Hannibal Lecter appeared right on time.
A portable playback device was displayed before The Deconstructionist.
Inside, it played a montage of the panic among the citizens of New York City.
News anchors reported sensationalist headlines in exaggerated tones.
On social media, videos of countless people screaming, crying, and cursing were rapidly edited together.
Politicians told lies riddled with holes at press conferences, while reporters below relentlessly grilled them.
"Look, this is the harmony triggered by your work."
Dr. Hannibal Lecter's voice was gentle.
"Their fear is the best proof of the artistic value of your work."
"But they still don't understand."
"They are merely afraid, just as they are afraid of earthquakes, tsunamis, and incomprehensible natural disasters."
"They are not appreciating, not understanding that sublime aesthetic of destruction and rebirth within your work."
"To make them move from fear to worship, you need a performance that is grander and strikes directly at the soul."
"A grand ritual that lets them witness with their own eyes that destruction itself is a form of rebirth."
The Deconstructionist's breathing began to quicken.
Worship.
Yes, what he wanted was not fear, but worship.
He wanted the world to look up to his art just as they would look up to a deity.
Under the guidance of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, The Deconstructionist's creative process entered a brand new phase.
He was no longer satisfied with admiring his own work in isolation within his own "sanctuary."
The entire New York City had become his gallery.
He wandered through the city, randomly selecting buildings that carried history and emotion to perform "artistic transformations" on them.
In Harlem, there stood a century-old Gothic church.
Early in the morning, when the choir children walked into the church, they let out terrified screams.
The cross atop the church, which should have pointed toward the sky to offer solace, had been reconstructed overnight into the shape of someone clutching their head, wailing in agony.
Not a single hero from Vought International was dispatched.
The Public Relations Department merely released an official statement: "We are conducting a comprehensive threat level assessment of The Deconstructionist's actions. Until the assessment results are available, any rash action will lead to unpredictable consequences."
This feigned professional arrogance was more despair-inducing than any explanation.
It sent a clear signal to all citizens: even Vought found it thorny.
Some "wild" heroes who had been excluded could no longer sit still.
In an auto repair shop in Queens.
A teenager named Richie was irritably tapping a tire with a wrench.
He could manipulate any rope-like object, from shoelaces to high-voltage cables.
In Vought's assessment report, his ability was defined as "acrobatic in nature, lacking commercial development value."
In an underground bar in Brooklyn.
A motorcyclist nicknamed "Ghost Fire" was downing a glass of whiskey.
He could ignite his body and his ride with hellish flames, but was turned away because his "image was too violent and did not meet family entertainment standards."
"What are those bastards at Vought doing?!"
Holding the phone, Ghost Fire slammed his fist onto the bar counter, making the glasses clink.
"Are they just going to watch that madman treat New York like his playground?"
Richie replied: "They are waiting—waiting for the citizens' fear to reach its peak, then they will appear like saviors, and while they're at it, increase the intensity of the regulatory bill tenfold. My sister's school is right next to that church; she's now too scared to leave the house."
"I've had enough!"
Ghost Fire stood up.
"We can't wait any longer; someone has to do something!"
Richie was silent for a moment, then picked up a new coil of steel cable beside him.
"Count me in."
A teenager who could manipulate ropes and a motorcyclist who could turn into fire—thus formed a coalition that looked somewhat ridiculous.
They quickly locked onto The Deconstructionist.
An abandoned sugar refinery located along the East River.
The Deconstructionist was standing beneath the refinery's silo, his eyes closed, feeling the "breath" of this industrial relic over the last century.
He was preparing to begin his "creation."
"Hey! Monster! Your game is over!"
A furious shout broke the silence.
"Ghost Fire" roared over on his motorcycle, leaving a trail of burning fire in his wake.
At the same time, dozens of steel cables shot in from all directions, whistling through the air, winding toward The Deconstructionist's limbs and neck.
This was the tactic they had discussed.
Richie was responsible for control, and Ghost Fire was responsible for delivering the fatal blow with fire.
Facing this sudden ambush, The Deconstructionist frowned in disgust.
He had a thought.
"Now!"
Confidence appeared on Richie's face; his cables were about to wrap around the target!
But soon, he discovered with horror that the mental connection between him and those steel cables had been forcibly severed.
Those tough steel cables began to disintegrate in mid-air!
One by one, the steel cables turned into the finest metal powder before reaching The Deconstructionist's body.
"What?! No... impossible!"
Richie let out a cry of disbelief; the backlash from having his mental connection violently severed caused a splitting headache.
Just at the moment he was distracted, "Ghost Fire" had already rushed up close.
"Go to hell!"
He roared, driving the fire all over his body to its limit, transforming himself into a burning meteorite crashing toward that thin figure.
The Deconstructionist raised his hand and opened his five fingers.
The raging flames on Ghost Fire did not extinguish, but the heat of the fire was forcibly drained away!
The fire was still burning, still flickering, but it emitted an eerie glow.
They could no longer ignite anything, could no longer transmit any heat, turning into a gorgeous yet useless visual effect.
"Ghost Fire," along with his bike, rushed past The Deconstructionist and crashed onto the ground.
He looked blankly at the flames on his body.
The Deconstructionist swept his gaze over these two overconfident intruders as if looking at trash.
He couldn't even be bothered to kill them.
That would dirty his art.
Camera flashes lit up frantically.
At some point, several reporters who "happened" to be passing by rushed out from the shadows of the ruins, aiming their lenses at the disheveled and fallen Richie and Ghost Fire.
The next day's headline ignited the whole city.
"Street Heroes' Reckless Action Ends in Failure; Who Will Take Responsibility for Our Safety?"
This report perfectly formed an intertext with Vought's previous statement.
It ruthlessly declared to the public:
Look, this is the fate of "heroes" who have not been certified by Vought; they cannot solve problems, they only create greater chaos.
Order can only be defined by Vought.
Safety can only be sold by Vought.
Top floor of Vought Tower.
Motoko Kusanagi was conducting her daily report.
"Public opinion guidance has been completed; citizens believe that Vought International should be granted greater law enforcement powers to deal with the threat posed by The Deconstructionist."
"The support rate for street heroes has fallen to an all-time low."
Everything was going according to plan.
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