Chapter 16: Black Noir's Pursuit, Is That All the Master Assassin Has?
"Bo-boss!"
Frenchie's teeth chattered, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically up and down.
Lynn withdrew his hand, and the moment his fingertips left Frenchie's carotid artery, the Frenchman collapsed onto his heels as if drained of all strength.
He scrambled to grab the half-empty bottle of vodka on the table and took a massive gulp, neck tilted back.
The liquor spilled down the corner of his mouth into his grease-stained collar, and he wiped his mouth while coughing violently.
"Merde... you lunatics, you're all complete lunatics."
Frenchie muttered as he climbed to his feet, dragged over a broken wooden chair, and plopped down onto it.
He pressed his hands onto the yellowed keyboard.
His ten fingers instantly became a blur, and the keyboard clattered loudly.
The frozen red warning box on the screen began to pulse, and green decryption code cascaded down like a waterfall.
"Fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes at most, and I'll smash this turtle shell to pieces."
Frenchie gritted his teeth, staring fixedly at the screen, his forehead slick with cold sweat.
Butcher grinned and spat a glob of saliva mixed with tobacco onto the floor.
"Wouldn't it have been easier to just do that from the start instead of forcing the boss to take action?"
He fished a new cigar out of his leather jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth, but didn't light it.
Hughie held the cup of lukewarm instant coffee, his throat dry as he swallowed hard.
Lynn ignored them.
He tilted his head slightly, his eardrums vibrating rhythmically.
The Kryptonian's super-hearing pierced through the thick concrete walls of the basement and spanned two city blocks.
He heard a nearly imperceptible sound of footsteps.
Stepping onto the corrugated steel roof of an old apartment building, the sound was quieter than a wild cat landing.
But the faint, acrid smell of carbon fiber armor rubbing together in the air was something Lynn knew all too well.
"Keep your eyes on the progress bar and don't move a single step away from this iron door."
Lynn reached out to adjust his suit cuffs and turned to walk toward the stairs leading to the surface.
"Boss, where are you going?" Hughie stuttered, crushing the paper cup in his hand.
"Going out for a smoke."
Lynn didn't look back as he pushed open the rusty iron door.
...
An abandoned street corner in Brooklyn.
A cold wind swept through, kicking up discarded newspapers and empty beer cans from the ground.
Black Noir, like a drop of indelible ink, silently vaulted down from the third-floor fire escape.
He didn't take the front entrance.
Instead, he hugged the moss-covered brick wall, inching forward while staying within the shadows.
The tactical goggles beneath his mask shimmered with a faint light.
Just two hours ago, he had come up empty at the archives on the fifth basement level.
But he wasn't one of those idiots who only knew how to pose in front of a camera.
The residual fingerprint grease on the console panel, a crushed fiber on the carpet, the lingering scent of cheap shampoo in the air.
These infinitesimal clues pieced together a tracking route invisible to the naked eye.
Black Noir stepped over a mud puddle without splashing a single drop of water.
He turned the last corner, and there was the entrance to the basement where the target was hiding.
Black Noir quietly reached for his waist with his left hand, his fingertips clamping onto three poison-tipped steel throwing stars.
He leaned half his body out.
But the scene in front of him made him freeze in his tracks.
The dim streetlamp was flickering with a buzzing sound due to a bad connection.
Lynn was standing right under the murky yellow light of the streetlamp.
He was looking down, hands cupped together, lighting a cigarette with a metal lighter.
"Click."
A flame shot up, illuminating Lynn's unguarded face.
The smell of burnt, low-quality tobacco drifted through the air.
Lynn flicked the lighter shut, took a deep drag, and exhaled a cloud of gray-white smoke.
"Vought's security system really needs an upgrade."
He bit down on the cigarette filter, his gaze crossing the few meters of distance to stare straight into the shadows where Black Noir was hiding.
"It actually took you over an hour to crawl here from headquarters."
Black Noir didn't make a sound, nor could he speak.
Since he had been exposed, he would just eliminate him directly.
He flicked his wrist sharply.
Three black streaks tore through the air with a piercing whistle, aiming at Lynn's brow, throat, and heart respectively.
The throwing stars were moving too fast to even see a blur.
Lynn didn't even make a move to dodge.
He just stood there, cigarette in hand, not moving.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Three crisp metallic clanging sounds rang out simultaneously.
The steel throwing stars struck Lynn's skin and his cheap suit, only to bounce right off.
They fell into a puddle, creating ripples.
Black Noir's pupils contracted.
This Asian's defense was even more freakish than Translucent's?
But he didn't retreat, instead exerting sudden force through his legs, leaving two shallow craters in the concrete ground.
Black Noir turned into a bolt of black lightning, instantly closing the dozen-meter distance.
His right hand reached behind his back with a "shing" sound.
A specially crafted katana with a cold gleam was unsheathed.
The blade carved a sharp, crescent arc under the streetlamp.
Black Noir gripped the sword with both hands, using the terrifying momentum of his charge to drive the tip straight toward Lynn's carotid artery.
If this hit landed, even a rhino would be skewered through.
Lynn still didn't dodge.
He even lowered his right hand, the one holding the cigarette.
Primary Steel Body was activated at this moment.
