Brooklyn, outside the juvenile detention center.
Butcher leaned against the door of a black Chevrolet, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his mouth as he watched the entrance.
Hughie stood beside him, nervously rubbing his hands.
“Are we really going to recruit him?
He looks…
like a decent guy.”
“Decent guy?” Butcher scoffed, blowing out a puff of smoke.
“There’s no such thing as a decent guy in this world, Hughie.
Only people who haven’t been pushed to the edge yet.”
The gate opened.
A burly Black man in detention center uniform walked out.
He carried a thermos in his hand, his steps steady.
Mother’s Milk.
When Mother’s Milk spotted Butcher leaning against the car, his steps abruptly halted.
The expression on his face instantly shifted from weariness to intense disgust.
He turned and walked away.
“Hey!
M.M.!” Butcher shouted loudly, quickly catching up to him.
“Don’t fucking call me that name.” Mother’s Milk didn’t turn around, his voice low and warning.
“I warned you, Butcher.
Don’t show your face around me again.”
“Just a couple of words.
Two minutes.” Butcher blocked his path, raising his hands in surrender.
“I have nothing to say to you.” Mother’s Milk stared into Butcher’s eyes.
“I have a decent job now.
I have a wife and a daughter.
I go home for dinner on time every day.
I don’t want anything to do with your crazy bullshit schemes anymore!”
“Translucent is dead.
Me and this kid did it.” Butcher suddenly lowered his voice.
Mother’s Milk’s gaze froze.
He glanced around, making sure no one was paying attention to them.
“Are you insane?” Mother’s Milk grabbed Butcher by the collar and shoved him against the wall.
“You killed a member of The Seven?
Vought will turn New York upside down looking for you!”
Mother’s Milk looked at Hughie, then back at Butcher, as if seeing two dead men.
“This has nothing to do with me.” Mother’s Milk let go, straightening his uniform.
“I’m out.
Completely out.
You want to get yourselves killed, don’t drag me into it.”
“I need you, Marvin.” Butcher dropped his usual cocky grin, his eyes turning unusually serious.
“We need someone with a clear head to plan tactics.
We need you.”
Mother’s Milk looked at the thermos in his hand—a birthday gift from his daughter.
“No.” Mother’s Milk gritted his teeth and spat out the word, stepping around Butcher and striding away.
He leaned against the wall, watching Mother’s Milk’s retreating back, a confident, cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
“He refused.” Hughie walked over, somewhat disappointed.
“He’ll be back.” Butcher tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it under his foot.
“Deep down, he’s not cut out to be a quiet prison guard.
He needs this, just like I do.”
11 p.m.
Godolkin University, second basement level of the Crimefighting College.
Ian swiped his card to open the door to the archives.
The hallway was silent, save for the hum of servers running.
The access Brink had given him was surprisingly high-level.
The old man was clearly eager for Ian to understand Vought’s operations as soon as possible, to turn him into a cash cow.
Ian sat in front of the terminal, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
He didn’t look at the files of the star students.
Those people were too conspicuous; messing with them would invite trouble.
Instead, he searched for records of marginal students labeled “dropout,” “missing,” or “power malfunction.”
These were the best prey.
Dozens of files popped up on the screen.
Ian flipped through them one by one when suddenly, his finger stopped.
An encrypted file titled “Codename: The Woods” caught his attention.
Insufficient clearance to view details.
But there was a keyword in the file summary: behavioral correction.
Ian narrowed his eyes.
This was the research facility from the original work.
If he could enter this “Woods,” it held a large number of defenseless Supes.
It was practically a free all-you-can-eat buffet tailor-made for him.
Seems like he needed to give the old man something to really think about.
The next day in class
“Thud!”
A dull sound of flesh colliding echoed through the tactical training room, making even the soundproof panels on the ceiling tremble.
Ian sidestepped to avoid the electrified fist coming straight at him.
His left hand precisely slipped into the opponent’s blind spot, grabbing the collar of the mohawked boy.
