The shelves of the electronics store where Hughie worked were piled with outdated routers, tangled HDMI cables, and dusty Bluetooth speakers.
Hughie stood behind the counter, clutching a roll of coaxial cable in his hand.
His gaze drifted past the shelves, settling on the empty air three feet away.
His hair was as messy as a bird’s nest, dark circles hung beneath his eyes.
He picked up the cable roll, glanced at the label, and put it back down, like a programmed robot.
Three seconds later, he picked up the same roll again, repeating the exact same motion.
His body was still alive.
But a part of him had been shattered on that street by A-Train.
The doorbell chimed.
Ding-ling.
Hughie didn’t react.
A full five seconds passed before he slowly turned his head.
“Welcome,” his voice was dull.
“What can I get you?”
Ian stood in front of the counter, wearing an ordinary gray hoodie with the hood pulled low, covering half his face.
His eyes lingered on Hughie’s face for two seconds—he saw the bloodshot eyes, the stiff corners of the mouth, that hollow shell feeling left behind after the soul had been drained.
Robin’s death was not over.
The compensation offered by Vought was like a cheap white sheet thrown over a corpse.
On the surface, it covered the blood, but in reality, it only made the living feel more disgusted.
Ian took a step forward, placing both hands on the counter.
He leaned in slightly, like an ordinary customer browsing.
“Do you have…” Ian began, his voice very soft.
Hughie instinctively leaned in a little closer, trying to hear what this Asian guy was saying.
Ian’s right hand suddenly lifted from the counter and cupped Hughie’s right cheek.
His fingertips touched the skin of Hughie’s temple.
LV3 Mind Control, activated.
Ian’s consciousness pierced into Hughie’s brain like a needle.
He “saw” Hughie’s memories.
Digging deeper.
Hughie sat in front of a computer, fingers hovering over the keyboard, the screen’s blue light casting a pallor over his face.
He was posting on an anonymous forum, the title read: “My girlfriend was killed by A-Train.
Vought says it was an ‘accident.'” The post had thousands of replies, mostly insults and disbelief, with a few expressing sympathy.
Ian began to weave.
First, he added a browsing history entry.
Then, a post that Hughie had clicked on repeatedly.
The username was “QueensGhost.”
The post read:
“My sister was mistakenly killed by Vought’s second-tier hero ‘Tek Knight’ in Queens.
Vought offered thirty thousand as hush money.
Their legal department threatened to sue me for defamation.
I won’t accept it.
I want them to pay.”
Hughie’s memory was instinctively drawn to this post.
He replied below:
“Me too.
A-Train killed my girlfriend.
They said it was an accident.
They said it was her fault.”
A private message window popped up.
QueensGhost sent a string of numbers: 646-555-0199.
“If you plan to do something, call me.”
Hughie stared at that string of numbers for a long time.
Anger, fear, hesitation, helplessness—all churned together in his chest.
In the end, he memorized the number.
Then, Ian turned the pointer of memory toward the future.
Three days later, or maybe a week later.
A man with a British accent and sunglasses walks into this shop.
He says: ”
“Hughie, I need you to help me plant something in Vought Tower.” Hughie’s first reaction was no longer fear or compliance, but that number flashing through his mind.
He would think:
“I can ask that ally.
He has scores to settle with Vought too.
That’s enough.
Weaving complete.”
Hughie jolted violently, groaning, fingers pressing hard against his temples, his pupils shifting between focus and unfocus like an overloaded hard drive defragmenting.
“Fuck…” Hughie muttered, “just now…
what…”
He looked up, staring at Ian.
His gaze was vacant, hollow, as if looking at a stranger he’d never seen before.
Those thirty seconds of contact, that chunk of memory forcibly implanted, seamlessly integrated into his cognition.
But Ian’s face, Ian’s voice, Ian’s existence—were erased.
“You…” Hughie blinked, his throat moving, “Hello, what would you like to buy?”
Ian took the cheapest pair of in-ear headphones from the shelf and placed them on the counter.
“These.
Nineteen ninety-nine.”
Hughie mechanically scanned the barcode, his brain still processing those newly implanted memory fragments in the background, like a computer slowing down while downloading updates.
The cash register spat out a receipt, which he stuffed into the bag without looking.
Ian took the bag, pushed the door open, and the bell jingled.
Hughie stood behind the counter, rubbing his temples.
He felt like something very important had just happened, but his mind was a blank.
He looked down at the cash register, which showed nineteen ninety-nine.
He couldn’t remember the customer’s face at all, but he remembered that number.