"Clang—!"
A deafening sound that could shatter eardrums exploded at the street corner.
Sparks erupted wildly around Lynn's neck like festive sparklers.
The sharp katana stabbed fiercely into his skin, but didn't even leave a white mark.
A massive reactive force traveled back up the hilt.
Black Noir's webbing between his thumb and index finger tore instantly, and warm blood sprayed out.
Immediately after.
The expensive, specially crafted katana let out a mournful whine and snapped in the middle.
Half of the blade spun away and thudded into a nearby wooden utility pole.
The remaining hilt was still vibrating with a hum.
Black Noir's eyes beneath his mask were filled with absolute horror.
This level of hardness was simply not in the realm of humanity.
He immediately released the broken blade, pushed off with his toes, and tried to retreat to create some distance.
"Thinking of leaving now?"
Lynn spat out the butt of his cigarette.
His right shoulder suddenly dipped.
The power from his waist and abdomen twisted, and his right fist shot out like an armor-piercing shell leaving the chamber.
It roared out with a sonic boom that tore through the air.
The fist slammed solidly into Black Noir's chest armor.
"Crack!"
The bulletproof carbon fiber armor shattered instantly like cheap plastic shards.
Black Noir didn't even have time to grunt.
His entire body was lifted off the ground by this brute force and sent flying backward.
"Boom!"
He crashed through the red brick wall of the first abandoned building at the street corner, sending bricks shattering and flying everywhere.
Without slowing down, two more "Boom! Boom!" sounds followed in quick succession.
Black Noir's body smashed through two load-bearing walls in a row, kicking up a sky full of lime dust.
He finally ended up embedded deep in the steel reinforcement ruins of the fourth wall.
Smoke and dust filled the air.
Black Noir, like a broken ragdoll, hung with his neck crooked, stuck in the rubble.
A mouthful of black blood mixed with organ fragments sprayed frantically out through the seams of his mask.
Lynn shook his knuckles and stepped toward the ruins.
His leather shoes crunched on the broken bricks.
"Master Assassin?"
Lynn sneered, looking at Black Noir, who was still vomiting blood.
"If this is all you've got, you aren't even fit to trim my nails."
Chapter 17: Breaking Black Noir's Sword, Sending a Message to Homelander
The brick dust hadn't even settled yet.
Night wind poured in through the hole in the wall, carrying a choking smell of lime.
Lynn brushed the dust off his suit sleeve and lifted his leg.
His leather shoes crunched on the pile of broken bricks.
Black Noir was stuck in the ruins of reinforced concrete.
This master assassin now looked no different from a stray dog run over by a dump truck on the side of the road.
A large chunk of his pitch-black armor was shattered, revealing the blood-oozing bulletproof fibers underneath.
His sternum had completely collapsed, caving into a bizarre pit.
His breathing sounded like a punctured, rotting bellows, wheezing out bloody froth.
Lynn walked up to him and stopped.
He looked down at the broken half of the katana at his feet.
This thing had been trying to slit his throat just minutes ago; now, it was nothing but a jagged, broken blade.
He bent down, pinched the back of the blade with two fingers, and picked up the broken sword.
The metal surface felt cold, and the broken edge was coated with white wall dust.
The eyes beneath Black Noir's mask stared fixedly at Lynn, pupils constricted to pinpricks.
He was a mute and couldn't cry out.
He could only push hard with his elbows, trying to shuffle backward through the rubble.
Lynn didn't give him the chance.
He raised his right foot and stepped directly onto that sunken chest.
"Crack," a crisp sound rang out.
The broken rib shards sank another half-inch, stabbing fiercely into his lungs.
Black Noir's body arched violently like a boiled shrimp, and he hacked up a mouthful of black blood containing visceral fragments.
Blood dripped down through the gaps in his mask.
[Ding.]
[Target 'Black Noir' psychological defense line completely collapsed, detected.]
[Current Fear Value has reached the upper limit, output stopped.]
That emotionless mechanical voice rang in his brain.
Lynn raised an eyebrow and eased off the pressure under his foot slightly.
He had originally intended to stomp this charcoal-colored guy's head to pieces, but he had changed his mind.
A dead assassin would at most cost Vought a bit of money for an urn.
A terrified carrier pigeon, however, could drain the very soul out of The Seven.
"Don't move. I'm a bit rusty; it won't look good if I carve it crooked."
Lynn pressed the broken blade against the black armor on Black Noir's chest.
"Screech—"
The blade sliced through the polymer material, cutting directly into the flesh beneath.
The sound of metal scraping mixed with the squelching of the blade cutting through meat sent chills down one's spine.
The first stroke was a vertical line.
Lynn pressed his wrist down, forcibly plowing a blood groove into Black Noir's chest.
Black Noir convulsed in pain, his hands clawing desperately at the bricks on the ground, his fingernails completely torn off.
He opened his mouth wide in a silent howl, the veins on his neck twisting like earthworms.
Lynn didn't even lift an eyelid, focused like a stone carver.
"N."
"E."
With every stroke, blood surged out along the cut, dyeing the armor red.
"X."
"T."
After carving the last stroke, Lynn tossed the broken blade, covered in gore, aside.
