Black Robe: In Vought, Starting by Going Head-to-head with Homelander
Chapter 1: This Fucked-Up World
(Leave your brain at the door; you don't need it to read this, just enjoy the thrill.)
Coffee spilled on his hand for the third time.
Chen Mo stared at the scalded red patch on his hand and shook it a couple of times.
It wasn't because his hand slipped.
It was because his hand was shaking.
He was standing in a corridor on the twelfth floor of Vought Tower, the scene he had just witnessed still spinning in his mind—The Deep's hand resting on the waist of that female intern, the girl smiling and saying "Don't," her voice as quiet as a mosquito.
The Deep didn't let go.
Seven people passed by in the corridor, and not one stopped.
Chen Mo crushed the empty paper cup and threw it into the trash can.
"Chen Mo! You're late for the morning meeting!"
Team Leader Liu's voice came from the other end of the corridor.
He gave an acknowledgment and walked quickly toward the conference room.
The Vought International morning meeting was held every Monday without fail.
Today, Homelander was attending in person.
The conference room was packed with people.
Chen Mo found a seat in the corner, and just as he sat down, the door opened.
When Homelander walked in, everyone in the conference room stood up.
Chen Mo stood up as well.
He saw the eyes of several female interns in the front row lighting up, their lips trembling.
A middle-aged supervisor next to him held his back straight, his smile looking uglier than if he were crying.
Homelander stood on the podium and scanned the room.
"Sit."
Everyone sat down in unison.
"Today, I want to talk to everyone about—the responsibility of a hero."
His voice was very gentle, and he wore a standard smile on his face.
But after Chen Mo stared into those eyes for three seconds, his back turned cold.
Those eyes are empty.
Like two glass beads embedded in eye sockets; he was smiling, yes, but there was nothing behind that smile.
Chen Mo lowered his head and stared at his own knees.
Homelander spoke for twenty minutes.
The gist was that Vought's heroes were protecting this city every day, and he hoped everyone would understand the heroes' sacrifices and support the heroes' work.
The audience applauded three times, each time very enthusiastically.
Chen Mo didn't applaud.
He kept his hands under the table.
When the meeting adjourned, A-Train was the last one to stand up.
His movements were very slow, as if he were in pain somewhere.
Chen Mo noticed that when he stood up, he braced himself against the edge of the table with his left hand, his sleeve sliding down slightly to reveal a black band on his wrist—a monitoring band.
Homelander walked over to A-Train and patted his shoulder.
"Last week's mission, the data looked terrible."
A-Train's face stiffened for a moment.
"If you're late again next time, don't bother coming."
The voice wasn't loud, but the entire conference room heard it.
A-Train lowered his head, not speaking.
Chen Mo saw the hand clutching the monitoring band, its knuckles white.
As the crowd surged outward, Chen Mo was pushed against the wall.
Starlight passed in front of him.
She glanced at him, her steps pausing for a moment, her lips moving— "Thank you."
The voice was very soft, so soft that Chen Mo almost thought it was an illusion.
He was stunned for a moment, wanting to say something, but Starlight had already walked away.
Chen Mo scratched his head, unable to figure out what she was thanking him for.
He had never even spoken to her.
The only interaction they had was last week in the breakroom, when he accidentally knocked over her cup and helped her clean it up.
Was that it?
At 6:00 PM, Chen Mo clocked out.
When he walked out of Vought Tower, it was already dark.
He walked along the street toward the subway station, his mind still thinking about the morning's events—The Deep's hand, Homelander's eyes, the band on A-Train's wrist, and Starlight's "Thank you."
As he turned the corner, he heard the sound of breaking glass.
Three punks were smashing up a convenience store.
The rolling shutter had been pried open halfway, shelves were overturned, and beverage bottles rolled onto the sidewalk.
A middle-aged woman wearing an apron was huddled behind the checkout counter, her hands clutching her head.
Chen Mo's footsteps stopped.
That woman's expression—terror, helplessness, and a kind of "forget it, I accept my fate" resignation—reminded him of his late grandmother.
His grandmother had the same look the day she passed away.
Late-stage cancer, in so much pain she couldn't sleep all night, yet she never cried out.
She just stared at the ceiling, with nothing in her eyes.
Chen Mo's fists clenched.
A punk came out of the store carrying the cash register drawer, saw Chen Mo standing on the side of the road, and paused.
"What are you looking at? Want to play the hero?"
The other two turned their heads as well.
Chen Mo didn't move.
He knew he couldn't fight them.
One meter seventy-five tall, 130 pounds, an intern in Vought's administrative department; he'd never even bought a gym membership.
But he didn't leave either.
Just then, a voice rang out in his mind.
[Host facing a choice detected]
[System activating...]
[Weekly Gacha System bound]
[Gacha chances for this week: 1/1]
[Use it?]
Chen Mo froze.
What the hell?
The punk took two steps toward him, dragging a baseball bat along the ground, making a harsh, grating sound.
"Kid, I'm talking to you."
Chen Mo stared at the virtual panel in front of him, his fingers trembling.
It wasn't fear.
It was a different kind of shaking.
He gritted his teeth.
"Roll."
Chapter 2: Starting Off by Rolling Spider-Man
The wheel spun in his mind.
Chen Mo saw a massive virtual wheel spinning before his eyes—red, blue, gold, purple, colors flashing and intermingling.
The pointer jumped a few times and stopped on one segment.
[Congratulations to the host for obtaining: Spider-Man(Rare)]
[Ability injection in progress—]
A surge of heat exploded from his chest.
Chen Mo's pupils contracted sharply.
He heard his own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—each beat like a drum.
Then he heard even more sounds: the fluorescent lights in the convenience store buzzing, Park Soon-ja's breathing short and rapid, and the sound of the thug's baseball bat cutting through the air behind him.
The World had changed.
This wasn't a metaphor.
It had truly changed.
He could feel the texture of every crack in the concrete floor beneath his feet and could feel the old tiles on the wall slightly radiating heat.
The movements of the three thugs—in his eyes, they were as slow as snails.
The one holding the cash register drawer had just taken a step, his foot not yet on the ground.
The one with the baseball bat was raising his hand, his elbow not yet straightened.
The third was pulling a folding knife from his pocket, his fingers still working the catch on the handle.
Chen Mo took a deep breath.
Then he moved.
He punched the first thug in the face.
The moment his fist struck, Chen Mo felt the other man's nasal bone collapse beneath his knuckles—a crisp crack.
The thug flew backward, slamming into the rolling shutter door with a deafening crash, leaving a dent in the metal.
Chen Mo froze.
He looked down at his hand.
It didn't hurt.
He felt nothing at all.
"Holy shit—"
The second thug's baseball bat was already swinging down.
Chen Mo didn't look.
But his body moved on its own—his head tilted three centimeters to the left, and the baseball bat brushed past his ear, slamming into the air above his shoulder.
He could even feel the gust of wind stirred up by the bat.
Spider-Sense.
It wasn't that he wanted to dodge.
His body just knew how to.
The baseball bat struck the ground, cracking a piece of the concrete, and gravel splashed onto Chen Mo's lower leg.
