Chapter 9: The Dark Side of New York
Leon retracted his Sky Eye, paused in mid-air for three seconds, and changed direction.
There was no rush to return to his apartment.
At 2:30 AM in the lower districts of New York, his Super Hearing flooded in with every sound within a ten-kilometer radius.
He filtered out the noise of sirens and drunken brawls, focusing specifically on the energy fluctuations of superhumans.
Within thirty seconds, Sky Eye had captured seventeen unregistered superhuman signals throughout Brooklyn.
Seventeen.
On Vought International's official registry, there were only forty-three superhumans in the entire state of New York.
There were more underground than there were on the surface.
Leon lowered his altitude and swept south along Bedford Avenue.
Three hundred meters below, two energy signals were moving at the entrance of a basement lit by red neon lights.
The sign read "Palm Springs Bar," but the neon tube for the letter P was broken, and the remaining letters flickered unevenly.
Leon landed on the roof of the adjacent building and used his X-ray vision to look down through three layers of concrete.
Seven or eight people sat at the bar area on the first floor, and smoke was being drawn out by an exhaust fan.
Two men in leather jackets sat in the corner, keeping their voices low, but they could not block out his Super Hearing.
"Did you hear? That Stone Guy in Queens got taken out tonight."
"Who did it?"
"Don't know. They say it was an Asian guy in a white shirt who flicked Stone Guy away with a single finger."
"A single finger? You've had too much to drink, haven't you?"
"I swear, the dry cleaner owner said it himself. That Asian guy bought a can of soda, paid five bucks, and then just flew away."
"Flew away?"
"Flew away."
The two men exchanged a look, raised their glasses for a drink, and fell silent.
The corners of Leon's mouth twitched.
News traveled fast.
He did not keep his attention on the first floor for long, shifting his X-ray vision down another level.
The basement was where the real show was.
On a metal table sat six silver briefcases with their lids open, each containing twelve neatly arranged blue syringes.
compound v.
He recognized the color.
Three street gang members sat on the left side of the table, their tattoos sprawling from their necks to the backs of their hands.
The tall, thin man sitting in the center on the right had skin covered in fine scales that crawled from his collar up to half his face, shimmering with a cold green hue under the lights.
Sky Eye automatically displayed the identification.
[Scan Target: Snake Scales (Unregistered superhuman, no Vought International ID number)]
[Ability Level: C]
[Core Abilities: Full-body scale armor, high resistance to impact, secretes corrosive venom]
A C-rank drug dealer selling diluted versions of compound v to street thugs.
Leon leaned against the ventilation duct on the roof, taking in every word of the conversation in the basement.
Snake Scales picked up a syringe and held it up to the light, turning it around.
"This batch is 15% pure, five points lower than last time."
The one with the most tattoos on the opposite side frowned.
"15%? You gave us 20% last time."
"20% was too intense; two people died. That guy Jerome under your command? He had a brain hemorrhage three days after injecting it and died in the bathroom of your hideout. Have you forgotten?"
"That's just because he had a weak constitution."
"Weak constitution?" Snake Scales put the syringe back into the case and tapped his fingers on the table. "For you ordinary people to pump this stuff into your veins, the survival rate is less than 30%. The survival rate for the 20% concentration is even lower—seven out of ten die. You spend an extra 20,000 buying the high-concentration stuff, and in the end, fewer people survive than with the low-concentration stuff. Do the math yourself."
"30%? You told me 50% last time."
"Last time I was doing business; this time I'm telling you the truth."
The tattooed man leaned back in his chair and exchanged a glance with his two brothers.
"So how much for these six cases?"
"Old price. 150,000 per case. For six cases, I'll knock off a bit—850,000."
"850,000 for 15% diluted solution? Why don't you just rob us?"
Snake Scales grinned, his scales peeling up one by one.
"Brother, try finding another supplier in all of New Yorkwho can provide a steady supply. My line comes straight from inside Vought International; every batch has proper cold-chain transport and packaging equipment. Those street peddlers selling to you are peddling fake goods diluted with tap water—you won't get superpowers, you'll get tumors."
"Inside Vought International? What kind of BS are you spouting? Vought International's V serum is monitored more strictly than military hardware."
Snake Scales pulled a business card from his pocket and pushed it across the table.
"See for yourself."
The tattooed man picked up the business card and flipped it over.
"Vought International, Biological Products R&D Department, Senior Researcher? Is this real?"
"Of course it's real. Only 40% of the V serum Vought International produces every year goes into official projects. Where does the other 60% go? Do you think those people at Vought International actually care about superhuman management regulations? They care about profit. Through official channels, one dose of V serum sells for 300,000. On the black market, diluted ten times, it sells for 150,000 a case. For the same cost, the profit is five times higher."
"You mean Vought International is dumping black market goods themselves?"
"Not selling it themselves, but tacitly allowing it. My supply chain comes directly from the Vought Internationalwarehouse, passing through only two hands in between. The Vought International people take the big cut, I take the difference, and you get the goods. Everyone makes money, and nobody will investigate."
Leon used Sky Eye to scan the information on that business card.
Vought International, Biological Products R&D Department, Senior Researcher, David Schwartz.
This name had not appeared in the files he had flipped through during the day, but he had an impression of that department.
The 61st floor, Level 3 clearance. Externally, it hung a sign for new drug R&D, but internally, it was responsible for the production and packaging of compound v.
The transaction in the basement continued.
After the tattooed man finished counting the money, Snake Scales pushed the six cases over.
"Old rules: fast for eight hours before injection, no strenuous exercise for forty-eight hours after. If something goes wrong, don't come looking for me; I only handle sales, not after-sales service."
"What if someone dies?"
"Bury them. It's not like it's your first time."
"The one we threw into the East River last time floated up and was fished out by the cops."
"Then you should tie a rock to them next time." Snake Scales stood up and picked up the leather bag on the table. "Business is done, I'm off. Same time, same place next month. If you want the 20% high-concentration stuff, let me know a week in advance so I can apply to the people above."
"Wait." The tattooed man stood up. "The wind is blowing the wrong way out there lately. A new superhuman popped up in Brooklyn tonight and flicked Stone Guy away with a single finger. Do you know who it is?"
Snake Scales stopped in his tracks.
"A single finger?"
"White shirt, Asian face. Stone Guy punched him, and his fist just shattered."
"An Asian superhuman? There isn't one in the entire Vought International registry for New York."
"Then where did this guy pop up from?"
"Who cares where he popped up from? It's got nothing to do with us. Don't go looking for trouble. I'm leaving."