With a clang, the blade hit the rebar nearby and vibrated twice.
Lynn stood up straight, pulled a tissue from his pants pocket, and slowly wiped the blood spots off his knuckles.
The four bloody English letters on Black Noir's chest were incredibly glaring under the moonlight.
NEXT.
"Get lost."
Lynn crumpled the blood-stained tissue and threw it at Black Noir's mask.
"Go to the top floor and show this line of text exactly as it is to your cape-wearing master."
He took a half-step back and swung his right leg in a wide arc.
The toe of his leather shoe kicked fiercely into Black Noir's kidney area.
"Bang!"
Black Noir flew out like a torn sack, rolling over a dozen times on the ground before stopping when he hit a trash can at the street corner.
Lynn shoved his hands into his suit pockets and strolled into a dark alley with no streetlights.
"Crawl back if you have to. If you die on the way, I'll find someone to chop you up and feed you to the stray dogs."
Late night in Manhattan, top floor of Vought International Tower.
The entire floor was dark, relying solely on the neon lights shining in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
A pungent smell of burnt wood drifted through the air.
The mahogany desk that had been sliced by Heat Visionearlier was now two charred pieces, lying on the expensive Persian rug.
Homelander stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He held a glass in his hand, filled with half a glass of warm milk.
He hadn't taken a single sip.
Those azure blue eyes stared fixedly at the traffic crawling like ants below.
The rhythm of his chest rising and falling was significantly faster than usual.
Translucent's disgusting empty skin bag had long been cleaned up by the janitorial staff.
But the smell of blood that had drilled into his nasal cavity seemed to have seeped into the walls, impossible to cover up.
"Drip."
Homelander's ears twitched.
He heard a strange sound coming from outside the corridor.
It sounded like a wet, rotting rag being dragged slowly across the carpet.
He turned his head, the milk glass in his hand tilting slightly.
The half-closed double doors were pushed open by a weak force, the door hinges emitting a teeth-grinding friction sound.
A glove covered in mud and black blood gripped the edge of the door frame.
Then came the other hand.
Black Noir was like a black mamba that had had its spine extracted, inch by inch wriggling in from outside the door.
Every inch he crawled forward, a glaring dark red bloodstain was dragged across the light-colored wool carpet.
Homelander's pupils contracted sharply.
He tossed the milk glass onto the coffee table, the glass making a crisp sound.
"Black Noir?!"
He strode over, grabbed the armor on Black Noir's back, and flipped him over.
This ninja, known as the strongest assassin of The Seven, didn't even have the strength to stand up right now.
The mask had a large tear, revealing his chin covered in blood and filth.
Blood bubbles kept emerging from his mouth, his body as soft as a puddle of mud.
As soon as Homelander's hand touched his back, he felt the rib shards broken into several pieces.
"Who did this? Where is that rat hiding in the sewer!"
Homelander grabbed Black Noir's shoulders and shook him hard twice.
Black Noir convulsed in pain, his head lolling powerlessly to one side.
The trembling black-gloved hand raised up and pointed at his own chest.
Homelander looked along the direction of the finger.
His gaze nailed itself to Black Noir's shattered armor.
There, someone had forcibly carved four blood grooves with a blunt object.
The flesh was rolled back, the blood still uncongealed, dripping down the black armor.
The four letters were crooked, exuding a sense of casual mockery.
N.
E.
X.
T.
Next.
Homelander's breathing stopped completely.
His brain buzzed, as if someone had stuffed a high-explosive grenade inside.
A jolt of electricity shot from his tailbone straight to the top of his skull, his scalp tingling.
This wasn't a warning; this was a declaration of war.
The guy who killed A-Train and skinned Translucent alive now had a blade held directly against his throat.
Homelander let go.
Black Noir fell back onto the carpet with a thud, passing out completely.
Homelander slowly stood up straight, his figure swaying slightly.
He looked down at his own red-gloved hands, all covered in Black Noir's blood.
He was a god.
The most powerful existence on this planet.
Since when was it a turn for some scum hiding in the shadows to line up and name people to kill him?
The muscles on his cheeks began to twitch uncontrollably.
That handsome face was twisted like a lunatic who had just escaped from a mental hospital.
The azure blue in his eyes was instantly swallowed by scarlet blood color.
Two blinding beams of red light brewed in his eye sockets, the surrounding air twisted and deformed by the high heat.
"Sizzle—!"
Heat Vision erupted.
The red light swept directly across the million-dollar crystal chandelier overhead.
Glass shards pelted the floor like raindrops.
Homelander threw his head back violently, the veins on his neck bulging.
He stared fixedly at the ceiling, a roar that didn't sound human rolling from his throat.
"Who do you think you're hunting... You want to make me the next one, right?"
Homelander's voice cracked, carrying a furious, exasperated tremor, the muscles at the corner of his eyes twitching like a spasm.
"Fine. I'll turn all of Manhattan upside down right now, and I'll dig you out inch by inch!"
Chapter 18: Hughie's Transformation, Executing Popclawwith His Own Hands
Homelander's ear-shattering roar seemed to still be echoing through the night sky of Manhattan.
The scene cuts back to the basement in Brooklyn.
