"Mr. Cyfer, Cindy broke down the door. The Viking and the guards have the intruders under control. 0165… 0165 appears to be dead?"
"Wait! Why is everything moving? Cindy! Stop what you're—… That's not Cindy?"
"No, no, no! What's happening?! Why are we rising?! What's going on?!"
"Oh God, 0165 isn't dead—he's broken free!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please forgive me! Let me go… No, no, don't drop us! Aaah—! Boom—!"
At that moment, on the 87th floor of the Vought International building, the air inside the CEO's private office felt frozen.
Stan Edgar, the CEO of Vought International, and Cyfer across from him listened to the final, protracted noise from the phone. The entire office plunged into dead silence.
After the call fully disconnected, Stan—his posture composed, a faint trace of weariness between his brows—slowly removed his glasses and methodically wiped the lenses.
This impeccably elegant series of movements caught Cyfer's eye, yet inexplicably sent a chill down his spine. The irritation in his heart grew a little stronger.
"Do you remember what you told me before?"
Stan's voice was low but carried an undeniable weight.
Cyfer pressed his lips together and did not answer. His previous posture—sitting upright with a straight back—suddenly relaxed. He sank into the chair, deliberately feigning indifference.
Seeing him evade the question, Stan did not press further. Instead, folding the cloth, he continued:
"You promised me that we could completely eliminate Compound V. You said you would develop stronger, more stable, more functional superpower agents. You said you would unlock the logic of the superpower formula to achieve independent configuration of abilities."
"You told us you wanted to create a true god—not a ridiculous, dangerous boy like Homelander."
With that, Stan finally stopped concealing his displeasure and let it fall upon Cyfer.
He put his glasses back on, his fingertips still gently stroking the frame, but his tone was cold as ice:
"In one year, how much money have we poured into your project? How many leading researchers were reassigned? Even the most valuable metahuman specimens in the database were opened to you. Those resources would have been enough to create another Homelander. And what was the result? Your research has barely advanced."
After a half-second pause, Stan's gaze sharpened, his words intensifying:
"You even allowed the subject to break containment twice."
Settling the impeccably clean glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, Stan leaned forward slightly. His cold, unyielding gaze locked onto Cyfer, his tone half a reminder, half a naked threat:
"Now, you had better give me an explanation that satisfies me."
Cyfer looked at Stan with indifference. They stared at each other for a long moment before he finally spoke slowly.
"After I uncovered the mechanism behind 0165's superpowers six months ago, I halted most of the experiments. But he also learned how to activate his abilities—and even how to kill himself."
"He was strictly contained. He couldn't even move. How could he kill himself?" Stan frowned, his voice full of doubt.
This question finally ignited the resentment Cyfer had been holding back. He slammed his fist on the desk and stood up, roaring:
"A month ago, he bit off his own tongue—blocked his trachea and suffocated himself! Just to activate that goddamn ability!"
As the roar faded, the air in the office froze solid. Even breathing seemed to stop. But before Cyfer's anger subsided, he pointed at the desk, his voice trembling but charged with impact:
"Yesterday, he did it for the third time this month—the third!!"
Now, Stan could no longer blame Cyfer. He couldn't even fathom such a method of suicide—so agonizing it reached the marrow—let alone imagine anyone daring to do it three times in a row. A man who could be so ruthless to himself would be even more ruthless to his enemies.
In that instant, Stan and Cyfer finally reached a shared understanding: what they had created with their own hands was not a test subject, but a monster—one utterly merciless to himself and equally merciless to his enemies.
And now, that enemy was about to escape.
With that thought, Stan could no longer remain seated. He suddenly stood, walked quickly to the floor-to-ceiling window in the office, pulled out his personal cell phone, and rapidly dialed a number.
As soon as the call connected, he cut straight to the point, his tone brooking no argument:
"Has Homelander arrived?"
A response came from the other end. Stan merely replied lightly, "Good. I understand."
He hung up, put the phone back in his pocket, and gazed out the window, his eyes heavy. His gaze settled on a nearby sonic boom cloud that had yet to dissipate—the trail Homelander had left as he passed by.
He stood silently before the window, his eyes fathomless. No one could guess what was going through his mind at that moment.
Was it concern? Or… fear?
——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
At that moment, Homelander, racing at full speed toward the Elmira Adult Rehabilitation Center, was burning with rage.
For the past several days, he had been eagerly anticipating using this show to reclaim his ratings. But now, he had been pulled away from the spotlight at Stan's command, forced to clean up Vought's mess. His fury was about to explode.
Yet he was terrified of Stan. No matter how angry he was, he dared not lash out at him. So he channeled all his rage into the bastard who had dared to escape.
Wasn't it good enough being locked in a lab? You had to break out and die?
Fine! I'll give you what you want!
But when he arrived at the Elmira Adult Rehabilitation Center, all that remained was a massive crater. The ground was strewn with dark red "ketchup," sticky and clinging to the gravel—an eyesore.
The moment he landed, as he was wondering where Elmira had gone, he felt a tremor behind him. Then, a massive shadow suddenly bore down on him.
He instinctively turned his head and saw Locke, manifested as Magneto, holding an iron sphere of staggering size—a metallic meteor.
Now he knew where Elmira had gone. The bastard in front of him had compressed all the metal from Elmira into a ball, studded with steel bars and iron plates like gruesome bone spurs.
"Surprise, motherfucker!"
Homelander's vision went dark. The colossal impact drove him into the ground.
Locke repeatedly slammed him with Elmira, wielding it like a piece of trash. Each impact sent shards of bone-shattering pain through him. Never before had he been so humiliated—like a beetle crushed underfoot, pounded deep into the earth.
The vibrations spread through his body. He felt the ground shake violently, gravel raining down. The tremors continued for a long time, until he finally lost consciousness.
Later, he would learn that everyone in the area had mistaken it for an unannounced earthquake—one that lasted a full minute.
Only when suffocation gripped his throat did Homelander suddenly awaken.
In the darkness, acting almost on instinct, he activated his heat vision. Red beams sliced through the iron ball and the earth pressing down on him, and he shot high into the sky, his body caked with mud and blood.
His superhuman vision swept across the wilderness, over distant buildings and roads. Locke was long gone, leaving no trace of his presence.
Homelander stared at the ruins of Elmira below—a pile of twisted metal gleaming coldly in the sun. As he descended, he saw that they had been deliberately arranged into a line, like a resounding slap to the face:
"See you soon."
Fear rose first, followed by humiliation that gnawed at his bones. The two emotions intertwined, seizing hold of a heart that could tolerate the slightest disturbance.
He hovered high in the sky, his muscles trembling, unable to maintain a shred of composure, like a child who had been wronged.
His heat vision lashed out aimlessly, scorching everything around him. Then, tearing at his throat, he roared with all his might—a scream laced with fury and a faint trace of panic he would never admit to:
"FUCK!!!"
————————————————————————————————
When Stan received the news, his already suspended heart finally sank into despair.
He clenched the phone, unconsciously rubbing the cold casing with his fingertips. His Adam's apple bobbed. Then, he abruptly turned and hurled the phone at Cyfer.
Cyfer did not dodge. He didn't even flinch. The phone struck his shoulder, but he seemed to feel no pain, like a cold machine, slowly turning his head to look at the enraged Stan.
Stan felt a suffocating panic rise in his chest. Humiliation and desperation intertwined, nearly spiraling out of control. He gritted his teeth, his voice a suppressed roar:
"From today on, none of us will get a single good night's sleep... Not. One. Of. Us!"