Snake Scales and his two subordinates disappeared into the alley through a side door.
Leon combed through the entire transaction chain on the roof.
Snake Scales was the middleman; upstream was David Schwartz of the Vought International R&D Department, and further up was the Vought International production line.
He would not touch this chain for the time being.
Leaving it intact was more useful than cutting it off.
He stood up from the roof, preparing to call it a night.
The system panel popped up at this moment.
[Warning: High-risk event prediction initiated.]
[Target: A-Train. Ability Level: A-.]
[Current Status: Long-term excessive intake of compound v, cardiovascular system load near the limit, mental state highly agitated and unstable.]
[A major civilian casualty event is expected to occur within 72 hours.]
Leon hovered over Brooklyn, reading the prompt twice.
A-Train, the speedster of The Seven, addicted to V serum, long-term excessive injections.
He remembered clearly what he did in the original story.
He lost control at high speed and killed an innocent woman; that woman's boyfriend was named Hughie, and Hughie later joined The Boys.
The catalyst for the entire original plot line was this collision.
Seventy-two hours.
He closed the system panel and glanced at the sliver of gray-white light appearing on the eastern horizon.
"The A-Train collision incident… it's coming soon."
Leon turned and flew toward his apartment.
He had no intention of stopping this event.
A living Hughie was much more useful than a dead passerby.
Chapter 10: Before the Storm
Leon only sat up in bed when the alarm clock rang for the second time, bloodshot eyes betraying his lack of sleep.
Clocked in at 6:40, swiped his card, entered the elevator, and pressed B2.
The musty smell of the Archives hit him in the face, and the fluorescent lights still had that pale, greenish hue.
Jessica was already sitting at her workstation, holding a cup of instant coffee; seeing Leon enter, she turned her chair halfway around.
"You don't look so good today."
"Didn't sleep well last night."
"Is it because of Mark? He sent two more emails calling you out yesterday afternoon, one cc'd to HR and one to his brother-in-law."
"Yeah."
"Can't you be a little nervous?"
"Is being nervous useful?"
Jessica bit the rim of her cup.
"True. I'm just worried about you."
Leon sat down at his workstation and opened the new stack of files waiting to be archived.
When he flipped to the third one, his hand stopped.
A brown-covered medical report slid out of the pile of files, with three words written on the red label in the upper right corner: Top Secret.
The report cover was marked: The Seven Member Annual Physical Archive, Examinee ID AT-003.
AT-003, A-Train.
Leon opened the report, his Super Vision scanning all the contents in 0.3 seconds.
The concentration of compound v in his blood was three times the standard value.
The myocardial cell damage index was far beyond the warning line.
In the attending physician's recommendation section, a paragraph was written in red ink: Recommend immediate cessation of compound v intake and a six-month rehabilitation quarantine.
Beneath the recommendation section was another person's stamp, with the approval opinion consisting of only one line: Do not execute for now; The Seven public patrol event is imminent, and the company image must not be affected.
Signatory: Ashley Barrett, Public Relations Director of The Seven.
Leon closed the report and put it back in the pile of files, without moving its position.
Jessica wandered over with her coffee.
"Leon, do you know what they're busy with upstairs today?"
"Tell me."
"The Seven have a public patrol event next week, touring all of New York, with cameras following them and a live broadcast in the evening. The entire PR department is working overtime on the plan."
"Is A-Train participating too?"
Jessica's eyes lit up.
"You're quite interested in The Seven. Yeah, A-Train is participating, but I heard the people in the fourth-floor breakroom chatting, saying A-Train's condition has been ridiculously bad lately."
"How bad?"
Jessica looked left and right, leaned in half a step, and lowered her voice to the minimum.
"During internal training last week, A-Train suddenly lost control on the indoor track, crashing through half of the training ground's partition wall, even shaking the gym upstairs. The rest of The Seven were there at the time, and Homelander's face turned black."
"Crashed through? Nobody hurt?"
"It's said that two assistant coaches in the training ground were hit by debris; one broke their collarbone, and the other got a concussion. Vought sent both of them to a private hospital that same day and had them sign non-disclosure agreements; I didn't find out the hush money amount."
"The PR department knew?"
"The PR department?" Jessica rolled her eyes. "The PR department knew first. That woman Ashley ran to the scene immediately, not to check on the wounded, but to confiscate phones. Everyone's phones at the scene were confiscated and checked, and any footage was deleted."
"And then?"
"Then nothing happened. The training ground was repaired, the wounded were silenced, and A-Train went back to training and shooting commercials. The PR department even posted a training behind-the-scenes clip to A-Train's social media account, with the caption 'Full speed sprint, never stop'."
Jessica laughed when she said this, but there was no happiness in it.
"The PR department also prepared three emergency plans to deal with 'accidental situations' that might occur during the public patrol. When I was running errands for the marketing department, I caught a glimpse; Plan A is the PR script for A-Train getting accidentally injured, Plan B is the compensation process for A-Train accidentally hurting civilians, and Plan C is..."
"What's Plan C?"
"The page for Plan C was marked as black-level secret; I only saw the title: 'Hero Fall Contingency Plan'."
Leon twirled the pen in his hand.
"Hero Fall."
"Right. Do you think they're already preparing for how to clean up after A-Train has an accident?"
"Preparation is one thing; caring is another."
"What do you mean?"
"If they really cared whether A-Train would have an accident, they wouldn't let someone with three times the standard concentration of compound v in their blood keep running on the streets."
Jessica was stunned for a moment.
"How do you know his compound v is three times over the limit?"
"Guessed."
"You guessed?"
"A super-human losing control on an indoor track and crashing through half a training ground wouldn't happen under normal conditions. One of the side effects of compound v is causing the nervous system to become overexcited; the higher the dose, the higher the probability of losing control. A dose that can make an A-level super-human unable to brake indoors couldn't be achieved without exceeding the limit by at least three times."
Jessica stared at him for several seconds.
"Leon, what exactly are you? The old you couldn't even say how many floors Vought Tower has."
"The old me didn't work out either. People change."
Jessica snorted and went back to her workstation with her coffee.
Leon continued flipping through the files on the table; after three pages, his phone lit up.
An encrypted email from Richard Webb; the first piece of intelligence had arrived.
The Seven's schedule for next week, the security deployment route map, and A-Train's exclusive bodyguard list.
Leon scanned it, closed the email, and turned his phone face down on the table.
5:30 PM, off work.
Leon returned to his apartment without turning on the lights.
Outside the window, Manhattan had already lit up with evening lights, and the silhouette of Vought Tower was pinned to the skyline.