The sound of keyboard keystrokes was as dense as a rainstorm, hammering away in the empty room.
Frenchie had half his face almost pressed against the yellowing computer screen.
The rapidly scrolling green code was reflected in his eyes, the light casting a sickly green glow over his stubble-covered face.
His messy curly hair was completely soaked with sweat, and droplets of acidic, alcohol-smelling liquid were dripping from the tips of his hair.
"Almost there... don't rush me, give me ten more seconds, just ten seconds..."
Frenchie had half an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, his teeth chewing the filter to shreds.
His fingers created a blur across the keyboard, and even the veins on his wrists were bulging.
Hughie huddled in the corner of the worn-out sofa, both hands gripping the holes in his jeans tightly.
He didn't even dare to breathe, fearing that the slightest noise would disrupt the hacker's train of thought.
"Click!"
Frenchie's right index finger slammed onto the Enter key.
The force was so great that the rusted, broken wooden table wobbled along with it.
The garbled code on the screen froze instantly.
Immediately after, it transformed into a complex tree diagram, with red data streams pointing directly to a node in the center.
"Done, Boss!"
Frenchie jumped up in excitement, grabbing the wine bottle on the table to take a big gulp.
"I've stripped Vought's military-grade encryption shell down to its underwear!"
Lynn leaned in the shadows of the corner and walked forward slowly.
His leather shoes made a soft rustling sound as they stepped on the cigarette butts and crumpled paper littering the floor.
"Where is the source of the distribution?" Lynn stared at the frantically flashing name in the center of the screen.
Butcher leaned closer to the screen, squinting his eyes to read the string of addresses marked in red.
"Queens, a dilapidated apartment building. The registered tenant's name is Charlotte."
Butcher sneered and turned his head to spit on the floor.
"Her street alias is 'Popclaw,' a washed-up, fringe character."
Lynn tugged at his tie and threw his suit jacket over his shoulder.
"Let's go, and meet this delivery of experience points."
...
Half an hour later, at the old apartment building in Queens.
The hallway perpetually reeked of dead rats mixed with the stench of marijuana.
The sound-activated light overhead was half-broken, flickering with an orange glow.
With a muffled "bang."
The paint-peeling security door, along with its metal frame, was kicked into the living room by Lynn.
The door panel smashed into a pile of empty beer bottles, sending glass shards flying everywhere.
Hughie followed behind, covering his nose, gagging from the smell of cheap perfume in the room.
The living room was so messy there was nowhere to step.
The floor was covered with bloody syringes, crumpled toilet paper, and scattered condoms.
A woman wearing revealing leopard-print lingerie was huddled on the worn-out sofa.
She was still clutching a half-used syringe, the needle glinting coldly in the light.
The woman wore heavy smoky makeup, with eyeshadow smeared all over her face, making her look like a vengeful ghost.
"Who the fuck are you?!"
Popclaw screamed, startled by the sudden loud noise, and the syringe in her hand dropped onto the carpet.
She stood up abruptly, but because the drug's effect hadn't fully worn off, she stumbled and almost fell.
Lynn didn't waste any words; he stepped over the trash and takeout boxes on the floor and walked straight toward her.
"Vought is here to check the water meter, and collect some interest while we're at it."
Lynn's tone was as flat as if he were asking for the price of cabbage at a farmer's market.
Popclaw sensed the danger.
Her eyes became unnaturally bloodshot, and a beast-like growl emanated from her throat.
With two "shh" sounds.
Two bone-white claws with barbs shot out directly from the skin of her wrists.
Fresh blood dripped down the pale bone spurs, leaving red streaks on her leopard-print lingerie.
"Get out! Or I'll rip your guts out and use them as jump ropes!"
Like a crazed leopardess, she brandished her two bone claws and lunged directly at Lynn's face.
The blood-stained blades tore through the air with a shrill whistle.
Lynn didn't even blink.
He didn't dodge, just nonchalantly raised his right hand.
The bone claws pierced the skin of his palm, but emitted a dull metallic clanging sound.
It didn't even leave a white mark, as if it had struck a solid titanium alloy plate.
Popclaw froze, her pupils dilating instantly, her face full of disbelief.
Before she could recover.
Lynn extended his index and middle fingers, casually clamping down on the still-trembling bone spur.
"Does this thing provide calcium?"
A mocking curve tugged at the corner of Lynn's mouth.
He snapped his two fingers to the side with apparent ease.
"Snap!"
The sound of the bone breaking was crisp and pleasant.
Popclaw's pride-and-joy claws were snapped in two by Lynn as if they were fragile, dry twigs.
"Ah—my hand!"
She clutched her broken wrist and fell to the floor, rolling around in pain.
Her tears washed away the cheap foundation on her face, leaving streaks of black sludge.
She curled her body into a ball, her screams sharp enough to pierce eardrums.
Butcher walked in, chewing on his cigar, and kicked over the coffee table that was blocking his way.
He skillfully slipped into the bedroom and flipped over the moldy, broken mattress.
"Boss, found it!"
Butcher dragged out a heavy black briefcase, pulled out his sidearm, and smashed the lock with the butt of the gun.
The case popped open.
The eerie blue glow illuminated Hughie's pale face.