He looked down for a moment, then looked back up at the thug—the man's eyes were wide, his mouth agape, clearly unable to comprehend how that swing had missed.
The corners of Chen Mo's mouth twitched.
He grabbed the shaft of the baseball bat and jerked it back.
The thug was yanked forward, and Chen Mo raised his knee, driving it into the man's stomach.
"Ugh—"
The thug doubled over, retching up a mouthful of acidic Water, and the baseball bat slipped from his hands.
The third thug finally managed to pull out his knife.
It was a switchblade, the blade glinting under the streetlights.
He gripped the knife, flicked his wrist twice, and lunged at Chen Mo.
Chen Mo raised his right hand.
He flipped his wrist.
A line of White silk shot out from his palm, sticking to the blade.
Chen Mo yanked it back, and the switchblade flew out of the thug's hand, embedding itself into a utility pole by the roadside, the handle still vibrating.
All three thugs were down.
The first was clutching his nose, blood seeping out from between his fingers.
The second was curled up on the ground, dry-heaving.
The third stared at his empty hand, then at the knife on the utility pole, his expression as if he had seen a ghost.
It had taken less than ten seconds.
Chen Mo stood at the entrance of the convenience store, catching his breath.
He looked down at his right hand—there was a tiny hole in his palm, and a thread of White liquid was oozing out, glistening under the streetlight.
Spider-web.
He reached out and touched it.
It was sticky.
He pulled it, and it was elastic.
"Fuck."
He laughed.
Not a bitter laugh.
Not a polite laugh.
It was that kind—the kind squeezed from the throat, impossible to suppress.
"Holy shit, this is so awesome—"
Park Soon-ja poked her head out from behind the cash register, saw Chen Mo standing at the door, and then saw the three thugs lying on the ground, stunned for several seconds.
"Are… are you okay?"
Chen Mo wiped the corner of his mouth and reined in his smile.
"I'm fine."
"How much damage did your store take?"
Park Soon-ja looked at the toppled shelves, then at the pried-open rolling shutter door, and shook her head.
"Forget it, as long as people are okay."
"No."
Chen Mo crouched down, fished the cash register drawer out of the first thug's pocket, and handed it to Park Soon-ja.
Then he rummaged through the other two's pockets, pulled out a few hundred in cash and a mobile phone, and placed them all on the counter.
"Take these for now."
"If it's not enough—"
He paused.
The system panel popped up again.
[New Mission: Find the victim covered up by Vought News.]
[Mission Description: Vought News is covering up an incident of hero abuse of power. Find the truth and expose it.]
[Reward: Unknown]
Chen Mo stared at the panel for three seconds.
"...What the hell?"
Park Soon-ja thought he was talking to her and froze: "What?"
"Nothing, I wasn't talking to you."
Chen Mo waved his hand and stood up.
"You start cleaning up, I—"
He glanced at the three thugs on the ground.
The first one had sat up, covering his face, blood dripping from between his fingers.
Chen Mo walked over and crouched in front of him.
"Do you still want to go?"
The thug shook his head frantically.
"For the damage to the store, bring three thousand tomorrow."
"...Okay."
"I can't hear you."
"Okay! Three thousand! I'll bring it tomorrow!"
Chen Mo stood up and brushed off his pants.
Park Soon-ja stood behind the counter, watching him.
Her expression had changed—it was no longer fear and resignation, but something else.
It was like she couldn't believe it.
"Are… are you a Vought hero?"
Chen Mo thought about it.
"No."
"Then you—"
"I'm just passing by."
He walked out of the convenience store, turned into the alleyway next to it, and crouched down against the wall.
His heart was still racing.
Not from fear.
From excitement.
Adrenaline was rushing through his veins, and his wrists were tingling.
He raised his right hand and looked at the tiny hole in his palm again.
The spider-web was still oozing out, glistening under the streetlight.
He tried to control it—retract.
The tiny hole closed up.
Then open it.
It came out again.
"Nice."
He stood up and brushed the dust off his pants.
"Since I'm already here."
The system panel flickered again.
[Remaining attempts for this week's gacha: 0/1]
[Next refresh: 7 days later]
[Current ability: Spider-Man (Rare) — lasts until Sunday 23:59]
Chen Mo glanced at the panel and closed it.
He walked out of the alley and headed toward the subway station.
After a few steps, he stopped and looked back at the convenience store.
Park Soon-ja was bending down to pick up beverage bottles from the floor; her movements were slow, but it was no longer that slow, resigned pace—it was a steady, unhurried slowness.
Chen Mo watched for a few seconds, then turned around and continued walking.
He had saved a person.
In this rotten World, he had saved a person.
His phone buzzed.
He took it out and looked—a text message from an unknown number, containing only one line:
"Vought News already knows about today's events. You'd better watch your back."
Chen Mo stared at the screen for five seconds.
Then he shoved his phone back into his pocket and walked into the subway station.
Chapter 3: Three Minutes, A Director Kneels Before the Camera
The TV was playing last night's news.
Queen Maeve's photo took up half the screen. The host's voice was excited: "At nine o'clock last night, Queen Maeve subdued an armed thug at the 7th District convenience store and rescued three employees."
The screen cut away. Security footage.
Edited.
Chen Mo stared at the screen. His face was pixelated. All the key shots were cut to posed clips of Queen Maeve.
There were three people in the store. He was in the back row, looking like a passerby.
"Bullshit," he said.
Park Soon-ja's hand, which was wiping the counter, paused.
The TV was still playing. A reporter stood at the entrance of the convenience store: "Vought Corporation highly praises Queen Maeve's heroic actions—"
Beep.
Park Soon-ja turned off the TV.
"Stop watching," she said, tossing the remote aside and pushing a bottle of Water over, "Drink some Water."
Chen Mo didn't move.
"You look pale," Park Soon-ja stared at him, "That person is you, isn't it."
A statement. Not a question.
Chen Mo didn't respond.
"It's impossible not to be afraid." She pushed the bottle closer to him.
"But what can you do if you're afraid?"
"Aren't you afraid of Vought?"
"I am," Chen Mo said, "Does it help?"
She stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded.
"I've seen that look before." She lowered her head, wiping a non-existent stain on the counter, "My son had it too. Back then, Vought approached him and said he had good potential."
"And then?"
"They took him away." She paused, "Later, he died. He died in their lab."
Chen Mo looked at her. A woman in her sixties, with deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
"What was your son's name?"
"Nighthawk," Park Soon-ja said, "The codename Vought gave him. His original name was Park Ji-ho."
"What did they do to him?"
"Injections. All kinds of injections. They said it was an enhancement experiment." Her voice was very calm, "Then heart failure. They said it was an accident."
"Do you believe them?"
Park Soon-ja didn't answer. She lowered her head to wipe the counter.
"So you want revenge?"
"What revenge can an old woman like me take?" She raised her head, "But that man said, you can."
Chen Mo didn't speak.
She pulled a business card from her apron pocket and placed it on the counter.
"A man came by yesterday. He stood at the store entrance for a long time," she said, "He said you might need this."
The card had printed on it: William Butcher. No title, no company name. Just a number.
Chen Mo looked at it for three seconds, then put it into his inner pocket.