He stood in front of the window, closed his eyes, and pushed his Super Hearing out towards Vought Tower.
37th floor, The Seven's training area.
A-Train's voice leaked out from behind the soundproof wall.
"What the f*** are you telling me about rest? I don't need rest! I am A-Train! I am the fastest man in the world! No one can catch me! No one!"
Another voice, low and deep, was trying to soothe him.
"I know, I'm just suggesting you run two fewer sets this week..."
"Run two fewer sets? The public patrol is next week! Homelander is watching me! He's waiting to see me make a fool of myself! You want me to run two fewer sets?"
The sound of a table being overturned.
"Get out! Everyone get out!"
The door was slammed shut.
The training area was quiet for three seconds.
A-Train's panting came through the wall, heavy, rapid, his heart rate reaching an unnaturally high level.
Leon opened his eyes, walked to the table, and sat down.
The system panel popped up again.
[A-Train event countdown updated.]
[Estimated time of occurrence: approximately 48 hours.]
[Location prediction: The intersection of 7th Avenue and West 28th Street, Manhattan.]
[At that time, a civilian woman will be killed by a high-speed collision.]
Leon closed the panel.
He rummaged through the drawer for a map of New York, spread it on the table, and pointed his finger at the intersection of 7th Avenue and West 28th Street.
At that intersection, how much pedestrian traffic could there be during the day?
He didn't intend to save that woman.
That woman's death would create an avenger named Hughie, bring out Butcher, and shift the chessboard of the entire The Boys.
He needed this fire to start burning.
Once it was burning brightly, he would decide whether to add fuel to it or stomp it out.
Leon closed the window, folded the map, and put it into his suit's inner pocket.
Forty-eight hours.
Enough time for him to finish all his preparations.
Chapter 11: Crossroads of Fate
The intersection of 7th Avenue and West 28th Street, 10:47 AM.
Leon sat at an outdoor table of a street-corner coffee shop, dressed in casual clothes, an Americano resting in front of him, headphones hanging around his ears, and his phone screen lit up with a podcast interface.
He wasn't listening to the podcast.
His Super Vision locked onto the location and movement trajectory of everyone at the intersection.
In November's Manhattan, pedestrians walked with their collars turned up in thick coats, taxis crawled in stop-and-go traffic, and traffic lights cycled from green to red and back to green.
He had found his target.
On the east side of the sidewalk, a man and a woman were standing at the curb, talking.
The man was in his early twenties, thin, with brown hair, wearing a faded plaid shirt.
The woman was about the same age, with red hair tied in a short ponytail, a scarf fluttering in the wind.
Hughie Campbell and his girlfriend, Robin.
The two were bickering.
"You can't spend your whole life selling TVs at an electronics store, Hughie."
"I didn't say my whole life. I said I'd do it for now, and once I save enough money, I'll think about the next step."
"You've been saying that for two years."
"Because I haven't saved enough yet."
Robin tugged at her scarf and tilted her head to look at him.
"Did your dad talk to you again last night?"
"No."
"Your left eye twitches when you lie."
Hughie's left eye twitched.
"Fine, he did. He said I should get a certification, like an accounting certificate or something."
"Your dad is right."
"Are you taking his side?"
"I'm taking the side of reality."
Robin reached out and squeezed Hughie's fingers.
"I'm not forcing you; I just think you can do more. You're smarter than you think."
"Every time you want to say something nice, it's always followed by a 'but'."
"But you have to take the first step."
"Look, here it comes."
The two stood on the sidewalk, laughing and playfully shoving each other, then the light turned green, and the crowd began to cross the street.
Hughie and Robin didn't move, staying at the curb to continue talking.
Leon picked up his coffee cup and took a sip, his gaze never leaving the two of them.
At that moment, his Super Hearing caught a sound.
Very far away.
Twelve blocks away.
Extremely high-frequency footsteps, with the interval between each step on the ground being only a fraction of a second.
The screech of wind being torn apart, the micro-tremors conducted through the ground, and the air carrying that distinct burnt smell left behind by the decomposition of compound v.
A-Train.
His speed was climbing.
Leon locked onto that rapidly moving energy signal with his celestial eyes.
[Target: A-Train]
[Current Speed: 671 km/h, and still accelerating.]
[Mental State: Mania and loss of control caused by an overdose of compound v.]
[Movement Trajectory: Moving south along 7th Avenue, expected to pass the West 28th Street intersection in 37 seconds.]
Thirty-seven seconds.
Leon set down his coffee cup.
He glanced at Hughie and Robin at the curb.
Robin was showing Hughie something on her phone, and the content on the screen made Hughie laugh.
"You've sent this cat video three times already."
"You laugh every time."
"Because that cat's expression is genuinely stupid."
"Your expression is even stupider than its."
Twenty-eight seconds.
Leon's fingers rested on the rim of the coffee cup, not moving a muscle.
He could fly over in 0.1 seconds and pull Robin away.
He could stand in A-Train's path and block the impact with his body.
He could do many things.
He didn't move.
Nineteen seconds.
The owner of the hot dog stand across the street corner was haggling with a white-collar worker in a suit.
"Four-fifty for a hot dog? Wasn't it four dollars last week?"
"Mustard prices went up, brother."
"How much could mustard possibly go up?"
"Go check the supermarket and you'll see."
Eleven seconds.
The ground began to vibrate.
A subtle, continuous, and increasingly dense trembling conducted from the road surface to the soles of every pedestrian's feet.
No one noticed.
The ground in New York is always vibrating; subways run underneath, trucks pass on the road, and no one looks up just because their soles are tingling.
Five seconds.
The wind direction changed.
A heatwave carrying a burnt smell surged from the north, causing the newspaper stand on the roadside to rattle.
Three seconds.
Leon saw it.
At the north end of 7th Avenue, a flesh-colored afterimage was cutting through the entire street at 700 km/h.
Dust on the road was whipped up by the airflow, and the display windows on both sides cracked from the sonic boom's shockwave.
Robin was standing at the edge of the sidewalk, holding her phone up in front of Hughie.
Her lips were still moving.
One second.
The sound arrived half a beat later than the afterimage.
A dull explosion—not the sound of impact, but the sound of air rushing back to fill the space after an object was instantly vaporized by a super-high-speed impact.
A red mist dispersed in the sunlight.
Hughie stood in place, soaked through.
His two hands were still in the same position as before, holding onto something.
A pair of hands.
A woman's hands, severed cleanly at the wrists.
The nails on the fingers were painted light pink.
A-Train's figure flashed past the south end of 7th Avenuewithout even slowing down.