Dozens of neatly arranged vials of glowing liquid lay quietly in the shock-absorbing foam.
Popclaw, clutching her broken hand, saw the case being revealed and was so scared she choked back her screams.
She scrambled to Lynn's feet, kowtowing regardless of her dignity.
"Don't kill me... I'll tell you everything!"
She looked up, snot bubbling from her nose, her makeup a hideous mess.
"It was Vought... Vought executives made me do it!"
She tugged at Lynn's suit trousers, her whole body shaking like a short-circuiting motor.
"They distribute Compound V like candy to babies with potential. I'm just a low-level dealer responsible for running errands and distributing the goods, making a little profit..."
She shrank back as she spoke, her back hitting the broken TV stand.
"I just needed money to buy drugs, I couldn't control myself... Please, just let me go!"
Popclaw cried until she was gasping for air, her fingernails scratching white marks into the wooden floor.
Lynn looked down at the pathetic, washed-up hero, his eyes devoid of any warmth.
He pulled a heavy Glock pistol from his waist.
The barrel was still slightly warm from the friction earlier.
But the gun wasn't aimed at the woman on the floor.
Lynn turned and pressed the gun handle into Hughie's hand.
Hughie was stunned, fumbling to catch the gun, almost dropping it on the floor.
"Cross this line, and you'll truly have joined my game."
Lynn patted Hughie's stiff shoulder and pointed to the box of blue compound.
"Look closely. A-Train, who killed Robin, became a monster precisely because he was hooked on this stuff."
Lynn leaned close to Hughie's ear and lowered his voice.
"And she is one of the sources that creates those monsters."
Hughie felt the gun in his hand was heavier than an anvil.
His palms were full of sticky cold sweat, and the gun grip kept slipping between his fingers.
His feet were nailed to the carpet as if filled with lead, and his brain was buzzing.
The image of Robin being hit and turned into a bloody mist that day flashed crazily before his eyes like a rewind.
The glaring red and white mixture on the ground was impossible to shake off.
His ears were filled with Popclaw's shrill crying and pleading.
"No... you can't kill me, I don't want to die... I don't want to die!"
Popclaw knelt on the floor, waving her hands frantically, her pupils unfocused.
Hughie gasped for air, his chest heaving violently.
He looked at the cold gun body in his hand, then raised his head, his gaze landing on the box of eerie blue, sinful liquid.
The sound of his heartbeat drummed in his eardrums, like a drum beating.
That cowardly electronics store clerk was completely dead at this moment.
He clenched his back teeth, the muscles in his cheeks pulled tight.
His eyes were bloodshot, as if they were about to drip blood.
Hughie gripped the gun handle with both hands and raised it level.
The muzzle was aimed steadily at the center of Popclaw's forehead.
"Go ask for your money in hell."
Hughie rasped, and suddenly pulled the trigger.
"Bang!"
A burst of orange fire erupted from the muzzle.
The massive gunshot exploded in the narrow apartment, making the window glass buzz.
The bullet blew off half of Popclaw's skull.
The red and white gore splattered the cheap wallpaper behind her like an abstract painting.
The body that had been trembling instantly stiffened and fell flat onto the carpet.
It stopped moving forever.
Hughie's arms were numb from the recoil, and the barrel was still drifting with faint wisps of gunpowder smoke.
He was gasping for breath like a dehydrated fish.
The panic in his eyes faded away completely, replaced by a morbid fanaticism and relief.
"Well done, virgin."
Butcher exhaled a smoke ring, his mouth stretching to his ears, revealing a set of yellow teeth.
He walked over and patted Hughie on the back, almost knocking him off balance.
Lynn picked up the briefcase from the floor and snapped the lid shut.
He looked at the mess on the floor, his tone as flat as if he were discussing tomorrow's breakfast.
"Frenchie, go back and prepare multiple proxy servers, and max out the firewalls."
Lynn turned around and stepped over the threshold.
"Tomorrow morning, we're going to show the netizens of America something good."
Chapter 19: Compound V Exposed, The Internet Begins to Speculate
Hughie's wrist was still throbbing faintly.
Wisps of faint white smoke drifted from the barrel of the Glock, and the smell of gunpowder made him blink repeatedly.
Popclaw lay on the carpet, half her skull gone.
Red and white gore was smeared across the wallpaper behind her, dripping down along the floral pattern.
Hughie gasped for breath, his heart hammering in his chest as if it would break his ribs.
He looked at his hands, splattered with a few drops of blood, and retreated two steps, his back hitting the doorframe.
"Nice work, rookie."
Butcher exhaled a blue-tinged smoke ring and slapped Hughie on the back.
Hughie stumbled, didn't say a word, and just stared fixedly at the corpse on the floor.
The fragile shell of cowardice in his eyes had been completely shattered.
Lynn picked up the black briefcase filled with Compound Vand turned toward the hallway.
His leather shoes crunched against the shattered glass covering the floor.
"Frenchie." Lynn tilted his head, his voice echoing in the dim hallway.
"Time to work."
3:00 AM, Brooklyn basement.
The sound of typing was as dense as a hailstone storm, clattering against the moldy concrete walls.
Frenchie's face was almost pressed against the yellowing monitor.