"Thank you."
When he opened the door, Park Soon-ja said: "Be careful. Vought is not to be trifled with."
"I know," Chen Mo turned back, "But someone has to go in."
"Come back alive," Park Soon-ja said.
"I'll try," Chen Mo pushed open the door, "Also, thanks for the Water."
Park Soon-ja didn't speak. She nodded.
His phone vibrated.
Miller's text: Two o'clock this afternoon. Conference room. Don't be late.
Seven people were sitting in the conference room.
John Miller sat at the head of the long table. Forty-five years old, hair combed meticulously.
"Everyone is here," Miller scanned the room, "Everyone knows about last night. Queen Maeve has proven once again—"
"Director."
Miller's voice paused. He looked toward the door.
Chen Mo stood there, wearing a Vought intern badge.
"I have something to say."
Miller smiled. A professional smile, but his eyes were cold.
"An intern has something to say?" He scanned the room, "Everyone, our Vought interns are truly proactive."
Someone chuckled.
"Go ahead," Miller leaned back, lifting his coffee cup, "Go back to making your coffee, kid. You can't handle the affairs of My Lord."
A middle-aged man next to him slapped the table: "Did you hear that? The Director told you to go back and make coffee."
"Add two cubes of sugar," someone said.
The laughter grew louder.
Chen Mo didn't sit down.
He took out his phone and pressed a button. Bluetooth connected to the projector.
The screen suddenly lit up.
The first photo—a bank transfer record. 500,000. Recipient: John Miller.
The laughter stopped. The conference room went quiet. The kind of silence as if someone had been strangled.
Miller's smile froze on his face.
"How did you get this..." His voice was trembling slightly.
"The second one," Chen Mo said.
The screen switched. Email correspondence between Vought executives and Miller. Content: Press release modified, credit given to Queen Maeve, suggestion to suppress original surveillance footage.
"You motherfucker—"
"Don't get excited. There's more. The third one."
The timestamp of the convenience store surveillance. The original time and Vought's broadcast time were placed side by side, with a three-hour difference.
"Three hours of editing time," Chen Mo looked at Miller, "Is Queen Maeve's transformation that slow?"
The conference room was deathly silent. No one was laughing. The man who had slapped the table had his hand suspended in mid-air.
Miller's face turned from white to red, then from red to white.
"Where did you get these..."
"That's not important," Chen Mo took a step forward, "Now—who is the kid?"
Miller stood up. The chair crashed backward with a clatter.
"You're crazy! Do you know who's behind me? Vought executives! You're just an intern—"
"Do your executives know you're taking money?" Chen Mointerrupted him.
Miller opened his mouth.
A middle-aged woman next to him stood up: "Chen Mo, do you know what you're doing?"
"I do."
"You'll be fired."
"I know," Chen Mo didn't look at her, "But some things are more important than a job."
"What things?"
"The truth."
She sat back down.
"John Miller. Director of Vought News. Twenty years in the business," Chen Mo's voice wasn't loud, but every word was steady, "Taking money to change drafts. Helping Vought whitewash things. The evidence is all here."
He held up his phone.
"Three options."
Miller stared at him. His forehead was covered in sweat.
"One, go to the live broadcast room and apologize. Two, I give the evidence to the FBI."
Miller's Adam's apple bobbed.
"Three—I'll make you kneel down right now."
In the conference room, the six or seven people didn't make a sound.
Ten seconds.
Miller lowered his head.
He walked out. His steps were slow. When he reached the door, he steadied himself against the doorframe.
Chen Mo stood in the hallway, watching the monitor.
Three minutes later, the live broadcast signal cut in. Miller sat before the camera, his face grey, his tie crooked.
"Dear viewers... I am John Miller, Director of Vought News," he swallowed, "The report regarding last night's convenience store incident... contained serious inaccuracies... and requires correction..."
Chen Mo whispered in the hallway: "Done."
His phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
"Hello."
"Did you use magic, you motherfucker?" The voice on the other end was rough, with a London accent, "Vought intern, three weeks on the job. Daring to pull something this big after three weeks?"
"I told you. I used evidence, not magic."
"Where did the evidence come from?"
"You guess."
The other side was silent for two seconds. Then laughed.
"Interesting. I've been watching you all day. The convenience store thing, that Korean proprietress—"
"What exactly do you want?"
"I know about her son too. Nighthawk. Subject 47," Butcher said, "Died in Vought's lab. Heart failure. They always say that."
Chen Mo didn't respond.
"Butcher. Want to meet you."
"Why?"
"Because we have a common interest," Butcher said, "We're both looking to cause trouble for Vought."
"What are you looking to do to Vought?"
"Destroy it."
The phone was quiet for a few seconds.
"Interested in joining?"
Chen Mo glanced at the fire exit at the end of the hallway. The green emergency light was on.
"Tonight?"
"Convenience store parking lot. Eight o'clock. Don't bring anyone."
"How will I recognize you?"
"You'll recognize me," Butcher said, "I recognize you."
"Then do you know where I am?"
"Vought building. 15th floor. You just did something big."
Chen Mo was silent for a moment: "Are you watching me?"
"Protecting you. Vought's people are already investigating. You have a few hours left."
"Understood."
Hung up.
Chen Mo put his phone away. He pushed open the fire exit door.
The light at the end of the hallway flickered. The emergency light's glow was dim.
A new path, opened.
Chapter 4 Butcher
The door was open.
Chen Mo stood at the apartment entrance, his hand still resting on the doorknob. The lock wasn't broken. It hadn't been picked. It had been opened with a key—or, someone could open any lock.
He walked inside.
A man in a trench coat was sitting on his folding bed, holding his cat. The orange cat was curled up on the man's lap, eyes squinting, belly up, its four paws tucked in, purring comfortably.
The man looked up and glanced at Chen Mo.
"Your cat is quite fat."
Chen Mo stared at him.
"Put my cat down."
The man didn't move. He looked down at the cat again and reached out to scratch its chin. The orange cat purred and rolled over.
"How long have you had this cat?"
"Three months."
"A stray?"
"Found it."
"Someone like you picks up strays?" The man looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I thought you were cold-blooded."
"Who are you?"
The man gently placed the cat on the bed and stood up. He was half a head taller than Chen Mo, his trench coat open to reveal a wrinkled plaid shirt. He had several days of stubble on his face and deep dark circles under his eyes.
"Billy Butcher. You found my business card."
Chen Mo didn't speak. He closed the door and leaned against it.
"How did you get in?"
"Picking locks. The CIA taught me."
"You're not CIA."
Butcher raised an eyebrow.
"How do you know?"
"The CIA wouldn't throw business cards at a convenience store entrance. And they wouldn't sit on someone else's bed waiting for them."
Butcher stared at Chen Mo for two seconds, then smiled. It wasn't a happy smile—it was an "interesting" smile.
"You're right. I'm not CIA. At least not anymore."
He walked to the window, pulled the curtain aside a sliver, glanced outside, and then closed it again.
"I know what you did at the convenience store last night."
Chen Mo's back left the door panel.
"How did you know?"