Everyone at the intersection froze in place.
The money in the hot dog stand owner's hand fell to the ground.
The white-collar worker in the suit had a half-bitten hot dog in his mouth, forgetting to chew.
A woman pushing a stroller screamed.
Then a second.
A third.
Hughie looked down at the hands in his own, his lips moving, but no sound came out.
His knees buckled, but he didn't kneel; his legs were shaking uncontrollably.
The blood mist on his face dripped down his chin toward his shirt collar.
Leon stood up from the outdoor seat, leaving the coffee cup on the table.
He walked to the curb and, from a distance of three meters, glanced at Hughie.
Hughie didn't notice him.
Hughie's pupils were dilated, his mouth agape, his hands clutching those severed hands, his knuckles turning white.
The screaming around him grew louder; some people were crying, some were making phone calls, and sirens could be heard in the distance.
Leon put his hands in his pockets and turned to walk into the crowd.
He walked at a steady pace, neither fast nor slow.
As he passed the hot dog stand, the old man selling hot dogs was still sitting on the ground, unable to get up.
"Hey, young man, did you see that? Did you see just now..."
"I saw it."
Leon didn't stop.
He turned into a nearby alley, confirmed there were no onlookers, and his body rose silently into the air.
At an altitude of 300 meters, the streets of Manhattanshrank into gray lines beneath his feet.
The red area at the intersection, surrounded by people, was still expanding; more and more people were gathering, and more and more police cars were converging in that direction.
Hughie was still standing in the same spot, and no one could make him move a single step.
Leon withdrew his gaze.
The system panel popped up.
[High-risk event has occurred.]
[Civilian casualties: One death.]
[Event impact assessment: The Boys recruitment chain initiated. Butcher is expected to contact Hughie Campbellwithin 48 hours.]
Leon closed the panel.
The first piece on the chessboard had been placed.
Now, it was just a matter of when Butcher would come to collect this blood-soaked wretch.
Wait for Butcher to assemble The Boys, wait for the cracks within Homelander and Vought to be torn wider.
What he had to do was simple.
Stand outside the chessboard and wait for everyone to finish this game.
Then flip the table.
The wind blew into his shirt collar; Leon paused in mid-air for a moment and looked toward Vought Tower for three seconds.
Richard should be sending over the internal reaction at Vought after the A-Train incident today as soon as possible.
He turned and flew toward his apartment.
In front of the convenience store downstairs from his apartment building, an old television was broadcasting breaking news.
On the screen, the intersection of 7th Avenue was cordoned off with police tape, and a blond man in a plaid shirt was kneeling on the ground, held by two police officers, shouting a name.
The TV volume was low, but Leon heard it clearly from 800 meters in the air.
"Robin, Robin, Robin."
By the fourth time he shouted it, the voice cut off.
Chapter 12: Choices in the Blood Mist
By the fourth time he shouted, the voice cut off.
Leon hovered above the apartment building, the wind beneath his feet making the convenience store's awning flap noisily.
He did not continue to descend.
He pulled his Super Hearing back toward 7th Avenue, cutting through the noise of a dozen blocks to lock onto that intersection again.
Hughie was still kneeling on the ground.
Two police officers were holding his arms, trying to pull him up, but he wouldn't move; his knees were nailed into the pool of blood, and his ten fingers gripped Robin's severed hands so tightly that the knuckles were dislocated.
The crowd of onlookers was held back by yellow police tape, a sea of raised smartphone screens.
Some were crying, some were filming, and some were on the phone.
"Hello? Is this 911? There's been an accident on 7th Avenue, someone was hit, there's blood everywhere—yes, yes, that's right, the intersection at West 28th Street."
"My God, did you see that? What was that thing that ran past?"
"It was A-Train! I saw his suit!"
"A-Train? The A-Train from The Seven? No way."
Leon changed direction.
He didn't fly back to his apartment; instead, he made an arc and landed in an alley two streets away.
He walked back to the scene.
There were three layers of people gathered outside the police tape, and he squeezed in through the thinnest gap.
No one noticed the Asian man in plain clothes walking out of the crowd.
Everyone's gaze was fixed on the blonde man kneeling in that pool of red on the road.
Leon stood at the edge of the police tape, less than five meters from Hughie.
The two police officers were still pulling on Hughie's arms.
"Sir, you need to stand up. This is a crime scene, and we need your cooperation."
Hughie didn't react.
"Sir? Can you hear me?"
Hughie's lips were moving, but no sound came out.
The older police officer squatted down and placed a hand on Hughie's shoulder.
"Son, I know you're upset. But you can't stay here forever. Are you injured? Do you need an ambulance?"
Hughie finally moved.
He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his pupils dilated to the point of disappearing.
"Her name is Robin."
"What?"
"Her name is Robin. She isn't just some civilian caught in the crossfire. She was just showing me a cat video. The cat had a stupid expression. She'd already sent it to me three times."
The younger officer exchanged a look with his partner as his radio crackled.
"Dispatch calling. Vought International's emergency PR team has been dispatched and is expected to arrive at the 7th Avenue scene in eight minutes. Please cooperate with the lockdown."
Leon heard it clearly.
Eight minutes.
Vought's cleanup crew and PR dogs were faster than the ambulance.
He lifted his leg, stepped over the police tape, and walked toward Hughie.
The younger officer reached out to stop him.
"Hey! You can't come in here. This is a restricted area."
"I know him."
Leon's tone was absurdly calm; amidst the blood and screaming, his voice didn't tremble in the slightest.
The young officer hesitated and looked at his partner.
The older one waved him off.
"Let him through. This kid needs someone he knows."
Leon walked up to Hughie and squatted down.
There was half a foot of blood between their knees, and the air was thick with the metallic stench of iron.
"She's dead."
Hughie looked up at the stranger, the Asian man in front of him.
"Who are you?"
"Just a passerby who was having coffee nearby."
"Do you know me?"
"No. But I know the person who killed your girlfriend."
Hughie's hand trembled, and his ten fingers tightened even more around Robin's severed hands.
"What did you say?"
"A-Train. The one from The Seven. Runs fast, doesn't have a brain, and takes so much Compound V that his braking system is shot."
Hughie's breathing pattern changed, and his chest began to heave violently.
"How do you know it was him? Did you see it?"
"I saw it. Everyone on the street saw it. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that in ten minutes, Vought's PR team will arrive. They'll seal off the scene, confiscate the videos from everyone's phones, and then give you a check and an NDA."
"What kind of agreement?"