The ghostly blue light hit his oily, sweaty face, illuminating every single stubble of his beard.
"Don't rush me... definitely don't rush me."
Frenchie was chewing a piece of gum, his teeth clicking together with a crunching sound.
His hands moved across the keyboard in a blur, the veins in his wrists pulsing rhythmically.
"Those capitalists at Vought Corporation employ a whole building full of hackers; I have to lead them on a wild goose chase."
He typed a string of commands, throwing the data stream toward a bot server in Russia.
Then he routed it to Iceland, and finally created an infinite loop on a node on an obscure Pacific island.
Hughie sat on a folding chair, still desperately scrubbing the smell of gunpowder off his hands with a wet wipe.
That smell seemed to have seeped into his pores; no matter how he scrubbed, he couldn't get rid of it.
"Are you sure... they won't be able to trace our location like this?" Hughie stuttered, his eyelid twitching.
"Trace my ass."
Frenchie didn't even turn his head, staring at the green code scrolling across the screen.
"By the time they struggle through these seven firewalls, they'll only find an adult shop in Bangkok."
Lynn leaned against the corner, toying with his metal lighter.
The flint wheel sparked a flame, then extinguished it, making a crisp clicking sound.
"Is the footage edited?" Lynn asked.
"It's all here, boss."
Frenchie clicked on a playback window in the center of the screen.
The footage was shaky; it was recorded before Hughiefired the shot.
Popclaw's face, her makeup ruined, was thrust right in front of the lens, her features twisted with crying.
"It was Vought Corporation's higher-ups who made me do this..."
The voice in the video was distorted with despair.
"They handed out Compound V to those babies like candy... I was just a runner distributing the stuff..."
Next to the playback window, high-definition photos of that blue briefcase were arranged neatly.
There were also several Swiss bank transfer statements found under Popclaw's bed.
The source of every single one of those shady transactions pointed to a shell company owned by Vought Corporation.
It was irrefutable evidence.
Lynn snapped the lighter shut.
The faint flame vanished completely in the basement.
"Send it out."
Lynn's voice was as cold and hard as an iron plate.
"Let the American public see what those gods they worship every day are actually made of."
Frenchie grinned, revealing two rows of yellow teeth.
He raised his right hand high and slammed his thumb onto the Enter key like he was driving a nail.
"There you go, time to serve breakfast to these cape-wearing freaks."
The progress bar instantly hit 100%.
Thousands of encrypted emails, along with pinned posts on dozens of dark web forums, spread simultaneously like a virus.
4:30 AM, New York.
The Daily Bugle building was ablaze with lights.
The night shift news editor was letting out a long yawn as he picked up a cup of cold black coffee.
A red exclamation mark suddenly popped up in the bottom right corner of the computer screen.
An anonymous email forced its way into the editor-in-chief's inbox.
The subject line was a glaring red: "God Is Not in a Test Tube — Exposing the Chemical Assembly Line of Vought Superheroes."
The editor rubbed his tired eyes and casually clicked on the video attachment.
The video had only been playing for ten seconds.
"Pfft—!"
He spat the coffee in his mouth all over the dusty keyboard.
The editor jumped up violently, falling to the floor with his chair, and scrambled toward the editor-in-chief's office.
"Boss! Wake up! Something huge has happened!"
His hands were trembling as he pounded on the door, his voice loud enough for the entire floor to hear.
"The sky is falling!"
Before the sun had even risen, a tsunami had already swept through the online world.
Twitter, YouTube, Facebook—all the top trending topics were replaced within an hour.
"#SuperheroesAreManMadeMonsters#, #VoughtsCompoundVLie#, #ChemicalWasteGetOffEarth#."
The PR Department at Vought Corporation scrambled to work overtime through the night.
Hundreds of programmers desperately deleted posts and banned accounts, attempting to cut off the source using hacking methods.
But they couldn't delete them fast enough.
For every account they banned, netizens created ten more to keep posting.
Those fans who were waving support signs and screaming for Superheroes on the streets just yesterday were stunned as they watched Popclaw's confession video.
The collapse of their faith brought with it uncontrollable rage.
"They aren't chosen by God at all?"
"Just a bunch of mutated scum injected with chemicals since childhood?"
"Refund my money! Give me back the money I spent on merchandise!"
8:00 AM.
7th Avenue, Manhattan, outside Vought International Tower.
The sound of sirens merged into a continuous wail, and the flashing red and blue police lights were dizzying.
Hundreds of riot police, holding transparent shields, held the line against the metal barricades.
Outside the building, a crowd of at least ten thousand protesters was packed together.
The situation was completely out of control.
Rotten tomatoes, smelly eggs, and even mud-caked brick fragments.
They were hurled like they were free of charge at the tempered glass doors on the first floor of Vought Corporation headquarters.
Yellow and white egg yolk dripped down the glass, and the stench could be smelled from two blocks away.
Some people held signs made from cardboard boxes.
On them, written in glaring red paint, were the words: "Monsters in Test Tubes Get Out of America."
Top floor, CEO's office.
The air in the room was as stifling as a steamer.
Madelyn slumped in her leather swivel chair, her whole body looking as if she had been fished out of water.
She stared fixedly at the massive stock market monitor across from her desk.