"I have my sources." Butcher turned around and looked at him. "You knocked out three thugs in less than ten seconds. Then Vought News gave the credit to Maeve. You went to that convenience store this morning and talked to the old lady for ten minutes."
Chen Mo's pupils constricted.
"You're stalking me?"
"Not stalking. Protecting." Butcher pulled a pack of cigarettes from his trench coat pocket, pulled one out, and put it in his mouth without lighting it. "The Vought cleanup crew is looking for you too. They got to that convenience store before I did—they went late last night. But they didn't find you. Because you left first."
"How do you know they didn't find me?"
"Because my people have been watching that store."
Chen Mo was silent for a few seconds.
"Who exactly are you?"
Butcher took the cigarette out of his mouth and crushed it.
"The Boys. Ever heard of them?"
"No."
"Normal. We aren't the kind of organization that gets on TV." Butcher threw the crushed tobacco into the trash can. "What we do is simple—keep an eye on those caped bastards, find their dirt, and bring them down."
"You mean Vought's heroes?"
"Especially Vought's heroes."
Chen Mo didn't respond.
Butcher looked at him and waited for a few seconds.
"You have two choices now." Butcher held up two fingers. "First, join us. Second, wait for the Vought cleanup crew to find you—they won't negotiate with you, they'll just make you disappear."
"Disappear?"
"How do you think Vought maintains its image? Those who don't listen, who know too much, who have seen things they shouldn't have—where do you think they all went?"
Chen Mo thought of the scene where The Deep's hand was on the female intern's waist. He thought of the monitoring bracelet on A-Train's wrist. He thought of Homelander's empty, soulless eyes.
"What's in it for me if I join you?"
Butcher was silent for a moment. He clearly hadn't expected this question.
"You can uncover the truth about this World. And you can take down Homelander."
"That's it?"
"Isn't that enough?"
Chen Mo thought about it.
"Fine. But I have a condition—I don't kill."
Butcher laughed. Not the "interesting" kind of laugh—but the "are you fucking kidding me" kind of laugh.
"You, a fucking intern, are negotiating with me?"
"You came to me, which means you need me. Then I can negotiate."
Butcher's smile faded.
He stared at Chen Mo for a long time. Long enough for the wind outside to blow the curtains, long enough for the orange cat on the bed to yawn and roll over.
Then he nodded.
"Interesting. Deal."
Chen Mo breathed a sigh of relief. But he didn't show it.
"So what do I need to do?"
Butcher pulled a phone from his pocket—not his own, but a black, old-looking Nokia.
"Take it. This is a dedicated line for me to contact you. Don't use your own phone to discuss anything related to Vought. They will be listening."
Chen Mo took the phone and weighed it in his hand.
"Anything else?"
"Tomorrow night at eight, Brooklyn, 17 Hoyt Street, Underground Room. Don't tell anyone before you come, and don't let anyone follow you."
"How do I know this isn't a trap?"
Butcher walked to the door, opened it, and looked back at him.
"Because when you found the business card, you didn't call the police. You didn't throw it away. You put it in your pocket."
Chen Mo didn't speak.
Butcher left. The door closed behind him with a click.
Chen Mo stood in the empty apartment for a long time.
Then he walked to the bed and sat down.
The orange cat jumped onto his lap and nudged his hand with its head.
Chen Mo looked down at the cat and stroked its head.
"Buddy, I think I'm in big trouble."
The cat meowed.
Chen Mo curled the corner of his mouth.
"You think it's exciting too, right?"
The cat ignored him, curled into a ball, and went back to sleep.
Chapter 5: The Letter in the Iron Box
Park Soon-ja sat on the sofa, her hands resting on her knees.
The iron box sat on the coffee table. It was very old, its edges worn White, the latch rusted.
She didn't speak.
Chen Mo didn't rush her either.
The sound of traffic outside drifted in through the glass, low and muffled.
After a long while, Park Soon-ja reached out and opened the iron box.
Click.
Inside was a letter with yellowing edges, a digital voice recorder, and an ID photo.
She handed the letter to Chen Mo.
"This is his handwriting."
Chen Mo took it. The paper was thin and covered in Korean. He couldn't read it, but he could feel the urgency of the person who had written it. The strokes were messy, and in several places, the ink had bled, as if it had been soaked in Water.
"His name is Park Ji-ho," Park Soon-ja said, her voice flat. "Vought said he died in a lab accident. They gave me a sum of money, and a box of ashes."
She paused.
"The ashes weren't his."
Chen Mo looked up.
"The DNA test took three months," Park Soon-ja said, her fingers tracing the edge of the iron box. "I found the best laboratory in Korea. The result was Zero match."
The room fell silent. The curtains weren't fully drawn, and light cut through the gap, forming a bright line.
"Three years. I've been investigating for three years," she looked at Chen Mo. "This box is the last thing Ji-ho sent. Inside are his diaries, work logs, and that voice recorder."
Chen Mo picked up the voice recorder. The plastic casing was very light.
"I've listened to it many times," Park Soon-ja said. "You only need to listen once."
She pressed the play button.
The sound of breathing came from the recorder. It was heavy and intermittent. Then came a voice—a young man's, with a Korean accent.
"Mom... I might not be able to come back."
A pause.
"They want me to sign a non-disclosure agreement. I won't sign it. Compound V... wasn't invented."
The breathing grew heavier, like someone who had just finished running.
"It was discovered. It was always there. The Creator... is still alive."
The recording ended.
Chen Mo put down the voice recorder. "When did you receive it?"
"A week before he died."
Chen Mo put the voice recorder back into the iron box. "I need to go to Vermont."
Vermont, the Green Mountains.
Chen Mo rented a car. He drove along the mountain road for two hours. The GPS lost signal at the third fork.
He saw a gas station by the side of the road. An old man sat behind the cash register, drinking.
"Alan Foster?"
The old man put down the bottle. "Are you on the right road?"
Chen Mo handed him a bill. The old man put it into the drawer. "Three kilometers north. The one with the White fence. Don't tell him it was me who told you."
Chen Mo arrived at two in the afternoon.
The Villa was not large. Gray stone walls, pine trees planted at the entrance. There was a lounge chair in the yard, as quiet as the surroundings.
He rang the doorbell.
An old man in a White shirt opened the door. He was in his sixties, with gray hair and silver-rimmed glasses.
Alan Foster looked him over. "Vought?"
"Ex-Vought."
"That's still Vought," Alan said. "I don't care who you are. You've got the wrong person."
He was about to close the door.
"Park Ji-ho."
The door stopped.
Alan stood in the doorway, his fingers resting on the edge of the door. After a moment, he said, "Come in."
A shotgun hung in the living room. The bookshelves were full of legal files. Alan sat in a leather chair, legs crossed.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Former Senior Vice President of the Vought Legal Department. Involved in covering up the Deaths of seven Compound V test subjects. Retired in 2016."
Alan chuckled. It wasn't a happy laugh.
"Kid, I was doing this job while you were still playing in the mud. I've signed more documents than you've eaten meals. You're just a coffee boy—what do you have to negotiate with me?"
Chen Mo didn't respond. He took a folder out of his bag and placed it on the table.
