Ian stood by the window.
Down below, three police cars had arrived late, lights flashing.
Perhaps a neighbor had finally called the police.
He glanced down at the hammer in his hand.
The hammerhead was sticky with Shockwave’s brain matter and blood.
His clothes were soaked through, and although his right shoulder bone had been stabilized by his LV1 Physique, every movement still brought pain.
Run?
Take the fire escape down and disappear into the night of Queens.
With his current stamina, he could barely manage it.
But there was no need.
As expected, Vought would soon send someone to intervene.
Even if they didn’t, with Duplication, he could leave later.
For now, he still needed to maintain a legal identity.
Without one, he wouldn’t even be able to sign a rental contract in this country, let alone get close to Vought Tower.
Stay.
For now, it was still a society governed by law.
Homelander hadn’t yet taken de facto control of the nation as in the later stages of the plot.
The FBI and CIA were still around, and the police system was still functioning.
A former Supe, high on drugs, breaking into a residence and getting beaten to death by an ordinary teenager with a hammer—it sounded like self-defense.
He made his decision.
Ian dropped the hammer on the floor.
The metal struck the concrete with a crisp clang.
Then he raised his hands, walked to the shattered doorway, and stood amid the bloody footprints in the hallway, waiting.
The police came up quickly.
Two uniformed officers, pistols raised, shouted, “Freeze!
Hands up, face the wall!”
Ian complied.
“Fuck, is this place a slaughterhouse?” A young officer, catching sight of the scene inside apartment 402, bent over and retched.
“You did this?” The older officer gestured toward 402 with his chin.
“It was this guy,” Ian stepped aside, revealing Shockwave’s mangled body inside the room.
“He came out of 402 and then forced his way into my room.
He broke down my door.
I fought back.”
It had to be said, being Asian was oddly advantageous in this situation.
He was only handcuffed and hadn’t been treated roughly.
After hearing Ian’s explanation,
“Sounds like self-defense alright, but what the hell did you fight back with?
A rocket launcher?”
Ian didn’t answer.
He was pushed downstairs.
Passing by apartment 402, he glanced inside.
The elderly landlady’s body lay in the entryway, her head twisted at an unnatural angle.
Shockwave’s corpse was still in his own room, like a bag of trash.
The interrogation room was standard for the Queens Police Department.
White walls, a metal table, and a buzzing fluorescent light.
Ian sat on a hard plastic chair, his hands cuffed to a ring on the table leg.
His T-shirt had been replaced, and several layers of bandages were wrapped around him—paramedics had given him basic treatment for his shoulder and rib injuries before transport.
An officer pushed the door open, carrying two cups of coffee.
He placed one in front of Ian and leaned against the table without sitting down.
“Ian.
Eighteen years old.
Convenience store clerk.
No criminal record.
Vought orphanage background, not a Supe.” The man read from the tablet in his hand, eyes fixed on Ian.
“Tell me, how did you turn a Supe into pulp?”
Ian picked up the paper cup and took a sip.
“He was on drugs,” Ian said.
“He was unsteady on his feet.
His clapping motions were slow.
When he got close, I hit him in the head with a hammer.
Then he kept attacking me, so I had to keep hitting him.”
The officer raised an eyebrow.
“A hammer?”
“An eighteen-year-old Asian kid, using a hammer, beat a Supe who once could flip over trucks to death in a fifteen-square-meter rental room.” The police officer’s tone carried obvious skepticism.
“Do you know what that sounds like?”
“Like self-defense,” Ian said.
The officer laughed, put down his tablet, leaned forward, placed both hands on the table, and brought his face close to Ian’s.
“Listen, kid.
I don’t care what secrets you have.
There was no second person at the scene.
All the fingerprints are yours and his.
The blood spatter pattern matches repeated close-range strikes.
The old lady next door did die at his hands.
Based on the evidence, you were indeed defending yourself.” The officer paused.
“But the problem is, no matter how down-and-out he was, he was still a Supe.
His bones are harder than ordinary people’s, his muscle density—”
“He was on drugs,” Ian interrupted him.
“And his abilities were problematic to begin with.
The one who collapsed on TV.
His body couldn’t handle his own powers.
Vought abandoned him.
You can look all that up.”
The officer narrowed his eyes.
He straightened up, about to say something, when the interrogation room door was knocked.
A young uniformed officer peeked in, his expression odd.
“Captain, someone’s here to see you.
From Vought.”
His brow furrowed.
“Vought?”
“Lawyers.
And PR people.
They said this case involves ‘reputation issues concerning a former company employee.'”
“Fuck!” he cursed under his breath.
Then he turned and left.
Only Ian and the buzzing fluorescent light remained in the interrogation room.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again.
This time, it wasn’t the police officer who entered, but a woman in a dark gray Armani suit, around forty years old, with blonde hair pinned up and wearing frameless glasses.
Behind her followed a young man carrying a briefcase, holding a stack of documents.
The woman didn’t introduce herself.
She walked to the table, placed a document in front of Ian, pulled a Montblanc pen from her breast pocket, and gently set it beside the document.
“Mr.
Ian.
I’m from Vought International’s legal department.
The document in front of you is a confidentiality agreement and a settlement statement.
After signing, you will be released as soon as possible without charges, along with thirty thousand dollars in compensation.
In exchange, you must not disclose any details of tonight’s events to any media, social platforms, or individuals.
Tremor—that is, the former Vought-contracted Supe—did nothing tonight.”
“Thirty thousand dollars, cash or transfer.
You can leave tonight.
No bail, no court appearance.
The police will drop all inquiries against you.
You’ll get a clean record.”
Ian looked down at the document.
The legal jargon was dense, but he understood the core: take the money, keep quiet, disappear.
He picked up the pen.
Signed his name at the end of the document.
Three copies, he signed three times.
“Straightforward,” the woman said, collecting the documents with slight surprise.
“Most people would haggle or ask more questions.”
“You’re offering enough money,” Ian said.
He put down the pen, flexing his handcuff-numbed wrist.
“And I hate trouble.”
The woman nodded, turned, and left.
The young man gave Ian one last look, his eyes holding an indescribable meaning, then followed her out.
That evening, Ian walked out the door of the Queens Police Department.
His judgment had been correct—Vought was currently pushing hard to get Supes integrated into the military, and they wouldn’t let a scandal involving a former city vigilante Supe using drugs and committing murder sway public opinion online.
The wound on his right shoulder still throbbed faintly, but his Level 1 Super Physique had significantly accelerated the healing process.
He reached into his pocket.
Inside were a confidentiality agreement, a release form, and a bank card—Vought had already deposited thirty thousand dollars into it.
He walked to the ATM at the corner, inserted the card, and entered his PIN.
The balance displayed: $62,847.33.