The morning after Madelyn Stillwell's death, the air in the Vought Tower lobby felt heavy, thick with the unsaid.
Adam stood by the espresso machine in the executive suite kitchen on Day 107, watching the dark liquid trickle into a porcelain cup. Vought's corporate damage control had worked through the night with frantic, sweat-slicked precision. The official press release claimed a tragic, sudden hemorrhagic stroke at her desk. To cement the narrative, a carefully leaked snippet of security footage showing Adam "discovering" her body had been polished and fed to the morning news cycles by six AM. The media read it exactly as intended: a young, loyal supe frozen in quiet, devastated grief. Vought stock had plummeted four percent at the opening bell, but by mid-morning, it had already crawled back three.
Adam picked up his cup and scrolled through the real-time analytics on his tablet. He sat back on the leather sofa, completely undisturbed when Stillwell's former assistant brought him a fresh plate of fruit without even being asked. Power, he noted, shifted instantly in a vacuum.
He closed the news feeds and ran the internal assessment.
Path One is accelerated, but Homelander is merely unmoored. He isn't destabilized enough to trigger the international domino effect required for Path Two.
" Correct. The behavioral curve is perfectly on schedule, but the political landscape is moving too slowly. At this pace, the global baseline will adapt before total divergence is achieved. "
The world is too resilient, Adam thought. We need to stop cutting the branches and strike the roots.
" The standard 180 day cycle leaves the timeline open for a secondary catalyst. Recommend immediate escalation. "
Adam set his coffee down, the porcelain clicking against the glass tabletop. He stood up, adjusted his dark coat, and headed straight for the elevator.
Homelander's private penthouse occupied the fifty-ninth floor, a sweeping glass fortress that offered an uninterrupted view of lower Manhattan, the Atlantic, and the faint curve of the earth. He rarely used the bedroom. He preferred to sit in a massive leather wingback chair facing the floor-to-ceiling glass, his star-spangled cape draped over his lap like a security blanket.
Adam arrived at nine in the morning. He buzzed the entryway once.
The door slid open, and Homelander stood there in full uniform. He was always in uniform now. The moment his eyes landed on Adam, Great Sage registered a definitive surge in his dopamine baseline—the neural signature of absolute, childlike trust.
"Architect," Homelander said, his voice flat but welcoming.
"John. There's something you need to hear."
"Come in."
They sat by the glass. Adam didn't take the opposite couch; instead, he chose the exact 45-degree angle Sage had mapped out for confessional intimacy. It positioned him slightly off Homelander's dominant side—a posture the supe's instinct would interpret as entirely non-threatening. Adam rested his hands on his knees, perfectly mirroring the older man's posture.
"What is it?" Homelander asked, his bright blue eyes scanning Adam's face.
"I've been tracking the encrypted data Stillwell left behind," Adam began, his voice dropping to a low, reverent murmur. "About what she kept from you. The things she hid to keep you dependent on her approval."
Homelander's jaw tightened. "You think there was more than just the Edgar calls?"
"I know there was. There is a secret Vought has been guarding for eight years, John. And I wanted you to hear it from me before it leaks to a hostile press."
Adam subtly engaged his Convergence Hatsu, dialing the Influence Modulation to forty percent. He targeted the resonance for stunned recognition, letting a thin, invisible frequency of Nen settle into the space between them.
"You have a son," Adam said.
The artificial smile on Homelander's face vanished. The silence in the penthouse became suffocating.
"His name is Ryan," Adam continued softly, delivering each word like a precision strike. "He's eight years old. His mother is Rebecca Butcher. Vought brokered the conception in 2015 under a sealed parental-contribution protocol. They faked her disappearance, paid off her family, and tucked her away. Ryan is being raised on a heavily fortified Vought property in upstate New York. Stillwell knew. Stan Edgar knew. The entire board knew. They kept him from you because they classified an unmonitored Homelander child as an enterprise-level risk."
Homelander didn't blink. His breathing didn't even alter, but his knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white against the armrest. "Eight years."
"Eight years," Adam confirmed.
He let the silence do the heavy lifting. Sage's psychological readout was beautiful. Cortisol was spiking; dopamine was bottoming out. The invulnerable god was retreating, leaving nothing but a wounded, betrayed little boy sitting in a pristine uniform.
"Who else knew?" Homelander whispered.
