Lorna's tutoring session had six students in total, but aside from Lorna herself, the other high school girls were clearly distracted. Solomon decided it was best not to linger today—the scale of their whispered chatter was too intense, especially since they always seemed to erupt into heated discussions the moment he turned his back. It didn't help that the black suit he wore was rather form-fitting, and his muscular build was more than noticeable, especially after he'd removed his jacket. Of all the women Solomon knew, Darcy Lewis was the one who spoke the most crudely, the most bluntly, and with the least filter. She had already warned him what would happen if he wore an English-cut suit, and her predictions were the kind that could make any proper lady faint from embarrassment. These girls, at least, were only whispering.
Out of sight, Lorna rolled her eyes and then turned back to feign interest. When Solomon asked her about it later, she called it a "strong expression of fake friendship." She said, "I wanted to hear what ridiculous nickname they gave your butt," and insisted that high school girls bonded like that—he, a guy whose head was full of fighting and death, couldn't possibly understand the intricacies of the female psyche.
"What were you talking about? Sorry, my brother was helping me with a problem just now."
"We were talking about him, Dane." The girl sitting closest to Lorna on the far left blinked and glanced toward the sorcerer as he moved among the students. She had long curly blond hair and green eyes. "You're not related by blood, are you?"
"I wish I was six foot six, covered in muscle, driving a convertible, looking hot enough to turn heads of both sexes, and casually capable of gunning down an entire street. No, we're not related by blood. Got a problem with that?"
"Not really. We're just wondering why you haven't fallen for him."
"Because no one likes someone who knows everything dumb you've ever done," Lorna grinned mischievously. "Here's a little secret: he hardly uses social media, so the last trendy words he knows probably date back to the '90s. Sure, he's rich, but trust me—you're not gonna be into a boring old dad type. And he's got girlfriends. Two of them. Supermodels. His pants aren't going to tighten up over a bunch of simpering teenage girls. He'll just leave you heartbroken, in the most literal sense. Also, fun fact—I've seen him shower. And trust me, 'heartbroken' is not a metaphor."
"Whoa! What did you say to them? Why did they run off crying?" Solomon asked, seeing the girls rush out of the orphanage, wiping away tears.
Lorna stood lazily in the hallway, waving toward the exit. "Nothing much. But I don't think they'll be coming back."
"That's a good thing. Their perfume blend was unbearable. Hopefully next time they borrow their moms' perfume, they'll pick something better—or I might actually get interested in their mothers." Hearing that, Lorna immediately pulled a face like she'd just heard something obscene. Solomon then asked, solemnly, "One more thing. When, exactly, did you see me shower?"
"Let's talk about Spider-Man instead—something young people care about!" Lorna jumped. "Or Hollywood actresses, maybe? You're what, like twenty-something?"
Solomon didn't answer. Instead, he shoved her aside gently and pulled out his phone to call his secretary. Lorna kicked at the fallen leaves underfoot while eavesdropping on her brother's conversation as he handed down orders over the line. Once he hung up, Lorna finally got her chance to speak.
"What's going on?" she asked. "I thought you didn't care about Spider-Man?"
"I don't," Solomon replied without turning around. "But I do care about whoever created Spider-Man." He was already dialing the next number. "Remember which company made the vaccines we used—before I started manufacturing them myself? Yes, Osborn. That company's in financial trouble now. You really think I'd let those scientists with top-tier research experience drift away during restructuring? Don't be ridiculous. I'm working on poaching their virologists and cellular biologists into my lab. Hey, Stephanie—make sure our shell company moves in. No cross-holding structures this time—I want full ownership. Use one of the ones left behind by Dr. Whitehall. That way, even if it fails, it won't trace back to us."
The biotech research labs of the Immortal City, like the domestic affairs department, were entirely off-limits to Wakandan involvement.
While their security measures were top-tier, that also highlighted the severe manpower shortage. The Malik family had never built a footprint in the medical field—that had been Dr. Whitehall's domain—so after the Malik family joined, the lab still lacked researchers. When Solomon inherited Whitehall's legacy—shares in pharmaceutical companies and control of several gene labs—he was able to distribute projects across multiple facilities, which slightly eased the burden. But the labs' terrifying security protocols weren't just to keep outsiders out—they applied internally too. The Immortal City's research projects were simply too monstrous. Many scholars who entered the genetic labs never came back out—either driven mad to suicide, or attempting to murder their colleagues and destroy the research, only to be killed themselves. If Wakanda ever discovered the lab's work, its people—who prided themselves on their civilization and advancement—would immediately cut ties with the Immortal City.
And it was in this kind of research environment, blending genetic engineering with arcane genetic alchemy, that the first Praetorian Guard was barely created. The price: nearly two hundred trafficked gang slave test subjects and almost half the biologists descending into madness. Solomon desperately needed new ways to replenish his team of genetic researchers. Relying on Wakandan bioscience wasn't enough—he didn't want the next Praetorian's development to stall because of manpower issues. His needs were insatiable, because the coming future was too dangerous.
"If the acquisition goes through, make sure to request Osborn's gene mutation research data. I want to know whether that Spider-Boy's abilities can be passed on genetically… Oh, right—you didn't know about that yet. Just do what I said. If the answer's yes, prepare sterilization protocols—same as we did with the Inhumans." Solomon noticed Lorna's expression. "Also, check if Tony Stark plans to approach our Spider-Boy. Hey, sis, why the face?"
"You're serious? Sterilization and superpowers?" Lorna whispered, lowering her voice. "That's your job? I have superpowers too—are you planning to do that to me?"
"Your genes aren't the problem. Your powers came from dimensional interference and merging, which makes them highly unstable," Solomon said with a raised eyebrow. "And yes, this is my job—to do whatever it takes to prevent a terrible future. If I hadn't sterilized the Inhumans, humanity would've become alien slaves. My solution is simple: neuter the Inhumans to strip them of value, then blow the aliens' heads off. That's how it works."
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