"Basically: take the money and shut up. Your girlfriend's death will be packaged as an accidental tragedy. A-Trainwon't face any disciplinary action, and next week he'll be at a fan meetup in Times Square, smiling for the cameras."
The corners of Hughie's mouth pulled down, and his chin was trembling.
"They can't do that."
"They always do."
"I'll call the police, I'll get a lawyer, I'll go on TV."
"You already called them." Leon tilted his head toward the two police officers. "Do you think the NYPD dares to arrest someone from The Seven? Do you think any law firm is willing to go up against Vought International? Do you think any TV station would dare to air this news?"
Hughie opened his mouth.
No sound came out.
Leon looked down at the severed hands he was still clutching; the light pink on the nails had already begun to darken as they soaked in blood.
"What was her name?"
"Robin."
"What was Robin's last name?"
"Ward. Robin Ward."
"Robin Ward. Can you hold Robin Ward's hands forever?"
Hughie didn't speak; tears streamed down his face, which was covered in a blood mist, mixing with the blood and dripping off his chin.
"You can't hold them." Leon's voice didn't rise or fall; every word was as steady as flipping through files in the Archives. "In five minutes, the coroner will come to put them in an evidence bag. In a month, Vought's lawyers will use a single agreement to wipe the name Robin Ward from every record. In three months, no one will remember what happened at this intersection today."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying that the person who killed her is still running. He won't stop, he won't look back, and he won't spend a single second thinking he did anything wrong. And you, kneeling here, won't change a thing."
Hughie stared at Leon's face, the blood vessels in his eyes bulging.
"Then what can I do? Tell me, I'm just a guy who sells televisions, what can I do?"
"That depends on how much you really hate him."
Two black SUVs turned into the street corner in the distance, the Vought International red-and-blue eagle wing logo printed on their sides.
Leon stood up.
He took a white business card out of his pants pocket, bent down, and tucked it into the pocket of Hughie's shirt.
There was nothing on the card except a single line of handwritten digits—ten of them—a local New Yorknumber.
"Call this number when you've made up your mind."
Hughie looked down at his chest pocket, then looked up at Leon.
"Who are you?"
"Not a good guy." Leon put his hands back into his pockets and turned slightly. "I just happen to have the same enemy as you."
He turned around and walked toward the crowd.
He took three steps.
Hughie shouted from behind him.
"Wait!"
Leon didn't stop.
"You haven't told me your name yet!"
The black SUVs had already stopped at the intersection. The doors popped open, and four men in dark grey suits jumped out one after another, holding up Vought ID badges as they rushed toward the police tape.
The woman in the lead stepped into the pool of blood in her high heels, her expression the same as if she'd stepped into a puddle.
Ashley Barrett. The PR Director for The Seven.
"Clear the area! Confiscate all phones! Register the identity of everyone who took a video!"
Leon's retreating figure disappeared into the dispersing crowd.
Hughie was still kneeling in place, his left hand clutching Robin's severed hands, his right hand touching the business card in his chest pocket.
The edge of the cardboard dug into his skin, stinging painfully.
Chapter 13: Vought's Whitewash
At 7:00 AM the next morning, Leon sat on a folding chair in his apartment, the old television in front of him turned on.
On the screen, a female anchor with three layers of foundation was reading a press release with her professionally trained vocal cords.
"Regarding the unfortunate incident that occurred on 7th Avenue yesterday afternoon, Vought International has officially confirmed that it was a collision between A-Train, a member of The Seven, and a civilian who was unfortunately caught in the scene while he was executing an emergency pursuit mission. Vought Internationalexpresses its most sincere condolences to the victim's family and promises to provide $45,000 in humanitarian compensation."
The screen cut away, and A-Train's agent was sitting in the studio, his expression sorrowful to the point of precision.
"A-Train is currently in a very low mood, and he feels deeply guilty about this accident. We must understand that superheroes face high-pressure mission environments every day that ordinary people cannot imagine. Occasional misfortunes are heartbreaking, but this is the price that heroes pay every day."
Leon picked up the remote and changed the channel.
On another channel, a talk show host was leaning back on a sofa, chatting with a guest.
"Forty-five thousand? A life for forty-five thousand? My car was rear-ended and the insurance company paid out sixty thousand."
"This price is indeed controversial, but Vought has indicated that there will be an additional care fund later on."
"Care fund, good choice of words. Use forty-five thousand to buy your silence, and use a care fund to buy your gratitude. This is such good business that even Wall Street would applaud."
"If you say that, you'll get a warning letter from Vought's lawyers."
"I've been warned so many times, I've already collected a whole drawer full."
Leon turned off the TV.
He put on a suit, tied his tie, put on his gold-rimmed glasses, and went out to work.
Vought Tower, B2 level, Archives.
Jessica had arrived ten minutes earlier than him. There were two cups of instant coffee on the table—one for herself and one placed at Leon's workstation.
Leon sat down and picked up the cup.
"Did you see the news?" Jessica's chair turned halfway around.
"I did."
"Forty-five thousand dollars."
"I heard."
"A human life, forty-five thousand dollars. I checked online last month and the cost for Vought to film a single commercial for Homelander is 3.2 million."
"So, on Vought's ledger, the life of an ordinary person is 1.4 percent of one of Homelander's commercials."
Jessica held the cup, her mouth resting on the rim, neither drinking nor not drinking.
"Leon, when you say things like that, can you not use that tone of voice like you're solving a math problem?"
"Arithmetic is objective; tone cannot change the result."
"Can't you just express a little anger like a normal person?"
"Will anger bring that woman back to life?"
Jessica stopped talking.
Leon took two sips of coffee, set it down, and pulled out today's documents to be filed from under his workstation.
After flipping through three routine personnel transfer forms, he reached under the desk and pulled out the batch of files he had copied yesterday from a hidden compartment stuck to the inner wall of the drawer.
A-Train's accident records.
Over the past fourteen months, there were a total of six civilian casualty reports related to A-Train registered in Vought's internal system.
The first one, last September, Philadelphia. A-Train rushed into a restaurant during a city chase; a waiter was blown away by the airflow and hit a glass door, fracturing their cervical spine. Compensation: $30,000.
The second one, last November, Los Angeles. A-Train was speeding on the highway, causing a pile-up of three civilian cars, leaving two people seriously injured. Compensation: $50,000 plus full medical expenses.
The third, fourth, and fifth.
Chicago, Miami, Washington, D.C.
The pattern was the same. Accident occurs, PR intervenes, check plus non-disclosure agreement, page turned.
The sixth one was the latest; the date was yesterday.
Victim: Robin Ward.
Compensation amount: $45,000.