"Edgar. The inner circle of the board. Madelyn." Adam paused, letting a beat pass before delivering the final twist of the knife. "And Billy Butcher."
Homelander's head snapped around, his eyes locking onto Adam. "Butcher?"
"Becca was his wife. He found out what Vought did, and he's been orchestrating an underground war against the company ever since. He knew about your bloodline before you did, John."
Homelander's eyes remained clear. Adam had specifically calibrated the modulation to suppress the immediate, blind rage register—he didn't want the penthouse melted by heat vision. He needed Homelander focused, cold, and profoundly aggrieved. The explosive rage had a scheduled destination, two days from now, in front of a global audience.
"Architect," Homelander said, his voice trembling with a terrifyingly quiet frequency. "Where is my boy?"
"The Greylock Property. Mount Hope, New York. My source pulled the tactical coordinates from a legacy archive. He's with his mother. The perimeter is guarded by two Vought Black-Ops teams. No civilians."
"Have you seen him?"
"Only a photograph in a secure file," Adam lied flawlessly. "He has your eyes, John."
Homelander closed his eyes. He sat completely motionless for three full minutes, processing a lifetime of systemic theft. When he finally opened them, a new smile emerged. It was a jagged, unstable thing, a mask run on pure muscle memory that no longer fit the contours of his face.
"Thank you, Architect."
"Vought will try to leverage him against you the moment they realize you know," Adam warned, standing up.
"They won't live long enough to try," Homelander murmured.
"The emergency board meeting is at two," Adam said, walking toward the door. "Stan Edgar is flying in from London. He's going to tell you the company has total confidence in your leadership while they quietly prepare a corporate successor to Stillwell. He won't mention Ryan. He will look you in the eye and lie to you."
"I know."
"What you do with that information is up to you."
Adam reached for the handle.
"Architect," Homelander called out. Adam stopped, turning back. "Why did you tell me this? What do you get out of it?"
Adam looked at him, letting his expression soften into something that looked entirely like profound, unvarnished sincerity. "Because Stillwell lied to you. And a brand only survives when the man at the center of it can trust the people holding the leash. Vought broke their contract with you a long time ago, John. They shouldn't be allowed to keep their hands on the steering wheel."
Homelander stared at him, a deep, resonant gratitude flickering in his gaze. "You're not a corporate man, Architect."
"No," Adam said. "I'm a family man."
Stan Edgar arrived at the boardroom at one-forty PM, carrying nothing but his standard, unshakable calm. He had been preparing for Stillwell's eventual collapse for years. He had not, however, prepared for the version of Homelander that walked through the double doors five minutes later.
The supe didn't take his seat. He walked slowly behind the chairs of the eleven directors, his boots sinking silently into the plush carpet, before stopping directly at the head of the table where Edgar sat. He placed both palms flat on the polished walnut.
"Stan."
"John," Edgar replied, his voice level, entirely unimpressed by the display. "I believe we have an agenda to discuss regarding Madelyn's successor."
"Where's Ryan?"
The temperature in the boardroom seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant.
Edgar's eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter—the subtle, involuntary tell of a master tactician who realized he had been playing the entirely wrong board. "John, this is a highly sensitive corporate matter. We will have this conversation privately in my office."
"We're having it here. Now. In front of the board," Homelander said, his voice rising, vibrating with an unsettling, manic energy. He looked up at the security camera in the upper corner of the room. "And in front of the internal archival feed. Let's get it all on the record, Stan."
"John, think logically about the security protocols—"
"Eight years," Homelander snarled, slamming his fist into the table, fracturing the thick walnut veneer. "My son has been alive for eight years, and you sat at this table, looked at my quarterly metrics, and never said a word."
Two of the directors instinctively slid their chairs back. Walter Crane, the oldest member of the board, simply closed his eyes and braced himself.
Edgar attempted to deploy his standard institutional authority, the calm, analytical voice designed to remind the supe of his corporate boundaries, but Homelander didn't give him the chance to finish the sentence. He turned on his heel and marched out of the room, leaving the directors stranded in a stunned, breathless silence.
He didn't go to his penthouse. He went straight down to the fortieth-floor press atrium, where Vought's media team kept a permanently live broadcast set for emergency announcements. He pushed past a startled producer, stepped behind the lectern, and hit the master live key himself.
He looked directly into the lens.