"Aren't you going to open it and take a look?"
Alan pushed the folder back with two fingers. "Save it. Whatever you have in your hands, your boss definitely has a copy of. I don't buy that."
"My boss doesn't know I'm here."
Alan looked at him for two seconds, then set his drink back on the table. "Go on."
"S-017," Chen Mo said. "Do you know this codename?"
Alan's expression didn't change, but his hand froze on his glass.
"March 8, 2016," Chen Mo said. "You flew to Switzerland. Not for a vacation. You used a conference room on the second floor of the Zurich bank. Sitting across from you was a man in a gray suit, short hair, with a scar on his left ear. You talked for forty minutes. When you came out, you threw your notebook in the trash."
Alan's face changed.
The whiskey glass on the table turned half a circle in his hand.
"You... how on earth do you know that?"
"I am the truth that Park Soon-ja's son couldn't find," Chen Mo said, pushing the folder forward. "In March 2016, you took a set of raw experimental data from Vought. All the records of S-017. You didn't give it to anyone. You hid it in a safe."
Alan's hand tightened around the glass.
"You didn't come to negotiate."
"I came to take it."
Chen Mo stood up and walked toward the study. The floor plan of this Villa was public record at the Vermont property registry.
"Stop right there." Alan stood up, his voice deepening. "One more step—"
"Call my boss?" Chen Mo turned around at the doorway of the study. "Do you think that scares me?"
Alan's face flushed red.
"You won't get anything. I locked that stuff up. Only I know the password. By the morning after tomorrow, it won't matter anymore."
Chen Mo looked at him. He didn't speak. Then he smiled.
"Alan. Your flight the day after tomorrow is to Bermuda. Connecting flight, Charleston, then direct. You booked a vacation home for three months. You used your wife's credit card for the hotel."
Alan's hand dropped.
"You're selling it," Chen Mo said. "You have a buyer for the S-017 data. You're making the delivery in Bermuda the day after tomorrow. Am I right?"
Alan leaned against the bookshelf.
"It's impossible for you to know this."
"Your travel records. Your credit card statements. I read them all on the plane ride here." Chen Mo pushed open the study door; a safe stood against the wall inside. "The password is your eldest daughter's birthday. Backwards."
Alan froze.
"Your wife couldn't remember the password, so she wrote it in her phone's notes. I had a friend take a look."
Chen Mo walked to the safe, bent down, and dialed the code.
Click.
The door opened.
Inside was only a kraft paper envelope. Chen Mo took it out and opened it.
The papers were printed with over two hundred pages of experimental records. The raw data for Compound V. The complete file on S-017. And a photograph—a laboratory, a wreath, and a corpse covered in a White sheet.
He closed the envelope and turned to walk out of the study.
Alan collapsed into his chair. His head tilted back, staring at the ceiling.
"What else do you know?"
"Everything about you," Chen Mo said, placing the voice recorder on the table. "Do you think I wouldn't keep a backup?"
Alan didn't speak again.
Chen Mo walked out of the Villa.
As he closed the door, he heard the sound of a glass shattering inside. He didn't look back.
He returned to the car, turned on the voice recorder, and re-listened to the last part.
"Compound V wasn't invented. It was discovered. It was always there. XXX... is still alive."
Chen Mo turned off the voice recorder. He started the engine.
The sunset was falling toward the mountain ridge, and the forest looked as if it were burning.
Chapter 6: A New Ability Emerges
Chapter 6: Batman
11:59 PM on Sunday.
Chen Mo sat on the bed in his rental apartment, staring at the clock on the wall. The second hand ticked forward, step by step. An orange cat curled up beside his pillow, its tail resting on his leg.
Spider-Man's ability was still active. He could hear his neighbor in the next room turn over, and he could sense a hint of rain in the breeze blowing in from outside the window.
11:59:50 PM. Fifty-one. Fifty-two.
He could feel the ability fading away—like a receding tide, those keen senses were retracting layer by layer. The cracks on the wall were no longer clearly discernible, the neighbor's breathing grew distant, and the wind outside was just wind.
Fifty-nine. Midnight.
The system panel popped up.
[Weekly Gacha Refreshed]
[Rolling for this week's ability...]
A wheel spun in his mind. Red, blue, gold, purple—light bands flashed and intertwined. The pointer jumped a few times and landed on a slot.
[Congratulations to the host for obtaining: Batman(Rare)]
[Ability injecting—]
A chill poured down from the top of his head. It wasn't the explosive sensation of heat like with Spider-Man—it was cold, sharp, like a basin of ice Water poured from head to toe. Chen Mo's pupils constricted, and then he felt as if his brain had been pried open by something.
Information. All of the information.
He sat on the bed, his gaze sweeping across the room. The cracks on the wall—three of them; the longest one extended from the ceiling to above the window frame, about 1.2 meters long and 3 millimeters wide. The dust on the windowsill—about five days of accumulation, because he had wiped it on Wednesday. The takeout menus on the table—three of them, from Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, all from the same restaurant because he was too lazy to change.
All information was automatically categorized, associated, and deduced.
He closed his eyes.
Nighthawk's case unfolded in his mind. The Death report—2:17 AM, cardiac arrest, Compound V rejection reaction. Work ID card—cancelled at 23:40. Time difference—two hours and thirty-seven minutes.
Contradiction.
The work ID cancellation time was nearly two and a half hours earlier than the time on the Death report. Either the Death report was faked, or the work ID cancellation time was faked. But the work ID cancellation was automatically recorded by the system and couldn't be changed. Therefore—the Death report was fake.
Chen Mo opened his eyes.
He looked down at his hands. They were the same hands, but they felt different. It wasn't a difference in strength—it was the difference in his mind.
He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the silhouette of Vought Tower in the distance.
Batman wasn't for fighting. He was for solving cases.
Monday morning, Vought Tower morning meeting.
Homelander stood on the podium with a serious expression.
"Recently, we have monitored some unregistered Superhumans operating in New York. These people have not undergone Vought training, have not received Vought moral education; they are a group of—uncontrolled variables."
The room was so quiet that the sound of the air conditioning could be heard.
"From today on, Vought will strengthen the monitoring system for unregistered Superhumans. If any Vought employee discovers suspicious individuals, they must report it immediately."
Chen Mo sat in the corner, head down, pretending to write in a notebook.
He glanced at Starlight out of the corner of his eye.
Starlight sat in the front row, her back very straight. But Chen Mo noticed—when Homelander said "unregistered Superhuman monitoring," her right thumb tapped twice lightly on the desk. It was very light; if not for Batman's ability allowing him to notice this detail, he would never have discovered it.
She was nervous.
Chen Mo wrote a line in his notebook: "Starlight—monitoring system—what is she afraid of?"
After the meeting, Chen Mo didn't return to his workstation. He went to the HR department's archives room.
Being an administrative intern had one advantage—he had the authority to access some basic employee files. Nighthawk's file had been sealed, but the sealing record itself would leave a trace.
He searched for "Park Ji-hoon" in the personnel system.
Search result: File sealed. Sealing time: Ten years ago. Reason for sealing: Employee Death. Sealing operator: Margaret Shaw—former Vought head of security, has resigned.
