limply against the wall, his mind a chaotic mess.
The non-disclosure agreement, the check, A-Train’s sunny smile on the television, the horrific image of Robin’s violent death…
in this moment, they clashed and shattered like glass inside his head.
“Do you want revenge?”
Butcher’s voice seemed to carry a strange, hypnotic pull, striking directly at the darkest corner of Hughie’s heart.
“An honest, ordinary way.
Without those bloody lawyers, without the bought-and-paid-for cops.
Pulling those high-and-mighty gods right out of the sky and stamping them into the mud.”
Hughie said nothing.
His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his fingernails digging deep into his palms.
He was terrified, but deep down, the rage he had suppressed for a week was stoked into a roaring blaze by those few instigating words.
Butcher knew the hook was set.
He pulled a crumpled business card from his trench coat pocket and slipped it into the chest pocket of Hughie’s blue uniform.
“That forty-five-grand agreement—don’t be in a hurry to sign it.
Vought is sending a representative to confirm with you tomorrow.
When he shows up…”
Butcher patted Hughie on the shoulder and leaned in close to his ear.
“Find a way to plant something on him.
Once you do that, call the number on the card.”
With that, Butcher gave Hughie no chance to ask questions.
He turned and walked out of the blind spot.
The wind chimes rang once more.
The man in the black trench coat vanished into the street outside, leaving as tracelessly as he had arrived.
Hughie stood alone in the shadow of the shelves.
With a trembling hand, he fished the card from his pocket.
There was no name, only a handwritten phone number and the address of an abandoned bowling alley in Brooklyn.
The display TVs on the wall outside were still broadcasting the news.
The screen cut to the front of Vought Tower, where a reporter was enthusiastically broadcasting the latest movements of The Seven.
Hughie slowly walked back to the glass counter.
He lowered his head, staring at the glass he had wiped countless times, where the hallucinatory stain still seemed to linger.
In his once weak and submissive eyes, the fear of an ordinary man was beginning to recede.
In its place arose a chilling, desperate resolve born of being pushed to the absolute edge.