"My name is John," he said, his face a mask of raw, barely contained emotion. "And my son's name is Ryan. I have just learned that my child has been alive and actively hidden from me by the executive leadership of Vought International for eight consecutive years."
The broadcast hit every Vought-affiliated streaming platform instantly. Within ninety seconds, global wire services picked up the feed.
By six PM, Vought's stock was down a catastrophic thirty-one percent. By eight PM, three of the world's largest institutional investment funds demanded an immediate restructuring. By eleven PM, Stan Edgar's executive access keys were deactivated, and he was quietly escorted from the building.
On Day 112, the board capitulated entirely. In an emergency session framed to the public as a "unity transition," Homelander was officially named Chief Executive Officer of Vought International.
Adam stood at the back of the darkened boardroom, watching the directors nod in silent, terrified unison as Homelander took his place at the head of the table. As the new CEO walked past, he caught Adam's eye and gave a sharp, definitive nod.
Adam nodded back.
The piece is on the square.
" Path One and Path Three have successfully braided. Homelander has assumed total executive control, effectively dismantling the institutional guardrails that governed his behavior. Internal trust metrics register at 9.6 out of 10. Recommend deploying the secondary information operation immediately. "
Deploy, Adam thought. Let's give the international community something to look at.
The psyop began on Day 115.
Sage had been quietly building the digital architecture since their first month in the world. She mobilized a ghost network of sixty thousand highly sophisticated bot accounts spread across eight social platforms, each seeded with realistic personal histories, distinct IP routing, and organic engagement patterns. The hosting fees were seamlessly buried in a multi-million-dollar marketing slush fund that Stillwell had never personally audited.
The first phase was a simulated violence campaign. Sage generated localized deepfake footage of Homelander executing civilians in dark, shaky scenarios that perfectly aligned with the public's latent, suppressed fears. A bystander vaporized on a rooftop in Brooklyn; a local driver burned through his windshield on the Cross Bronx Expressway.
Sage purposefully calibrated the videos to be imperfect. They featured grainy phone-camera artifacting, erratic panning, and clipped, panicked audio—the exact kind of visceral flaws that made internet audiences inherently trust the footage.
The second phase was the international smear. On Chinese tech platforms, Sage's bots flooded the networks with translated clips of Homelander's first CEO press conference, heavily captioned with mocking labels: 小丑 (Clown) and 表演型领导 (Performance-type leader). Within forty-eight hours, the hashtag #小丑祖国人 was trending across the Eastern tech sector.
In Russia, the angle was entirely institutional. Seeded Telegram channels began circulating highly classified, authentic Vought documents regarding the historical horrors of Compound V testing on orphaned children, documents Adam had pulled from Stillwell's private server. State-adjacent media outlets eagerly swallowed the bait. By Day 121, RT aired a primetime documentary framing Homelander not as a hero, but as a "Western biological weapon masquerading as a corporate executive."
The strategy was flawless because the core data was entirely real; Adam had simply provided the global megaphone.
Homelander's international approval ratings evaporated, dropping thirty-one points in less than two weeks. On Day 125, the Russian Federation's Foreign Ministry issued a scathing, formal condemnation of Vought International, calling on the United Nations to launch an immediate investigation into the Western world's unsanctioned biological weapons program.
The White House panicked. The press secretary issued a terse, defensive three-sentence statement distancing the administration from Vought's private corporate leadership.
The State Department called Vought's general counsel within the hour. The general counsel, acting under direct orders from Adam, let the phone ring out.
Homelander's executive agenda launched on Day 128.
His first official decree as CEO was the creation of a Vought-funded, supe-exclusive military deployment task force. To the media, he pitched it as a global disaster response initiative; to the Pentagon, it was an unparalleled asset for force projection. In private, he told Adam that the Seven were finally going to be used for their true purpose: dominance.
When the Pentagon and the White House predictably stalled the authorization, terrified of a supe operating beyond military court-martial, Homelander brought his frustration to the rooftop at midnight.
"They're blocking the legislation, Architect," he hissed, pacing the edge of the helipad, his cape snapping violently in the wind. "They don't want us in the field. They want me on a stage selling movie tickets."
"Of course they do," Adam said, leaning calmly against the security rail. "The minute you step onto a legitimate battlefield, the entire calculus of global power shifts from a government managing risk to a single man with absolutely no checks on his power. They don't want you off the leash, John."