Chen Mo noted down the name. Then he pulled up the duty record for the day of Nighthawk's Death.
Duty security supervisor: Marcus Byrne. Night shift that day. Resigned the next day. Current address—New Jersey, Elizabeth, 42 West Grand Street.
Chen Mo stared at the screen for five seconds.
He turned off the computer, took out his phone, and sent a message to his team leader, Sister Liu: "Something came up at home, taking a day off."
Then he walked out of Vought Tower and boarded the bus to New Jersey.
The bus swayed for an hour and a half.
Chen Mo sat by the window, his mind constantly turning. Batman's ability was like a supercomputer, connecting all the information—Nighthawk's work ID cancellation time, the Death report time, Marcus Byrne's resignation time, the colleague's address, Butcher's business card, and the thumb tap from Starlight when she heard "monitoring system."
These pieces of information were like a puzzle, coming together piece by piece. There were still a few pieces missing in the middle, but the general outline had emerged—Nighthawk's Death was no accident. Someone didn't want him to keep investigating. That person had the authority to alter the Death report. That person could make a security supervisor resign and disappear on the same day.
That person held a high position at Vought.
The bus arrived in Elizabeth.
Chen Mo got off and followed the address to find 42 West Grand Street—a car repair shop. The storefront wasn't large, with two broken-down cars parked out front, and a middle-aged man in work clothes was squatting next to a Ford, holding a wrench and tightening a screw.
Chen Mo walked over and squatted down.
"Marcus Byrne?"
The wrench in the man's hand paused. He looked up and glanced at Chen Mo. He was in his fifties, his face covered in grease, his hair graying, and there was a large burn scar on the back of his right hand.
"Who are you?"
"You were there the night Nighthawk died, weren't you?"
The wrench in Marcus's hand dropped to the ground.
With a clang, it echoed in the repair shop for a long time.
He stared at Chen Mo, and the light in his eyes changed—not anger, but fear. The kind of fear hidden for ten years was uncovered by a single sentence.
He slowly stood up, took a step back, and his right hand subconsciously gripped his left wrist—the location of the burn scar.
"You... who are you?"
"My name is Chen Mo. Nighthawk's mother sent me."
Marcus's expression changed. The fear was still there, but something else had been added—like guilt.
He lowered his head, looking at the wrench on the ground.
"It's been ten years."
"I know."
"How did you find me?"
"Personnel records. You were on duty that night, and resigned the next day."
Marcus was silent for a long time. Then he raised his right hand, looking at the burn scar on the back of his hand.
"This was burned by Homelander using Heat Vision."
Chen Mo's breath hitched for a second.
"He was in the lab that night. Nighthawk discovered what he was doing—so Nighthawk had to die."
Chapter 7: The Truth About Nighthawk
On the bus returning from New Jersey, Chen Mo leaned against the window.
The fields outside receded one by one; the sky was gray, and the clouds hung low. The carriage smelled of a mixture of diesel and sweat, and the man in the seat next to him was snoring.
Chen Mo did not sleep.
Only one thought churned in his mind—Nighthawk was killed by Homelander.
Park Soon-ja had waited for ten years. Ten years. Every day, she thought about the words her son had said on the morning of the day he died: "Come back for dinner tonight." Every day, she thought about that final note. Every day, she thought—who exactly killed my son?
Now he knew.
He knew this secret.
The question was—what should he do?
It was already dark when the bus arrived at the station. Chen Mo got off and walked along the street back to his apartment.
When he reached his door, he stopped.
A business card was stuck in the door frame.
It was white, with no patterns. But it was not like Butcher's—this business card had the Vought logo printed on it, with a line of text below: "Vought International · Internal Affairs Department". No name. No phone number. Just a department name.
Chen Mo flipped the business card over. On the back, a line of small text was written in pen:
"We know you went to New Jersey today."
Chen Mo stared at the text for five seconds.
Then he folded the business card, tucked it into his pocket, opened the door, and went inside.
The orange cat jumped off the bed and ran to his feet, rubbing against him.
Chen Mo squatted down and petted the cat's head.
"Buddy, they know."
The cat meowed.
Chen Mo stood up and paced the room twice. Batman's ability was running at high speed in his mind—the Vought Internal Affairs Department had targeted him. They knew he had gone to New Jersey, but they didn't know what he had discovered. They left this business card to scare him—to make him panic and make a mistake.
Chen Mo stopped.
He did three things.
First: He took out the Nighthawk materials from the drawer—a copy of the Death report, screenshots of the employee card records, and the recording of Marcus's testimony (which he had secretly recorded with his phone). He put these into an envelope, wrote the address of Park Soon-ja's convenience store on it, went downstairs, and dropped it into the mailbox.
Second: He took out the Nokia Butcher had given him, turned it on, and sent a text message: "I've considered it. See you tomorrow."
Third: He called his colleague A-Jie.
"A-Jie, help me look after the cat for a few days."
"Huh?"
"I'm going on a business trip. The cat food is in the cabinet, and the cat litter is on the balcony."
"Wait—where did you get a cat?"
"Found it. I'll drop it off tomorrow morning."
"Fine, fine."
Chen Mo hung up the phone, picked up the cat, and placed it on his lap.
The orange cat purred. Chen Mo stroked its back, feeling his heartbeat slowly steady.
The materials were mailed. Butcher was contacted. The cat was taken care of.
Now—he had no worries.
The next morning, Vought Tower.
Chen Mo carried the coffee tray as he walked down the hallway on the 68th floor. The morning meeting of The Seven had just ended, and several heroes were emerging from the conference room.
A-Train walked very fast, as if dodging someone. The Deep followed behind a female assistant, his hand on her waist again. Maeve was scrolling through her phone with an expressionless face, and a scent of perfume wafted by as she passed him.
Then Homelander came out.
Chen Mo stepped aside, lowering his head while holding the tray.
Homelander's footsteps stopped in front of him.
Chen Mo could feel that gaze landing on the top of his head. It wasn't looking—it was scanning. Like an X-ray machine, from top to bottom, from outside to inside.
He raised his head.
Homelander was looking down at him. Those eyes—exactly the same as they were in the morning meeting. Empty. Like two glass beads. But this time, there seemed to be something moving at the bottom of those glass beads.
That look sent a chill down Chen Mo's spine.
It wasn't the cold of fear. It was—the cold of being targeted. Like walking in the forest and suddenly realizing there was a wolf standing three meters away. The wolf didn't move. The wolf was just watching you.
Homelander looked at him for three seconds.
Then the corners of his mouth twitched. The smile was very faint, so faint that if Chen Mo hadn't been staring at his face, he wouldn't have noticed it at all.
"Coffee."
Chen Mo's pupils contracted slightly.
"...What?"
"My coffee. Refill it."
Chen Mo looked down at the tray—there was still half a pot of coffee left. He quickly picked up the pot and filled the cup in Homelander's hand.
Homelander picked up the cup and took a sip.
"Not bad. Better than last week's."
Then he turned and walked away.
Chen Mo stood in place, holding the tray, his shirt already soaked with sweat on his back.
He returned to the pantry, closed the door, leaned against the wall, and took a deep breath.
