In the early morning, the Chinese supermarket in Flushing was filled with a scent that mixed fresh seafood and various spices.
Zack Vance pushed a metal shopping cart with a slightly rusted bottom and stopped in front of the produce section.
He picked up a bunch of scallions still clinging to fresh soil and dew, held them to his nose to sniff, and, satisfied with their freshness, carefully placed them in the basket.
On the shelves nearby stood various brands of premium light and dark soy sauce.
Ignoring the price tags, he selected a few bottles with the cleanest ingredients lists as if choosing precise laboratory reagents, and placed them in his cart.
For a multimillionaire who had just had over thirty million dollars in cash added to his account, coming to a crowded supermarket to personally pick out a few scallions seemed somewhat absurd.
But Zack knew this was more than just a late-night snack; it was his core bargaining chip for taming the female demon in the sky.
In this world of superpowers and ruthless capitalist competition, Vought International held absolute authority.
Through cold data, hypocritical public relations, and high-intensity gaslighting, they had shaped Joanne into a seemingly indestructible, perfect deity.
Vought had given her everything, except for even a shred of genuine human warmth.
Zack pushed his cart full of ingredients toward the checkout counter.
He looked out the glass doors at the gray New York City sky, his gaze clear and steady.
Meanwhile, in the heart of Manhattan, at Vought Tower.
The temperature here was permanently set to twenty-two degrees Celsius, with an air filtration system cleaning out every trace of odor, leaving only an expensive, crisp, and drowsy scent of ozone.
Joanne sat in her private dressing room.
Two elite stylists flanked her, using expensive styling spray and combs to groom her signature blonde hair.
“…According to the data models the PR department ran overnight, Joanne, your support among women in several Midwestern red states has ticked down by a slight 0.5 percent.”
Ashley Barrett clacked in on sharp high heels, tightly clutching a beautifully bound data report and speaking at a breakneck pace.
From sheer nerves, her voice carried its customary tremor, and her fingers unconsciously plucked out one of her own hairs.
“The reason is yesterday’s robbery scene.
When you used your heat vision to melt the robbers’ weapons, the flying sparks frightened a little girl walking by.
A bystander captured your profile on camera, and the PR department feels…
your expression was a bit too cold.”
Ashley swallowed hard, stealing a glance at Joanne’s reflection in the mirror.
Joanne kept her eyes closed, letting the stylists apply foundation to her face.
“And?” She opened her eyes, her deep blue pupils reflecting the ring of harsh vanity lights.
“So…
so Senior Vice President Madelyn Stillwell has scheduled a visit to a children’s hospital this afternoon.” Ashley hurriedly flipped to the next page of the report.
“The script is already written.
You’ll need to pick up a child with leukemia and give the camera your most trademark smile.
PR projects this will bounce your likability index back by at least two points.”
Joanne looked at herself in the mirror.
The face was pale, exquisite, and flawless.
The red, white, and blue star-spangled suit hugged her body, every fold tailored to absolute precision.
She looked like an expensive, beautifully crafted plastic doll displayed in a storefront window.
“Understood,” Joanne said, lowering her gaze, her voice cold.
Ashley let out a long sigh of relief and scurried out of the dressing room on her high heels.
A few minutes later, the glass door of the dressing room pushed open again.
In the entirety of Vought Tower, only one person had the privilege of entering Joanne’s private space without knocking.
Madelyn Stillwell walked in wearing an impeccably tailored business suit, her steps silent on the soft cashmere carpet.
She waved her hand, and the two stylists immediately bowed their heads and quietly withdrew.
Only the two of them remained in the room.
“I heard from Ashley that you don’t seem to be in a very good mood today, my sweet girl.”
Madelyn walked up behind the vanity chair and gently rested her hands on Joanne’s shoulders.
Her voice was soft, slow, and tinged with a practiced, maternal affection.
Joanne didn’t move.
In the past, whenever Madelyn spoke to her in this tone or touched her with such tenderness, the pathological craving for maternal love deep inside Joanne would be instantly ignited.