Homelander stopped pacing, his chest heaving. "Off the leash. Is that what they call it?"
"It's the exact phrase the Senate sub-committee used in their closed-door briefing on Tuesday," Adam lied smoothly. "I pulled the audio from an internal legislative draft."
Homelander's face twisted into an ugly, volatile scowl. He turned back toward the glowing city skyline. "Architect... tell me something. Why does Russia hate me so much? Why are they pushing the UN so hard on the Compound V leaks?"
Adam took a slow breath, letting the silence hang between them just long enough to draw the tension taut. He engaged the modulation at thirty percent, wrapping the space in an aura of solemn, absolute confidentiality.
"Because the Russians know what Vought did in 1984," Adam said quietly. "And they know what they have locked away in the Urals."
Homelander turned slowly. "What do they have?"
"Your father."
The wind seemed to die instantly on the roof.
Adam had spent a week meticulously designing this narrative framework with Sage. It was a beautiful, lethal lie built inside a perfectly authentic frame. Soldier Boy, Ben was real. He had been Vought's premier Cold War asset before vanishing under mysterious, unexplained circumstances in 1984. The true history was that he was merely a genetic donor for Homelander's embryonic creation. But Adam's forged narrative painted a far more tragic picture: that the Soviet Union had captured Soldier Boy in a covert wet-work operation, keeping him alive in a subterranean research facility for forty-two years to systematically drain his blood and harvest his cells for a rival super-soldier program.
To anchor the lie, Sage had spent weeks planting digital breadcrumbs, classified medical logs, redacted sample transfer receipts, and anonymous legacy leaks, across conspiracy forums and niche subreddits. Homelander had already encountered the rumors in his own social feeds without realizing they were engineered.
"His name was Ben," Adam said, stepping closer. "Soldier Boy. Stillwell had been quietly compiling a recovery file since 2015, keeping it hidden in a secure floor-safe in the office you now occupy. The Russians won't return him because he is the literal foundation of their entire classified defense architecture. I can have the physical file on your desk by morning."
Homelander looked down at his own hands, his voice barely a whisper. "My father. They have my father."
"They've been torturing him for forty-two years while Vought watched," Adam murmured.
"Bring me the file."
The forged documents were on the CEO's desk by six AM. Sage had aged the paper chemically and utilized authentic 1980s Vought letterheads with redacted signatures. Homelander read it twice, his eyes burning with a cold, terrifying clarity.
He called an emergency global press conference at noon. He wore no makeup, and his cape was pinned tightly to his chest. He ignored the teleprompter entirely.
"My people," he said, staring directly into the center of the camera lens. "Six weeks ago, I discovered Vought had stolen my son. Today, I am telling the world that the Russian Federation has been holding my father, Soldier Boy, in a clandestine research facility in the Ural Mountains since 1984."
The journalists in the atrium stopped typing. A deafening stillness gripped the room.
"They have been using his blood. They have been mutating his cells to build their own weapons," Homelander said, his voice dropping into a dark, unyielding register. "I am giving the Russian government exactly seventy-two hours to return my father to American soil. If he is not released, I will cross the border myself, and I will tear that country apart to bring him home."
He turned and walked off the stage before a single question could be screamed.
The global fallout was instantaneous. The Russian Foreign Ministry fired back within two hours, dismissing the claim as corporate disinformation and calling Homelander an unstable, rogue asset with weapons-grade capability.
The American response arrived eight hours later. The White House press secretary delivered the most severe administration address in Vought's history.
"The United States government does not recognize or endorse the unilateral statements made by the Chief Executive Officer of Vought International. Mr. John does not speak for this nation, nor is he authorized to conduct foreign policy. Any attempt by Vought personnel to breach foreign airspace will be treated as an illegal, unprovoked act of private aggression. The administration is prepared to utilize all necessary channels to enforce international law."
The Pentagon immediately upgraded the domestic NORAD readiness posture. The Joint Chiefs of Staff called an emergency closed briefing with Senate leadership. Across every major news network, the chyron read: VOUGHT CEO THREATENS WAR // WHITE HOUSE DISTANCES // GLOBAL MARKETS COLLAPSE.
Homelander watched the coverage from his dark penthouse, the television screen casting a cold blue glow across his face. Adam sat in the chair beside him, maintaining an absolute, heavy silence. He didn't use the modulation. He simply let the absolute isolation wash over the supe.