This kid’s ability was high-voltage discharge, combined with enhanced muscles, making him a bit of a troublemaker.
But in front of Ian, all that electricity was as laughable as static.
Ian twisted his waist, muscle fibers tightening beneath his skin like steel cables.
Over-the-shoulder throw.
The mohawked boy’s body traced a brutal arc through the air before slamming hard onto the specially designed mat.
With a “boom,” the mat caved in with an exaggerated curve.
Electricity crackled across it a few times before completely fizzling out.
The mohawked boy rolled his eyes back and passed out without even managing a scream.
“Twelve seconds.” Andre sat on the metal railing at the edge of the arena, tossing an iron water bottle in his hand.
The bottle spun effortlessly two inches above his palm, controlled by magnetism like an obedient toy.
“Ian, have you been taking something lately?
That was a junior-year shock kid, and you threw him around like a sandbag?”
“He was too slow.
His shoulders habitually drop before throwing a punch, leaving an opening big enough to drive a truck through.” Ian walked to the bench and picked up his water bottle.
During these past few days of combat training, he had deliberately eased up on his restrictions a bit.
For example, quietly using Carbon Skin to withstand some attacks.
Old foxes like Brink needed to see returns on their investment.
The result was that his school ranking shot up like a rocket, straight to thirteenth place.
Top 13.
This was an extremely delicate position.
The top ten were Golden Boy and Luke’s territory—stars carefully packaged by the school and the company, watched by countless eyes.
Thirteenth place was enough to catch the attention of higher-ups, secure better resources, yet not immediately push him into the spotlight as a target.
“You’re too modest, man.” Luke walked over, handing Ian a sports drink, his smile still that perfect, poster-ready curve.
“Professor Brink was praising you just yesterday, saying your progress broke the academy’s five-year record.
At this rate, you’ll break into the top ten next month.”
“I’m only interested in credits.” Ian took the drink but didn’t drink it, casually setting it aside.
People like Luke, all sunshine and smiles on the surface, had long been pickled through by Vought’s star-making machine.
Him coming over to chat was nothing more than wanting to size up this sudden dark horse up close, to see if he posed a threat to his position.
Ian had no interest in playing hypocritical social games with these greenhouse flowers destined to collapse.
His gaze passed over Luke’s shoulder, landing directly on the farthest corner of the training room.
Cate Dunlap.
She was still dressed in that keep-away-from-me style.
An oversized gray hoodie, massive noise-canceling headphones, and those ever-present black leather gloves.
She was bent over a thick psychology textbook, utterly uninterested in the fight taking place in the center of the room.
In this hormone-overloaded university where everyone seemed eager to tattoo their Superpower on their foreheads, she was as solitary as a ghost.
Ian narrowed his eyes, his gaze lingering on those leather gloves.
These past few days, he had encountered her in almost every class.
She was always alone, and the students around her deliberately or inadvertently avoided her, as if she carried some kind of plague.
The more he observed, the more troublesome he found her.
This woman’s defenses were too strong.
She not only rejected physical contact but even shunned eye contact.
Anyone attempting to approach her was immediately repelled by an intensely resistant coldness.
Walk over and strike up a conversation directly?
Too deliberate.
Create an accidental collision?
She wore gloves, making skin contact impossible.
And once she became alert, getting close again would be harder than climbing to the sky.
Based on the Telepathy she displayed in the series, the system’s assessment would undoubtedly be LV5.
This meant that to fully Duplicate and solidify her ability required a full twenty-four hours of continuous skin contact.
Twenty-four hours.
This wasn’t something that could be managed by getting a girl drunk at a bar and taking her to a hotel.
Telepaths had extremely sensitive subconscious minds.
Forcefully restraining her?
If there was even a millisecond of error, allowing her to touch his skin, he would instantly become her obedient dog, willingly jumping off a building.
He had to make her willing.
Could it be that he had to sell his body?
Never mind, he’d find an opportunity to test her.