In the notes column, under Ashley Barrett's signature, there was a line of pencil writing, the handwriting sloppy: "Victim's boyfriend is emotionally unstable; suggest sending additional legal staff to follow up and ensure the agreement is signed."
Leon memorized all the reference numbers of these six reports and stored them in his mind.
His phone lit up.
An encrypted email from Richard Webb, the second one today.
The content was A-Train's schedule for the coming week.
Three days later, Times Square, public fan meet-and-greet.
Signing time is from 2:00 PM to 4:00 PM. The security plan is a standard B-level configuration: twelve armed bodyguards plus two armored vehicles from Vought's private security team.
Leon closed the email.
Jessica poked half her head out from behind the iron shelf.
"Leon, you're talking even less today than yesterday. What are you thinking about?"
"Thinking about someone."
"Who?"
"The boyfriend of the woman who was killed at the intersection yesterday."
Jessica's expression changed.
"You know them?"
"I don't. But I was at the scene."
"You were at the scene? Weren't you working overtime in B2 yesterday afternoon?"
"I went out to buy a cup of coffee during my lunch break and just happened to pass by."
Jessica moved her chair half a step towards him.
"You saw it with your own eyes?"
"I did."
"Oh my god. That woman, was she really hit by A-Trainlike the news said?"
"It's not like what the news said. The news said she was unfortunately caught in a pursuit scene. The reality is that A-Train had taken an overdose of V and lost control on the street. No pursuit, no mission, just a junkie who couldn't stop his vehicle."
Jessica's fingers tightened around the cup.
"How are you sure?"
"I am sure."
Jessica opened her mouth, then swallowed her words.
She had known this Leon for less than a year, but she knew that when this man said he was sure, he was sure.
Leon finished flipping through the last document in his hand and took out his phone.
There were only about twenty numbers in his contacts, most of which were internal Vought work contacts.
He created a new text message, filling in an unsaved number as the recipient.
That number was one he had reverse-engineered from the vibration frequency of Hughie's phone using Super Hearing this morning.
The text message only had one line.
"Times Square, three days from now, 2:00 PM. If you want the person who killed your girlfriend to see your face, come."
Send.
Jessica stretched her neck from the side, trying to look at his phone screen.
Leon turned his phone over.
"Jessica, help me look something up."
"Look up what?"
"The security shift schedule for the parking lot on the B1 level of Vought Tower—who is on the night shift for the next two days."
"Why do you need the parking lot shift schedule?"
"To park."
"You don't have a car."
"That's why I need to know who is watching the gate first."
Jessica stared at him for three seconds, gave up on the idea of prying further, and turned to rummage through the file cabinet.
Leon flipped the phone screen back over and glanced at the sent text message.
In a corner of Manhattan, a young man covered in dried blood was curled up in his apartment's bathtub, the faucet running, cold water pouring over his body.
His phone was sitting on the toilet lid.
The screen lit up.
Chapter 14: The Hunter, Butcher
It was pitch black by the time he got off work.
Leon exited through the employee passage of Vought Tower and turned right onto the sidewalk of 57th Street.
He stopped at the third intersection.
His Super Hearing had picked up the set of footsteps behind him thirty seconds ago.
Fifteen meters away, steady stride, measured pace, hard soles—military boots or work boots.
Heart rate elevated, adrenaline levels a notch higher than an average passerby.
Not a random tail, but purposeful surveillance.
Leon didn't look back; he kept walking and turned into a narrow alley at the intersection of 58th Street and 9th Avenue.
There were only two streetlights in the alley; one was broken, and the other cast a circle of yellow light on the wall.
He leaned against the base of the wall, shoved his hands into his pockets, and waited.
The sound of footsteps came from the alley entrance and stopped.
Three seconds of silence.
Then, a man's voice with a British accent emerged from the shadows.
"You were at the scene where A-Train hit that person, right."
Not a question.
A statement.
Leon turned his head.
A man stood at the mouth of the alley.
About forty, broad shoulders, with a scruffy beard.
He wore a dark brown leather jacket over a black T-shirt, and his jaw was working on something.
Butcher.
Billy Butcher.
Leon ran through this man's file in his head.
Former British SAS, came to the U.S. after retiring. His wife, Becca Butcher, went missing after an internal party at Vought Corporation; Butcher was convinced she had been raped by Homelander.
From then on, he staked the rest of his life on one thing: making every superhuman pay.
The Eye of Heaven didn't pop up any scanning prompts.
Ordinary human. The system couldn't even be bothered to label him.
"How many blocks have you been following me?" Leonspoke up.
"Three. Your walking speed is fifteen percent faster than the average person, and the coordination in your knees and ankles is too good; you've had combat training, or something more interesting."
"You've got good observation skills."
"It's my line of work." Butcher chewed his gum as he walked into the alley, leaning against the opposite wall with his hands in his jacket pockets. "I'm Butcher. And you?"
"You already know my name, otherwise you wouldn't have followed me here."
Butcher chuckled.
"Leon Li. Vought International, archivist, Level 1 clearance, monthly salary of thirty-two hundred. Absent two days ago, and upon returning, you forced your direct supervisor to their knees and walked out of the Legal Department unscathed. You're a pretty interesting archivist."
"You investigated me?"
"Yesterday on 7th Avenue, you were sitting in a street-corner cafe. When A-Train hit that person, you were less than twenty meters from that intersection. You didn't run, didn't scream, didn't call the police. Afterward, you walked up to that boy, crouched down, and said a few words to him. Then you slipped something into his pocket."
Leon's expression didn't change.
"You were at the scene too."
"I was on the rooftop across the street. Binoculars. If you'd looked up, you would've spotted me."
"Why would I look up?"
"Fair point." Butcher shifted his gum. "What are you contacting Hughie for?"
"Is that all you followed me for?"
"I followed you because your behavior is off. A low-level clerk making thirty-two hundred a month, keeping a straight face at the scene of a superhuman murder, and then having the nerve to approach the victim's boyfriend afterward. You're either a pervert, or you're a hell of a lot more interesting than what's written on your ID badge."
Leon leaned against the wall and scanned Butcher from head to toe.
"Finished with your analysis? My turn. Your name is Billy Butcher, former SAS, retired six years. Your wife is Becca Butcher, missing. The last place she was seen before she vanished was connected to Vought. You hate superhumans, hate them enough that you wouldn't mind losing your life over it."
Butcher's chewing paused for a beat.
"How do you know about my wife?"
"I've worked in the Archives for two years. In those two years, I've handled sixty thousand files. Want to guess if any of those sixty thousand files had anything to do with your wife?"