Homelander watched his favorite cable news hosts, men and women who had praised him for a decade, look into the camera and call him a reckless, unhinged corporate tyrant. He watched his own country completely abandon him in front of the world.
When he finally stood up, his face had settled into a completely new configuration. It wasn't the performed television smile, nor was it the volatile rage of a petulant child. It was the calm, hollow expression of a predator that had finally shed its humanity.
He walked to the structural glass window. "I'm going."
"The State Department will read your departure as an act of international war," Adam said evenly. "They will scramble interceptors. Russian air defenses will hot-track you the second you cross the border. They will try to stop you, John."
Homelander looked back over his shoulder, his eyes entirely dead. "Will they succeed?"
"No," Adam said.
"Then hold the fort, Architect."
"I will," Adam said, speaking the absolute truth for the first time in seventeen weeks.
Homelander launched himself through the window, the structural glass shattering outward as a massive sonic boom rattled the entire skyscraper. The white vapor trail streaked across the Atlantic, cutting a path toward the East.
" Path Two is active. The asset has cleared continental airspace. "
Keep the bots focused on the domestic panic, Adam thought. The fuse is lit.
Homelander breached Russian airspace at three AM Eastern time. He ignored the six interceptor jets scrambled to meet him, flying at an altitude their engines couldn't sustain.
He landed at the exact coordinates Adam had provided, a remote coordinate deep in the Urals that Adam remembered from his own historical archives, disguised as a leaked defense file.
The bunker was a poured-concrete structure hidden beneath the pine canopy. The wire perimeter fences had been neatly cut away. Inside, the lights were buzzing, and the air smelled heavily of industrial disinfectant. The lower cells were completely bare.
But Sage had left behind the perfect breadcrumbs. A rusted Vought asset-tracking clipboard from 1981 sat on a metal desk. An empty medical transport case lay discarded in the corner. And in the main office, a freshly printed photograph showed a lean, bearded man in a containment suit being wheeled down a concrete corridor, his face partially hidden by an oxygen mask. The physical build matched Soldier Boy exactly.
Homelander stared at the photograph for ninety seconds, his chest heaving as the tailored illusion locked into place. He crushed the desk with a single downward strike, turned, and flew straight toward Moscow.
He descended on the capital like a meteor.
He didn't strike the Kremlin directly; instead, he targeted the infrastructure of the state. He tore the front facade off the Federal Security Service (FSB) substation on Lubyanka Square in nineteen seconds, slaughtering the eight officers inside. He moved to the Foreign Ministry annex on Smolenskaya Square, obliterating the south wing and sending eleven floors of records into the courtyard below.
By the time he reached the Ministry of Defense complex on the Frunzenskaya Embankment, the Russian Air Force engaged. The main eastern tower of the ministry collapsed into a mountain of rubble, killing over nine hundred military and civilian personnel.
Three MiG-31 fighter jets ambushed him over the Krymsky Bridge, firing experimental R-37M missiles at extreme range. Homelander outflew the first two, but the third detonated within thirty meters, the concussive force blasting him through the steel suspension cables and into the freezing Moscow River.
He surfaced fifty meters downstream, his cape scorched to tatters, a thin line of crimson blood trickling from a fragment wound on his forearm. The Russian warheads were running on a highly classified, dense metallurgical alloy derived from the original Vought serum samples harvested decades prior, weapons specifically engineered to kill a god.
Enraged by the sensation of actual physical pain, Homelander erupted from the water. He tore the lead MiG completely in half mid-air with his bare hands, causing the remaining two pilots to eject in absolute terror.
For the next ninety minutes, Moscow became a slaughterhouse.
He breached the underground protective bunkers, burning through six meters of reinforced concrete with his heat vision. Independent global observers estimated the civilian and military casualties between twelve hundred and two thousand within the first hour.
In the ninetieth minute of the massacre, Homelander found what he was looking for.
Deep beneath a secure military intelligence facility on the Sadovoye Ring, he blasted through a reinforced blast door into a hidden sub-basement. There, sitting on a bare metal cot in a dimly lit cell, was a lean, heavily bearded man. His skin was pasty from decades of darkness, and the right side of his face bore the distinct, jagged serum-burn scar preserved in Vought's oldest archives.