The electronic bell for the Wall Street 9:00 AM opening had already rung.
The red curve representing Vought Corporation's stock price.
It didn't even show a fluctuation of struggle; like a kite with a broken string, it plummeted straight down.
A straight-line drop.
The yellow light of the circuit breaker warning flashed frantically on the edge of the screen.
"Forty percent..."
Madelyn's lips trembled, and even her teeth were chattering.
Her blonde hair, which had originally been combed meticulously, now had several strands falling loose, sticking damply to her forehead.
Cold sweat, not wiped clean, was trapped in the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
She felt as if someone had stuffed a piece of raw iron into her chest, so heavy she couldn't even draw a breath.
Her heart was beating so fast it was like hitting a broken drum.
Her vision began to darken, and the red curve on the screen turned into double images.
"Medicine... my medicine..."
Madelyn squeezed out a hoarse, wheezing sound from her throat.
Her hands groped wildly across the desk, knocking over an expensive crystal pen holder, and pens rolled all over the floor.
Her fingers touched her left chest, clutching tightly at the fabric of her silk blouse.
Her nails were so forceful they tore a hole in the fabric, scratching several red marks onto her collarbone.
Her body tilted to the side, half of her hanging over the chair's armrest, her mouth wide open as she gasped desperately for air.
When Ashley pushed the door open and rushed in, she was holding two phones that were ringing simultaneously.
Seeing Madelyn in this miserable state, she was so startled that the phones dropped straight onto the carpet.
"Ms. Stillwell! What's wrong!"
Ashley rushed over, fumbling in a panic to pull that white medicine bottle from the drawer.
Madelyn slapped away the water glass Ashley handed her, spilling water across half the desk.
She swallowed two pills dry and began to cough violently.
She finally managed to catch her breath.
Madelyn's bloodshot eyes stared fixedly at Ashley, her gaze like a mother wolf pushed into a corner.
"Where is Lynn..."
Her fingers sank deep into the flesh of Ashley's arm, her nails almost drawing blood.
"Go find Lynn for me!"
Chapter 20: Madelyn's Anxiety, Who Exactly Is the Mysterious Killer?
Madelyn's fingers finally lost their strength, releasing Ashley's arm.
Ashley clutched the skin where several bloody marks had been pinched, hissing in pain as she gasped, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Bang."
Madelyn collapsed back into her large leather executive chair like a pile of mud.
The chair's hydraulic piston let out a muffled, overwhelmed groan.
The sounds of protest from 7th Avenue below filtered in through dozens of floors of reinforced glass.
It had turned into a continuous, hair-raising buzzing sound.
Mixed with the whistling of helicopter rotors circling overhead.
Madelyn's hands shook as she frantically shoved the files on her desk aside.
Her fingertips slammed hard against the intercom button on the black desk phone, the plastic cap nearly caving in under her pressure.
"Lynn!"
Her voice cracked, accompanied by a hoarse, wheezing breath.
"Have Lynn... get to my office immediately! Don't you dare delay even a second!"
The echo from the loudspeaker still drifted through the hallway.
Less than two minutes later.
With a "click," the mahogany double doors were pushed open from the outside.
Lynn strode in.
His perpetually unchanging cheap suit was on, his tie deliberately pulled half an inch crooked.
A few strands of hair hung over his forehead, and his breathing sounded somewhat rapid.
His whole face was written with that specific anxiety unique to wage slaves, the look of someone who had broken their heart worrying for their master.
"Boss, I'm here. The PR Department is working on suppressing the trending topics across the board."
Lynn closed the door behind him, shutting out the chaos outside.
He glanced at Ashley huddled in the corner and walked straight to the desk.
As soon as Madelyn heard Lynn's voice, it was like a drowning person grabbing onto a piece of driftwood.
She sprang up from her chair, her upper body leaning over the cluttered desk.
Both hands gripped Lynn's suit cuffs tightly.
"Suppress the trending topics? Can you even suppress them!"
Madelyn's eye makeup was completely ruined, eyeliner smearing down from the corners of her eyes onto her cheekbones.
Her nails dug through the fabric into Lynn's forearm, her palms covered in cold, sticky sweat.
"Two hundred million netizens across America are watching that video! Vought's stock has already triggered circuit breakers twice!"
Lynn leaned over slightly, brow furrowed, putting on a show of deferential attentiveness.
He didn't pull away from those ice-cold hands.
His Kryptonian physique meant he felt no pain at all; instead, he could clearly hear the heart in Madelyn's chest beating frantically.
Like a broken engine about to shake itself apart.
"Boss, sit down and catch your breath first."
Lynn lowered his voice, his tone carrying a reassuring steadiness.
"No matter how chaotic it is outside, this building hasn't collapsed yet."
"It's about to!"
Madelyn let go, irritably rubbing her temples as she paced back and forth behind the desk.
Her high heels stepped unevenly on the carpet.
"Three days! Only three days!"
She spun around suddenly, neurotically counting on her fingers.
"A-Train went missing on a mission, nowhere to be found. That idiot The Deep jumped into the sea and lost contact."
She bit her lower lip, leaving a row of bloody tooth marks.