646-555-0199.
Ally—Queens.
That number was like a splinter, lodged in a corner of his consciousness, waiting to be awakened by a certain man.
Ian walked through the streets of Queens, the headphone cord wrapped around his index finger.
He glanced at his phone: 2:17 PM.
A Vought news alert popped up, bold headline: “Today, Vought International officially welcomes new member ‘Starlight’ to The Seven.
Media debut ceremony to be held outside Vought Tower.”
In the accompanying photo, Starlight wore her homemade white and gold-trimmed battle suit, three silver stars on her chest.
Ian hailed a taxi.
“Vought Tower.
Quickly.”
The driver was an old Latino man who glanced at him in the rearview mirror: “What’s the rush?
Another new hero?”
“Meeting a friend,” Ian said.
The plaza in front of Vought Tower was flooded with people.
At least several hundred crowded behind the barricades, reporters hoisting cameras, fans holding homemade signs, security guards in Vought’s uniform building a human wall.
Ian didn’t push to the front.
He circled to the side exit, where there were fewer people but closer to the parking area.
He stood in the shadow of a decorative tree, his gaze slipping through the gaps in the crowd toward the glass doors.
Starlight walked out.
Reporters swarmed, microphones aimed at her face like gun barrels.
“Starlight!
How does it feel to join The Seven?”
“What do you have to say about becoming a superhero role model for young women?”
“I’m honored to join The Seven,” her voice came through the microphone, carrying an Iowa accent, “I’ll strive to be the hero everyone expects.”
The appearance lasted twenty-two minutes.
Starlight was signing autographs, smiling, shaking hands with fans.
Vought’s PR team began guiding her away, moving toward the black SUV parked at the side entrance.
But the crowd hadn’t dispersed yet. Get faster updates on g.com.
Several paparazzi had breached the lax security line, blocking the side door, their camera lenses almost poking Starlight in the face.
“Starlight!
Insiders say Lamplighter’s retirement was highly unusual, that Vought’s legal department covered up at least three complaints.
As the new member of The Seven replacing him, do you have any comment?”
Starlight’s steps froze.
She wasn’t prepared to face these bizarre, tricky questions.
Ian stepped out from the tree shadows.
He shouldered aside the paparazzo who had asked the question, holding a Starlight poster distributed by Vought.
“Hello Starlight, I’ve been following you since your debut on the talent show.
Seeing your dream come true makes me genuinely happy for you.
Could I get an autograph?”
The paparazzo staggered from the shove, cursing, “Fuck, who are you?”
Her eyes still held traces of panic, but when she saw Ian, a flicker of gratitude appeared.
Like someone about to fall suddenly having their wrist steadied.
“Of course.”
Starlight took the poster and quickly signed her name.
She looked up, trying to make her smile appear natural again.
“Thank you for your support.
My success in standing out during the talent show wouldn’t have been possible without longtime fans like you.”
She paused, then offered proactively, “Would you like to take a photo together?”
Ian’s hand extended naturally, his face showing just the right amount of pleasant surprise.
“Wow, that would be my honor.”
He looked at Starlight, his tone carrying a hint of playfulness.
“Then how about a handshake?
Like when important figures meet, you know.”
Starlight chuckled at his remark.
She extended her right hand.
“Let’s do it.”
[Detected replicable target: Starlight (Annie January)]
[Available abilities:]
[1.
Super Physique LV4]
[2.
Light Manipulation LV4 (Flight, Energy Projection, Light Absorption, Developable)]
“Not selecting for now.”
The handshake lasted only four seconds.
Security rushed forward, pushing the paparazzi away.
Ian released her hand, stepping back half a pace, fading back into the edge of the crowd.
Starlight had already reached the car door.
She pulled it open, then suddenly glanced back at Ian.
There was gratitude, confusion, and a brief sense of safety after being protected.
Suddenly, an image appeared in her mind: Deep being reprimanded by Homelander, mocked by the rest of The Seven.
“Deep has very low status.
Don’t trust what he says.
If you encounter situations you don’t understand, you can seek out Queen Maeve.”
Starlight’s pupils contracted sharply.
She wanted to turn back and ask something, to question the meaning of these words and this image, but the PR personnel had already pushed her into the car.
The door slammed shut, isolating her from the outside world.
The black SUV merged into the city’s traffic flow.
Ian stood in place, watching the direction where the car had disappeared.
He turned and walked into the crowd, like a drop of water dissolving into the ocean.
No one noticed him leave.
Just as no one noticed that, on this day, he had altered two fate lines that should have been fixed.