The alley went quiet.
The broken streetlight flickered twice, then went out.
Butcher spat the gum onto the ground and stepped on it.
"What did you find?"
"Enough. But I'm not interested in reporting to you in an alley that smells like a sewer. Say what you have to say—what exactly do you want from me?"
Butcher's mouth twitched.
"I'm putting together a team. Specifically to deal with superheroes. Or to be more precise, to deal with super-bastards."
"The Boys."
Butcher's eyelid twitched.
"You even know about this?"
"An off-the-books project of the CIA Special Operations Group, funded by the black budget of the House Intelligence Committee. Project lead: Grace Mallory, your former boss. The project's goal is to monitor and, if necessary, eliminate out-of-control superhumans. It's currently in a semi-frozen state, and you're the only member—a one-man army."
Butcher kept his mouth shut for three seconds.
"Are you an archivist or with the CIA?"
"I'm an archivist. But a good archivist knows everyone's secrets."
Butcher stared at him for a long time.
A taxi honked outside the alley, the sound harsh.
"Fine." Butcher straightened up from the wall. "I'll lay my cards on the table. I want to recruit you. You've got channels inside Vought, you've got intelligence, and you've got guts. I need someone like you."
"No."
"You haven't even heard the terms."
"No need to hear them. I don't join anyone's team."
"Why?"
"Because your team only has one ending. You push a bunch of ordinary people in front of superhumans and let them die for you. Your goal has never been justice, nor is it the victims. Your goal is revenge. You want to kill one person—you want to kill the person who did those things to your wife. The rest are just tools for you to achieve that goal."
Butcher's jaw muscles tightened.
"You don't know me."
"I know your file. Your behavioral patterns are much easier to read than you think. Is it all superhumans you hate, or just one?"
The alley went quiet again.
This time, it lasted longer.
Butcher pulled his hand out of his pocket, clenched it, then relaxed it.
"Even if I only hate one, that doesn't change the fact that all other superhumans are trash."
"You're right, most of them are indeed trash. But you use this trash as an excuse, just to make your personal vendetta look like a holy war."
The roguish smile on Butcher's face finally vanished.
"You've got a sharp tongue, kid."
"It's not a sharp tongue; it's just that the truth is hard to hear."
Leon stood up straight from the wall and brushed the dust off his pants.
"Butcher, I'm not joining your team. But if you're useful, I don't mind doing you a favor from time to time."
"A favor? What are the terms?"
"We'll talk about terms later."
Leon walked toward the alley entrance.
When he reached Butcher, he paused for a step.
"Go find Hughie. That boy is full of hatred right now—exactly the kind of raw material you like."
Butcher's eyes narrowed.
"How do you know I'm looking for him?"
"Because you appearing at the scene of the hit wasn't a coincidence. You've been watching A-Train for at least three months; you were waiting for him to screw up. You need an ordinary person who's been hurt by a superhuman to serve as your banner. Hughie is perfect."
A muffled laugh came from Butcher's throat.
"And you say you're not with the CIA."
"I'm not. The CIA doesn't have the budget to hire me."
Leon stepped out of the alley and melted into the flow of people on 58th Street.
Butcher stood in the alley, watching his back as he walked away.
The gum was gone, his mouth felt empty, and he habitually chewed on the air twice.
He took his phone out of his jacket, found a number, and dialed it.
"Mallory. It's me."
An elderly woman's voice came from the other end of the line.
"Did you find Hughie?"
"Put the Hughie matter aside for now. I ran into someone. Someone from inside Vought."
"Who?"
"An archivist. Level 1. Asian. But this guy knows ten times more than he should. He even knows the code name and funding source for The Boys."
The other end of the line was silent for two seconds.
"Name?"
"Leon Li."
After giving the name, Butcher added another sentence.
"Mallory, this guy is not right. I followed him for three blocks; he knew I was behind him the whole time, but he didn't look back. He's not afraid of me. These days, people who aren't afraid of me are either idiots or something more dangerous than me."
He looked up at the sky above the alley entrance.
The night sky over New York was murky and yellow; he couldn't see anything.
"He's not an idiot."
Chapter 15: You Just Need to Read the Report Out Loud
Butcher's self-deprecating mutter had barely reached his ears before Leon ignored it completely.
The phone in his pocket vibrated just then.
It was an unfamiliar local number from New York.
Leon answered, saying nothing.
On the other end of the line, there were five long seconds of stifled, suppressed breathing, with the sound of rushing water in the background.
"Hello? Is that you?!" Hughie's voice was hoarse, like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. "You were the one who gave me the business card!"
"It was me."
"Vought International's lawyers just left," Hughie's voice was mixed with the sound of water and the hatred of someone gritting their teeth. "They gave me a check for forty-five thousand, and a damn non-disclosure agreement! My dad... he told me to sign it!"
"Did you sign it?"
"I don't know... I don't know!"
"Central Park, the bench by the lake in the southwest corner, half an hour."
After saying that, Leon hung up immediately.
Half an hour later, on the bench.
Hughie Campbell was like an empty shell drained of its soul, sunken into the cold backrest.
With dark stubble and sunken eye sockets, his whole person reeked of a deathly, decaying odor.
It wasn't until Leon sat down beside him that those hollow eyes were instantly invaded by spiderweb-like bloodshot veins, leaving behind nothing but pure hatred.
"Who the hell are you?!"
"Someone who wants to watch Vought International burn to ashes."
Leon pulled a document from the inner pocket of his trench coat and tossed it over.
"What is this?"
"The answer regarding your girlfriend."
Hughie's hands were trembling violently, barely able to hold the papers, as he snatched them away and unfolded them.
The header of the photocopy bore the internal logo of Vought International.
[The Seven Member Annual Medical Report (Highly Confidential)]
[Subject ID: AT-003 (A-Train)]
[Blood Sample Analysis: compound v metabolic residual concentration, 3.21 ng/mL! Standard safety threshold: 1.0 ng/mL!]
[Myocardial Function Assessment: Irreversible myocardial cell damage, damage index 7.8! Warning threshold: 3.0!]
Hughie's breathing stopped abruptly.
He scanned down the page like a madman.
[Attending Physician's Recommendation: The subject has developed severe drug dependency. It is strongly recommended to immediately cease all high-intensity activities and compound v intake, otherwise, there is a high probability of neurological loss of control during high-speed movement!]
Below the recommendation was a line of scribbled notes.
[Approval Decision: Do not execute. Public relations events are imminent; company image must not be affected.]
The signed name was Ashley Barrett.
Boom!