The man looked up, his eyes narrowing against the dust. "Who the fuck are you?"
The voice was rough, older, and thinner, but it possessed the exact cadence of the patriotic radio broadcasts Vought had aired during the 1980s. It was Ben.
Homelander stepped into the cell, his breath catching in his throat. "My name is John. I came to bring you home."
The old soldier stood up, his joints popping loudly in the quiet room. He stared at Homelander's tattered American flag cape, then at the eyes that matched his own genetic sequence. He nodded once, his jaw setting. "Get me out of here."
Homelander grabbed him by the shoulder and launched upward, punching through four floors of solid concrete and steel, erupting into the smoky Moscow afternoon. He set the old man down in the middle of a deserted, ruined avenue.
Ben stood in the open air for the first time in forty-two years, looking up at the burning skyline of the city that had imprisoned him.
Then, his shoulders began to shake.
The trembling traveled down his arms to his right hand, which clamped into a tight, rigid fist. A sudden, terrifying green luminescence began to bleed through his skin. The shield emblem on his chest started to glow with an unstable, blinding intensity.
Homelander felt the atmospheric shift instantly. It wasn't fire, and it wasn't heat, it was a violent, catastrophic chemical frequency. The radioactive core inside Soldier Boy's chest, warped by decades of trauma and confinement, was reaching critical mass.
Sage flagged the energy spike one second before the discharge.
Run, Homelander's instinct screamed.
He punched into the sky at Mach 4, accelerating straight up into the stratosphere. The extreme heat of the rising blast caught the tattered edge of his cape, incinerating the fabric into ash, missing his boots by mere inches.
Below him, six entire city blocks of Moscow's Sadovoye Ring simply ceased to exist.
The buildings surrounding Ben dissolved into a vertical pillar of blinding nuclear light. The concussive pressure wave rippled outward at the speed of a tactical airburst, flattening the eastern half of the capital in a perfect, expanding circle of absolute destruction.
From twelve kilometers up in the cold, silent stratosphere, Homelander watched the mushroom cloud rise over the ruined heart of Russia.
He turned his back on the smoke and flew west.
The Russian Strategic Rocket Forces operated on a rigid, automated doctrine designed for precisely this scenario: a mass-casualty radiological detonation on sovereign soil, executed during an unprovoked assault by a hostile American weapons asset, less than twenty-four hours after the American government had publicly claimed neutrality.
The automated Kazbek tracking network registered the blast as a nuclear first-strike. The Cheget briefcases were opened aboard the presidential command aircraft over Tatarstan.
The launch authorization was transmitted to four separate silo complexes within three minutes.
Adam stood quietly by the window in the Vought Tower CEO suite, watching the calm waters of the Hudson River below. He had been monitoring the global communication grids for fourteen hours straight.
At exactly 6:52 PM Eastern time, a crimson alert flashed across his tablet. It didn't come from a news wire. Sage had intercepted it directly from the encrypted NORAD defense line.
" Warning. Tactical-yield radiological detonation confirmed in central Moscow. Russian defense networks have categorized the blast as an American pre-emptive strike. The Cheget briefcase has been activated. Strategic Rocket Forces have initiated a full-scale retaliatory launch. "
Soldier Boy triggered the core, Adam thought, his face completely expressionless in the reflection of the glass.
" Affirmative. The radioactive blast matches the historical profile. Homelander successfully cleared the blast radius and is currently retreating across Western Europe. Russia is reading the signature as an official escalation by Vought's executive leadership. "
Adam didn't look away from the Manhattan skyline.
" Multiple ICBM launches detected from northern silo fields. Trajectory profiles confirm strategic targeting against North American population centers. Time to primary impact: twenty-eight minutes. "
He watched the city lights twinkle in the early evening air. He thought briefly of Earth-Prime.
He didn't regret the decision. He didn't pretend the transaction was clean, but an architect understood that a rotting foundation had to be cleared before anything permanent could be built.
" Strategic nuclear exchange initiated. Civilizational extinction event in progress for deployment world L4-1882. "
A blinding, second sun ignited on the southern horizon as the first thermonuclear warhead detonated directly over Washington, D.C.
Day 138.
Adam turned away from the window and reached into his coat for his extraction token. "Time to pack up, Sage."
AN: If we get to 500 power stones, I will release an extra chapter on 700, another one.