The memory slammed into him fast—
came back like it was yesterday.
The room around him blurred out.
Years ago, Richard had handed him a sealed packet. No greeting. No emotion. Just a heavy envelope shoved across the desk.
"Need-to-know," Richard said. His tone flat. "You're Rank 1. So now we own you. If you do anything dumb, our deal is over."
A small smirk.
"We should share some of the truth with you. So don't fuck things up, Mentis."
Inside were surveillance reports, lab results, internal directives. Real ones. The kind that made his jaw clench the same way it did now.
HeroCorp didn't manage heroes. They owned them.
After leaving the restricted briefing area, he went deeper—lower levels.
Restricted access.
Mentis had authorization. Rank 1 meant access to anywhere, even if they pretended otherwise. He remembered the weight of the badge in his palm. The scanner hesitated before unlocking, as if the door itself second-guessed letting him in.
Inside:
A private medical chamber. Too white. Too quiet.
A technician adjusted a harness around a young hero-in-training, the kid's face pale and stiff.
"Relax. It's just a reflex test," the tech lied with a fake smile.
Another tech hunched over a monitor, whispering:
"If this compound hits right, we can bump their response time. Makes the next fight look cleaner on camera."
On a side table—papers.
Stacks.
A thick black folder clamped shut with metal teeth.
The kind of file someone shouldn't leave lying around.
Mentis never forgot the title stamped across the top:
PERFORMANCE AUGMENTATION — INTERNAL USE ONLY.
Inside: Charts. Dosage notes. Side effects scribbled out or drowned in white-out.
Hero names replaced with codes. One page stained with a dried streak of blood across the corner.
He didn't take it. He wasn't supposed to. But he read enough.
They weren't trying to "improve" heroes.
They were manufacturing them.
He remembered closing the folder slowly, fingers cold.
After leaving the lab, he walked down another corridor—sterile walls, bright white lights humming overhead. Holding the files Richard gave him tucked under one arm, he moved alone.
Then he heard voices before the executives turned the corner.
Two suits—polished shoes, too confident—whispering fast.
He stepped into a shadowed alcove, silent.
"We need the media to push this next one hard," one muttered, tapping a tablet showing a staged fight. A B-rank swinging slow, sloppy punches at a "villain" who clearly didn't want to be there.
"The public eats that shit up. Danger sells."
The second man snorted. "Everything sells. Networks, ads, merch—preorders are insane. We could drop a hero plushie farting lasers and it'd chart."
Mentis' grip tightened around the files.
Everything is a fucking lie… This world is beyond fixing.
"Scripts done?"
"Yeah. Writers finished last night. Things are too calm. Need tension. A scare. Keep the audience hungry."
Their laughter echoed as they stepped into the elevator.
Only when the doors slid shut did Mentis step out of the shadows.
((Thanks for reading this chapter, if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment, I could use suggestions, feedback or ideas. If you want to support me. Then I accept red stones or gifts etc… it keeps me motivated, plus with enough support your OC could appear in future arcs just dm their info))