She would act like a young beast seeking shelter, doing everything to please this woman just to win a verbal scrap of praise.
Madelyn’s fingers slid through Joanne’s newly styled blonde hair, gently grooming it.
“Where did you go last night?
Security footage shows you left the tower for several hours,” Madelyn asked, leaning down to whisper in Joanne’s ear.
“You know how fragile and calculating the ordinary people out there are.
Only here, only by my side, are you truly safe.”
This was Madelyn’s standard method of control.
Fabricating a sense of crisis in a gentle tone, then using motherly words to isolate Joanne from the outside world, rendering her completely codependent on Vought.
Madelyn’s fingers slowly slid down the back of Joanne’s neck in a soothing gesture.
“You are my most perfect creation, Joanne.
You are a god.
Those approval ratings, those stupid metrics—they mean nothing.
As long as you are a good girl, I will hand you the entire world.”
Joanne sat in her chair, letting Madelyn stroke her back.
Had it been before, she would have turned around by now, burying her face in Madelyn’s bosom, greedily inhaling her scent, and promising to be Vought’s most obedient girl.
But today, when those slightly cool hands touched her skin, Joanne felt a sour pang of revulsion rise in her stomach.
Madelyn’s fingertips were soft, but they lacked warmth.
The calculated frequency of the stroking, the comforting platitudes repeated a thousand times—to Joanne, they now sounded like a pre-programmed machine recording.
Fake.
Hollow.
Filled with nauseating calculations.
Unbidden, images of what had transpired last night in that slightly cramped flat flashed through Joanne’s mind.
“Joanne?
What is it?”
Madelyn noticed the stiffness in the body beneath her palms, her brow furrowing slightly.
She walked around to the front of the chair, leaning down to try and catch Joanne’s gaze.
“Did you not sleep well last night?
Or are you worried about the visit this afternoon?” Madelyn wore a flawless expression of maternal concern.
“It’s fine.
If you don’t want to go, I can have PR push it back.
Anything to make you happy, sweetheart.”
Joanne looked into Madelyn’s seemingly caring eyes.
A faint, almost imperceptible flash of red flickered deep in her eyes—her primal, destructive urge rearing its head.
But she quickly suppressed it.
If she burned Madelyn to ash right now, it would mean tearing away all pretense.
“I’m fine.”
Joanne stood up, her tall frame instantly imposing a towering presence over Madelyn.
She subtly avoided Madelyn’s hand as it reached out to take her arm.
“No need to postpone.” Joanne walked over to the dressing room rack, picked up her heavy star-spangled cape, and expertly snapped it onto her shoulders.
“Just give me the script.
I’ll smile for the cameras.”
Madelyn’s hand froze midair, her face going blank for a fraction of a second.
Something was wrong.
Joanne’s reaction was too calm.
“Joanne…” Madelyn tried to regain control of the room’s dynamic.
“I need to go memorize the PR department’s talking points, Madame Vice President,” Joanne interrupted.
She didn’t even use her usual intimate term of address, opting instead for Madelyn’s official title.
A muscle near Madelyn’s eye twitched, but she quickly masked her shock behind an impeccable professional smile.
“Very well.
See you this afternoon, my girl.”
The glass door clicked shut.
Joanne stood alone in the empty dressing room.
She walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window that took up an entire wall.
Looking down from ninety-nine stories up, the buildings and streets of Manhattan were reduced to miniature models, and the rushing crowds of ordinary people looked like tiny ants.
At this height, she couldn’t hear the clamor of the ground.
She felt only a bone-chilling cold.
Vought Tower was a magnificent birdcage constructed of capital and lies.
She held the highest clearance here, yet couldn’t find a single square inch of space where she could actually breathe.
Her gaze pierced through the endless layers of skyscrapers, drifting toward Queens.
The digital clock on the wall read 2:00 PM.
Seven hours left until the time they met last night.
Joanne pulled her hand back, her cape cutting a sharp, cold arc behind her.
She turned toward the door, her steps carrying an imperceptible sense of urgency.