Those three seconds just now—did Homelander figure it out or not?
He didn't know.
But one thing he was certain of—he couldn't wait any longer.
In the evening, Chen Mo returned to his apartment and took out the Nokia.
Butcher replied.
"Good. Tomorrow night, under the Brooklyn Bridge, at the third pier."
Chen Mo finished reading, deleted the text, and turned off the phone.
He walked to the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked at himself in the mirror.
A young man in a cheap suit. Twenty-five years old. An intern at Vought International's Administration Department. Monthly salary of 3,200. Raising an orange cat. His mind contained a secret that could get him killed a hundred times over.
He curled the corners of his mouth.
Then he wiped his face, straightened his tie, and walked out of the bathroom.
He still had to work tomorrow. Still had to refill coffee for The Seven.
Chapter 8: Don't Get Too Close to Starlight
At lunchtime, a figure sat across from him.
Chen Mo looked up, the chopsticks in his hand pausing for a moment.
Starlight.
Not the radiant Starlight wearing her superhero suit on television. She wore a white T-shirt, jeans, her hair casually tied in a ponytail, and no makeup on her face. She looked just like an ordinary girl next door—if the girl next door were a member of The Seven.
Carrying a salad, she placed her tray on the table and sat down across from him.
"Do you mind?"
Chen Mo looked around. There were quite a few people in the cafeteria, but no one was looking their way. Vought employees had long since grown accustomed to heroes walking around.
"I don't mind."
Starlight picked up her fork and poked a piece of lettuce, but didn't eat it. She kept her head down, silent for a few seconds.
Then she said, "You went to New Jersey yesterday."
Chen Mo's heart tightened suddenly, but his face remained expressionless.
"...How do you know?"
"Vought's internal system has location records. When you requested time off, you used the company system, which left a GPS track in the backend."
Chen Mo's chopsticks froze in midair. His mind raced—Batman's abilities automatically began analyzing. The fact that Starlight could see his location records meant she had system permissions. It wasn't surprising for a member of The Seven to have permissions; what was surprising was that she had actively come to tell him.
Starlight looked up at him.
"Don't worry. I deleted it for you."
Chen Mo stared at her, saying nothing.
"I checked the records this morning, and your name is on the Internal Affairs Department's watch list," Starlight said in a very low voice. "I don't know what you went to New Jersey for, but I know this—if you're being targeted by the Internal Affairs Department, you'd better not let them find any dirt on you."
"Why are you helping me?"
Starlight put down her fork and looked out the window. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass curtain wall, casting shadows across her face. Her eyelashes fluttered slightly in the light.
"Because I can tell that you're different from them."
Chen Mo didn't respond. He looked down at the rice in his bowl, the grains gleaming white under the fluorescent lights. He thought of the repair shop in New Jerseyyesterday, the burn scar on the back of Marcus's hand. He thought of the yellowed letter Park Soon-ja had handed him. He thought of Homelander's empty, vacant eyes.
He picked up a piece of braised pork, put it in his mouth, and chewed twice. The meat was a bit cold, the fat congealing on his tongue, making him feel a bit nauseous.
"Before I joined The Seven, I thought I was here to be a hero." The corner of Starlight's mouth twitched—not in a smile, but in self-deprecation. "You know, I've wanted to be a hero ever since I was a kid. My mom told me that superpowers are a gift from God, and that I should use them to protect others."
She turned her head to look at Chen Mo.
"When I was twelve, I discovered for the first time that I could glow. My mom was thrilled; she held me and cried for a long time. She said, 'Annie, you can help so many people in the future.'"
Chen Mo listened without interrupting.
"Later, the people from Vought found me. They said I was a genius, that I would become a member of The Seven, and that I would be respected just like Maeve." Starlight's gaze fell to the tabletop, her voice growing softer. "I believed them. I moved to New York, signed the contract, and did the promotional photoshoot."
She picked up her fork, poked another piece of lettuce, and still didn't eat it.
"Only after I got here did I realize—I'm just a mascot used to make money. Shooting commercials, attending events, endorsing Vought products. When they actually need me, they don't let me go. Because they're afraid I'll get hurt, afraid my image will be damaged, afraid I'll affect the ratings."
Chen Mo listened in silence. Someone was laughing in the cafeteria, and the clattering of trays could be heard in the distance. Everything seemed so normal, so perfectly normal.
He looked down at the rice in his bowl. The sauce from the braised pork had already congealed, the grease forming a thin film on the surface. He poked it with his chopsticks; the film broke, and the sauce seeped into the rice.
He suddenly felt a bit disgusted. It wasn't the food. It was this place. Everyone in this building was smiling, pretending everything was fine. But under the table, everyone's hands were dirty—The Deep's hand was on a female intern's waist, A-Train's hand was gripping his monitoring bracelet, and Homelander's hand was around everyone's throat.
"I have to do whatever Homelander tells me to do," Starlight's voice dropped even lower, almost to a whisper. "Otherwise, he'll..."
She didn't finish.
But Chen Mo knew what the unfinished half of her sentence was. He had seen Homelander's eyes. He knew what that "otherwise" meant. He recalled A-Train's hand gripping his monitoring bracelet during the morning meeting, knuckles white with tension after being publicly humiliated. He recalled the yellowed letter in Park Soon-ja's tin box—"Don't trust Vought." He recalled the burn scar on the back of Marcus's hand.
He put down his chopsticks.
Chen Mo put down his chopsticks.
"What if I could help you?"
Starlight froze.
"...What?"
"What if I could help you—letting you actually do what you want to do, instead of being Vought's mascot?"
Starlight looked at him. There was light in those eyes—not stage lights, but real light. Like a drowning person suddenly seeing a rope.
"How would you help?"
Chen Mo said, "I have my ways."
Starlight stared at him for a long time. So long that Chen Mo thought he had said something wrong. So long that the noise in the cafeteria grew muffled, as if filtered through water.
Then she lowered her head and went back to eating her salad.
"Okay."
Just one word. But that word carried a kind of—Chen Mocouldn't quite describe it—trust. It was as if she had handed a part of herself over to an intern she had known for less than a month.
The two finished their lunch in silence. Chen Mo shoveled the last bite of rice into his mouth, chewing slowly. He wondered if he could actually deliver on the promise he had just made.
Starlight stood up and picked up her tray.
"By the way."
Chen Mo looked up.
"I've cleared your location records. But the Internal Affairs Department won't stop at just location tracking. Be careful."
"Thanks."
Starlight glanced at him, turned, and walked away. After a few steps, she looked back.
That look—it wasn't the look of a hero looking at a civilian, nor a member of The Seven looking at an intern. It was the look of one human being looking at another. There was hope in it.
Chen Mo lowered his head and continued eating.
The corners of his mouth curled up slightly.
He recalled what Starlight had just said: "Everyone in this building is smiling, but under the table, everyone's hands are dirty."
She wasn't wrong.
But what his hands were dirty with was different from the others.
He reached up and touched his ear—the grain-of-rice-sized wiretap in his ear canal was still there.
Butcher's voice came through the earpiece.
"Is the wiretap in place?"