Hughie's mind went blank.
Robin's death was no accident!
She died because of a junkie who was so high he lost control! And everyone at Vought Corporation, from top to bottom, knew this fact perfectly well!
For the sake of their damn "company image," they just sat back and let a runaway bomb run wild on the streets of New York!
Bang!
Hughie slammed his fist into the iron armrest of the bench, his hand instantly becoming a bloody mess, yet he felt no pain at all.
"They knew! They knew the whole time!"
His chest heaved violently, his entire face twisted and distorted by extreme rage.
"Yes, they knew."
Leon's tone was as calm as if he were stating a trivial file, "Not only did they know, but they also prepared three public relations contingency plans and a check for forty-five thousand dollars for your girlfriend's death."
"Bastards! These murderers!"
Hughie gripped the report tightly, his nails digging deep into the paper, his voice hoarse and inhuman, "What on earth... do you want me to do?!"
Leon stood up.
A cold wind blew across the lake, sweeping up withered leaves as if conducting a funeral for someone.
He walked over to Hughie, looking down from above at the young man who had been completely ignited by hatred.
Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, there was not a shred of sympathy in those eyes, only the coldness of examining a tool.
He reached out and patted Hughie's shoulder. The movement was very light, yet Hughie groaned, half his body instantly stiffening as if welded to the spot by an invisible, massive force.
"Three days from now, Times Square, A-Train's fan meet-and-greet."
Leon's voice was low, yet it felt like red-hot iron nails, ruthlessly hammering into Hughie's eardrums.
"What you need to do is very simple."
"In front of the global live broadcast cameras, walk up to A-Train."
"Then, read this report out loud, word for word."
Hughie's pupils constricted violently, and his body began to tremble uncontrollably.
"They... they will kill me..."
"With me around, you won't die."
Leon withdrew his hand, tucked it back into his trench coat pocket, and turned around.
"As for the rest," he said without looking back, his voice drifting away in the wind, "I'll handle it."
Hughie sat alone on the bench, clutching the report tightly in his hand, watching Leon's retreating figure disappear.
He lowered his head, his gaze shifting from grief to a cold, desperate resolve.
Taking out his phone, he deleted all the text messages from his father urging him to give up.
Then, he opened his browser and entered the keywords.
"Times Square, A-Train fan meet-and-greet."
Time: Three days later, 2:00 PM.
...
Leon sat in the back seat of a taxi and closed his eyes.
The sound of Hughie's phone buttons, Butcher's roaring in the safe house, Homelander's impotent rage atop Vought Tower... the threads of fate for all of New York wove into an overture in his ears.
A moment later, he opened his eyes, his tone devoid of any ripples:
"Turn right up ahead, go to Times Square."
He wanted to go take a look.
To see how the stage for that grand show three days from now was being set up.
Chapter 16: System Mission, First Hunt: A-Train!
Under his command, the taxi turned silently.
Leon leaned back in the passenger seat, viewing Times Square not as a landmark, but as a cold stage where a great show was about to unfold.
...
Night.
The apartment was pitch black, with only the eerie glow of the computer screen illuminating Leon's calm, expressionless profile.
On the screen was the real-time surveillance footage of Times Square.
On the massive red and blue backdrop, A-Train's smiling face looked stupid and glaring.
Richard's encrypted email sat silently on his phone, the content concise and clear:
"The highest combat power on site is just the drug-addled A-Train himself, plus a C-tier superhuman punching bag codenamed 'Iron Wall'."
Perfect.
Leon tapped his fingertips on the desk, while in his mind, two futures soaked in blood tore at each other.
One was Hughie standing on stage, using that report to tear Vought's hypocrisy to shreds. The tidal wave of public opinion would completely drown A-Train, and he would gain a perfect, malleable pawn for revenge.
The other... if that drug-addicted junkie dared to lay a finger on Hughie in front of the cameras.
Then, he would take the stage himself.
In front of the whole world, he would use the most primal violence to tear the so-called superhero to pieces!
No matter which path was taken, A-Train's career would come to an end tomorrow.
Just then, the system panel suddenly popped up!
The scarlet font carried an unrefusable sense of coercion and murderous intent!
[First Hunt mission triggered!]
[Mission Name: The Final Sprint]
[Mission Goal: In Times Square, publicly cripple the legs of the superhuman "A-Train" and thoroughly end his criminal career!]
[Mission Description: A junkie with blood-stained hands does not deserve the ability to run. Make him kneel and repent for the rest of his life!]
[Mission Reward: Divine Might Points × 500, unlock new ability — Quantum Perception!]
A hint of amusement flashed in Leon's eyes.
First Hunt mission?
The system had actually issued a death warrant directly, completely sealing off that "gentle" path.
He clicked on the grey entry for "Quantum Perception".
[Quantum Perception (Locked): Passively perceive the "threads of possibility" at the level of causality, and macro-filter the future trajectory of major events.]
A cold smile slowly spread across his lips.
Quantum Perception... the ability to peek at the threads of causality?
This was far more interesting than mere brute force.
It meant that he would go from being an "observer" outside the chessboard to a "chess player" who truly looked down upon the fates of all living beings!
He was determined to have this ability.
"It seems Plan B is the only script left."
Leon turned off the computer, walked to the window, and dialed Richard's private number.
The call was answered instantly.
"D-do you have any instructions?" The voice on the other end was as taut as a bowstring.
"Do you need to be on-site for the event at Times Squaretomorrow afternoon?"
"No! That's the PR Department's business; we in Legal only handle... the aftermath."
"Very good." Leon's tone was as indifferent as water. "At two o'clock tomorrow afternoon, send me the highest-level access ports for all official live broadcast signals at Times Square."
The breathing on the other end of the line instantly became heavy, as if someone had grabbed his throat.
"H-highest-level access ports?! Why do you want that? That means you could replace the live feed at any time!"
"Your task is to give me the ports." Leon interrupted him, his voice devoid of any warmth. "As for what you should worry about and what you shouldn't, that is also for me to decide."
Dead silence.
After ten long seconds of silence, Richard squeezed out two words in a tone of someone on their deathbed:
"...Alright."
Leon hung up the phone.
He walked to the full-length mirror and adjusted his tie slowly and methodically, as if making final preparations for a long-awaited performance.
In the mirror, the man in the suit with gold-rimmed glasses curled his lips into a cruel arc.
"It seems even the system can't wait to see this show."
He paused, his gaze piercing through the mirror, as if he could already see that figure kneeling in a pool of blood tomorrow.
"So, A-Train."
"I hope you can say your last words clearly tomorrow."