"Now, even Translucent's skin has been packed up and mailed to my desk!"
The more Madelyn spoke, the more her voice trembled.
She walked back to the desk, braced her hands on the surface, and stared intensely into Lynn's eyes.
"That video of Compound V... that washed-up bitch, Popclaw, actually dared to betray me."
A glimmer of terror flashed in her eyes.
"Lynn, your brain works fast, analyze this for me. Who the hell is doing this?"
Lynn sneered inwardly.
The person who did this was standing right in front of her, being begged like a savior.
The expression on his face didn't change; he remained in that guise of trepidation and forced composure.
Lynn swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"Boss, we have to prepare for the worst."
He deliberately lowered his voice, as if discussing some state secret.
"Could it be those people in the military?"
Lynn threw out a smoke bomb, his eyes darting toward the floor-to-ceiling window.
"They've always wanted to draft super-powered individuals into the military, but we haven't agreed. Could they have sent a secret special forces unit to take us out one by one?"
"The military?"
Madelyn paused, then irritably waved her hand.
"Those stubborn old fools on a fixed salary? How would they have the means to skin Translucent alive!"
"Then, enemy spies?" Lynn continued to play along.
"Or perhaps a mutant terrorist organization with a deep grudge against superheroes?"
He placed his hands on the edge of the desk, his tone becoming urgent.
"Boss, the fact that they could get their hands on the Compound V invoices means the company's internal network is as leaky as a sieve. This is definitely not something one person could do alone."
Upon hearing this, Madelyn's face turned even paler.
Her legs went weak, and she collapsed into her chair, staring blankly at the crystal pen holder overturned on the floor.
"An organization... a terrorist organization hiding in the shadows."
She muttered to herself, her chest heaving violently.
"They have mastered our core secrets and possess the force to kill members of The Seven."
Madelyn looked up, her eyes filled with despair.
"So who's next? Maeve? Black Noir? Or... are they coming for me?"
Lynn saw that the timing was right.
He turned and walked to the mahogany water cooler in the corner, picking up a clean glass.
The "splash" of water echoed in the quiet office.
The water hit the bottom of the glass.
Lynn carried the glass of warm water back to the desk and placed it gently beside Madelyn.
The water surface rippled slightly in the glass, reflecting the incandescent light overhead.
"Have some water, Boss."
Lynn's voice was very soft, carrying a perfectly calibrated sense of seduction.
He leaned over slightly, hands braced on the desk, looking at Madelyn with gentle eyes.
"Don't be afraid."
A faint arc pulled at the corners of his mouth.
"Perhaps this terrifying enemy is lurking right beside us."
Lynn pointed to the plastic name tag on his chest that identified him as an assistant manager.
"But no matter what happens, the PR Department will definitely stand in front of you to take the bullets."
Madelyn's eyes welled up with emotion at these words.
At such a critical moment when everyone was turning against her and executives were running away, this young man promoted from the bottom was actually so loyal.
She reached out with a trembling hand, just about to take the glass.
Suddenly.
The light in the office changed.
The harsh sunlight that had been streaming through the floor-to-ceiling window was instantly replaced by a thick, crimson glow.
It was as if a scarlet curtain had been drawn shut.
The temperature in the air skyrocketed in just a few seconds, and the surface of the leather sofa began to emit a burnt smell.
Lynn's hand holding the water glass paused.
He didn't turn around.
His Kryptonian intuition made him feel a terrifying fluctuation of heat rays coming from behind him.
Madelyn's hand froze in mid-air.
She looked past Lynn's shoulder at the massive floor-to-ceiling window.
Her pupils instantly shrank to pinpoints, her mouth slightly agape, and she was so terrified that she stopped breathing.
Outside the window.
A hundred meters above 7th Avenue.
There was no sound of wind, no roar of helicopters.
Homelander was just hovering outside the glass without any warning.
That Stars and Stripes cape was whipping violently in the gale over Manhattan.
His hands were clenched into tight fists, his knuckles white, his nails almost digging into the flesh of his palms.
That face, originally handsome and flawless, was now twisted like a demon crawling out of hell.
Two thick beams of crimson laser, almost dripping with blood, were brewing wildly in his eyes.
The heatwave penetrated through the heavy reinforced glass.
"Crack... crack, crack."
The expensive reinforced glass made cracking sounds as it failed to withstand the high heat, and fine cracks spread rapidly like a spiderweb.
Homelander didn't even look at Madelyn.
His blood-red eyes, filled with violent murderous intent, were nailed firmly onto the back of Lynn's head.
Even through the glass, the palpable oppression was enough to cause a normal person's heart to stop.
Lynn turned around.
He was still holding the glass of warm water, his suit crisp, with not a hint of panic on his face.
Just like that, separated by a pane of glass that could shatter at any moment, he calmly locked eyes with Homelander outside.
There was less than a meter of distance between the two.
On one side was a god in a rage.
On the other side was a smiling corporate PR drone.
Homelander's chest heaved like a bellows pulled to its limit.
The muscles in his jaw were pulled tight, his teeth grinding audibly.
A low, hoarse voice, filled with endless murderous intent and wariness, pierced through the cracked glass.
It smashed directly into the air of the office.
"Who... the hell are you?"