In a voice only he could hear, Chen Mo said, "It's in."
"Don't get too close to Starlight."
Chen Mo picked up a piece of braised pork, put it in his mouth, and chewed twice.
"Too late!"
Chapter 9: Don't Trust Vought
Chen Mo stood at the entrance of the sixty-eighth-floor office, holding the coffee meant for Homelander.
The coffee was steaming. The edges of the tray were wiped clean. His shirt cuffs were buttoned to the very top, and his tie had been re-tied, perfectly straight.
The bug was hidden under his fingernail.
Rice-grain-sized, black, and secured to the inside of his right thumb's fingernail with medical tape. Butcher had taught him this—"The most dangerous place is the safest. No one is going to search an intern serving coffee."
Chen Mo took a deep breath. The corridor was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioning. He could hear his own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—beating against his eardrums.
He adjusted his breathing to slow his heartbeat. Batman's ability was helping him—controlling his heart rate, controlling his expression, and controlling every tiny muscle reaction.
He pushed the door open and walked in.
The office was larger than he had imagined. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline. The spire of the Empire State Buildingwas directly ahead, and sunlight streamed through the glass curtain wall, casting a golden layer across the floor. A massive mahogany desk sat right in the center, with a stack of files, a laptop, and a photo frame neatly arranged on it.
Homelander wasn't there.
Chen Mo's pupils contracted slightly. Batman's ability automatically activated—Scanning.
Three.
Within three seconds, he located three hidden cameras.
One in the corner of the ceiling, facing the door. One behind the bookshelf, its lens aimed at the desk. And another—at the base of the desk lamp, pinhole-sized and nearly invisible.
He instantly mapped out the angles of the three cameras in his mind. The first captured the doorway, the second captured the desktop, and the third captured the side of the entire room. There were two blind spots between the three cameras—directly underneath the desk, and the corner to the right of the floor-to-ceiling window.
The underside of the desk was a blind spot.
Chen Mo carried the tray, his face completely expressionless. He walked up to the desk and placed the coffee cup down. His movements were slow and steady. The bottom of the cup met the desktop with a soft click.
Then, he "accidentally" knocked over the photo frame.
The frame fell onto the desk with a snap. Chen Mo quickly set down the tray and bent over to pick it up—pressing his right thumb gently against the underside of the desk.
The bug was attached.
The medical tape released from his fingertip, and the rice-grain-sized black bug adhered firmly to the bottom of the mahogany desktop. The placement was perfect—right in the blind spot, invisible to the naked eye, and out of range of all three cameras.
Less than ten seconds.
He straightened up and set the photo frame upright. It was a group photo—Homelander and a blonde woman, with The White House in the background. The blonde woman was smiling brightly, her arm linked through Homelander's. Homelander was smiling too, but that smile—it was exactly the same as the one from the morning meeting. The corners of his mouth were turned up, but his eyes were completely lifeless.
Just as he finished setting the frame back in place, the door opened.
Homelander walked in.
Chen Mo's hand hovered in mid-air. He turned around and lowered his head slightly. His heart skipped a beat in his chest, but his face remained completely still.
"My coffee?"
"Yes, sir."
Homelander walked behind the desk, sat down, picked up the coffee cup, and took a sip. His gaze lingered on Chen Mo's face for two seconds. Those two seconds felt as long as a century. Chen Mo could feel that gaze scanning his face—from forehead to chin, from left eye to right eye. It was as if he were looking for something.
"Are you new?"
"I was transferred to the Hero Relationship Department. Today is my first day."
Homelander took another sip. His gaze drifted away from Chen Mo's face and landed on the window. The Manhattanskyline stretched out behind him like a backdrop.
"Not bad. Better than the last guy's brew."
Chen Mo smiled.
"Thank you, sir."
He picked up the tray, turned, and walked out. His pace was neither fast nor slow, his breathing steady. He could feel Homelander's gaze falling back onto his back, like a needle pricking the back of his neck. But he didn't look back, didn't speed up, and didn't slow down. He just walked.
He stepped out of the office and closed the door.
Leaning against the corridor wall, his back was drenched in cold sweat. His shirt clung to his skin, icy cold. He looked down at his hands—his fingertips were trembling slightly. It wasn't a tremble of fear, but a physiological reaction as the adrenaline receded.
He stood there for three seconds, then walked toward the elevator as if nothing had happened.
Back at his workstation, Chen Mo closed the blinds and put on his headphones.
The bug's signal was excellent. Homelander's voice came through clearly—he was making a phone call.
"...I met that intern."
Chen Mo's breath hitched for a moment.
"Quite interesting. Let's keep him around for now; he might be useful."
What was said on the other end of the line was inaudible. Homelander laughed a few times. The laughter was light and casual, as if he were talking about a pet.
"Don't worry, what kind of waves can a coffee-serving intern make?"
The other side said something else. Homelander laughed louder.
"Yeah, I know. Starlight came by today too and chatted with that intern for a bit. She hasn't been in a great state lately, keep a close eye on her."
Chen Mo's ears perked up. Starlight? Chatted for a bit—he was talking about that meal in the cafeteria. Homelanderalready knew. Someone was watching her, and someone was watching him too.
He recalled how Starlight looked sitting across from him in the cafeteria. She said, "Everyone in this building is smiling." She said when she first glowed as a child, her mother cried.
She was also someone locked in a cage.
Chen Mo bit the inside of his lip, pushing the thought down. He couldn't think too much. He couldn't get distracted. Now was not the time.
Over the headphones, Homelander hung up. Then came the sound of typing on a keyboard. One keystroke, two, very slow. As if he were thinking about something.
Chen Mo waited for three minutes. Homelander didn't speak again. There was only the sound of typing and the occasional rustle of turning pages.
He took off his headphones and leaned back in his chair.
He stared at the ceiling, the corners of his mouth slowly curling up. There was a water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a fish with its mouth wide open.
Keep me around?
He smirked.
Homelander thought he was just an intern serving coffee. A tiny intern on his first day in the Hero Relationship Department. A nobody who wasn't even worth a second glance.
But Homelander didn't know—this coffee-serving intern had Batman's deductive reasoning in his head. He didn't know there was a Nokia in his pocket connected to Butcheron the other end. He didn't know there was a USB drive in his drawer containing data about S-017 and The White House.
And he certainly didn't know—the rice-grain-sized bug under his desk was transmitting every single word.
You've kept a bomb around, I'm afraid.
Chen Mo placed his headphones back on the desk, reopened his computer, and pulled up today's schedule. He needed to act like a normal intern. Serve coffee, organize files, smile at everyone. But the puzzle in his mind had already begun to take shape—Homelander, Starlight, S-017, The White House. Every single thread was stretching in the same direction.
He glanced down at his right thumb. Under his nail was clean, and the trace of the medical tape was gone. The bug Butcher gave him was the only one, and it had already been used. But it didn't matter—one was enough. A single bug, placed right under the desk of the most dangerous man in the World.
He stretched his fingers and began to type. On the screen was a perfectly ordinary Hero Relationship Departmentwork report. Neatly formatted, appropriately phrased, with absolutely no issues.
Just like him—absolutely no issues.