By the time I go back underground, my body is perfectly still.
Too still.
Every system is balanced. Every response suppressed. The energy hasn't gone anywhere it's just waiting, contained with deliberate precision. Nothing in me is strained and asks for rest.
And that's how I know the conclusion is unavoidable.
One version of me will never be enough.
That's the mistake everyone makes in this world thinking power only needs one face.
The Seven don't deal with reality.
They deal with optics.
They live in daylight, framed by cameras and handlers, contracts written to make violence look heroic and restraint look voluntary. Every action is approved before it happens. Every failure rewritten after. Strength, carefully curated. Chaos, carefully branded.
That kind of power is loud.
And completely useless for certain things.
If I enter that system and I will I won't be free. Not in any way that matters. I won't move without permission. I won't act without justification. Anything inconvenient, anything that can't survive a press release, anything that would make lawyers nervous or shareholders uneasy will simply be off-limits.
Which means it has to belong to someone else.
That's why I let myself be seen.
Not clearly or long enough to define. Just enough.
Enough to create a shadow.
An unregistered presence.
Unclaimed.
Unowned.
Because once a system knows something exists outside its control, it hesitates. Plans contingencies instead of assuming compliance. That hesitation matters.
The satellite was a problem.
I won't pretend it wasn't.
But the mistake wasn't being seen.
The mistake was proximity.
That won't happen again.
I pull up the filtered data my AI assembled from public feeds and classified leaks. Grainy images. Incomplete angles. A dark figure. Extreme velocity. Heat signatures that don't fit existing profiles.
No face, voice.
Good.
The second identity takes shape quickly.
Not a hero.
A rumor.
Someone who appears at night and leaves before explanations arrive. Someone who doesn't speak, doesn't stay, doesn't answer questions. Every report contradicts the last. Every witness fills in different details.
Incomplete stories spread faster than controlled ones.
The separation has to be absolute.
Different posture and movement paterns.
The version of me that stands in the light has to be legible.
Not weak. Never weak. But understandable.
People understand strength that obeys gravity. Bodies that don't break. Cold that creeps instead of burns. Ice feels controlled. Predictable. Elegant, even.
It photographs well.
That matters more than it should.
This version of me doesn't fly. Doesn't tear through reality. He stays on the ground, where everyone else does. Powerful, but contained. Strong enough to be impressive. Limited enough to be acceptable.
Compound V makes that easy.
V is convenient. Messy. Inconsistent. It explains everything without explaining anything. Injected early. Incomplete files. An experiment that worked when it wasn't supposed to.
No mystery worth chasing.
Just an asset someone forgot to collect.
They'll test me. Bloodwork. Scans. Provocation. They'll look for familiar markers and familiar flaws. They won't find anything that contradicts their assumptions strongly enough to matter.
Because they don't want truth.
They want confirmation.
The other version of me doesn't get a story.
No interviews, applause ,handlers stepping in to explain what just happened.
He exists because the light can't touch everything.
That presence in the sky wasn't a debut. It was a seed. Something for systems to notice without understanding. A reminder that there are still variables the world doesn't get to name.
I pace slowly through the lab, barefoot on cold concrete. I don't need projections yet. I need the idea to settle before I give it edges.
The mask comes first.
Not because it looks good but because it erases.
No eyes, expressions. People fear what they can't read. They project less. Act more cautiously. That's useful.
Movement will matter more than appearance. Efficient. Unemotional. Gone before anyone finishes processing the moment.
This version of me doesn't threaten.
He concludes.
The suit is subtraction made physical. Matte surfaces. No reflection, signature anyone can track twice. It doesn't announce presence it removes it. Where he goes, things stop happening.
And that's all anyone ever knows.
The separation has to be perfect.
One stands still when spoken to.
The other never stops moving.
I let the designs rest and shift my focus to the other pillar holding this structure upright.
The company.
Heroes are temporary.
Infrastructure isn't.
This part is quieter. No costumes, headlines. Just systems that work better than anything currently in use. Diagnostics that catch problems before symptoms exist. Predictive tools that quietly replace outdated decision-making without claiming to be revolutionary.
Hospitals won't care where it comes from.
They'll care that it works.
And once it's everywhere, it stops being questioned.
The AI sits beneath all of it tireless, invisible. It doesn't replace my thinking. It removes friction. Scale. Noise.
Together, we're already ahead.
The trick is staying that way without drawing attention too early.
I shut the screens down and stand there for a moment.
Not because I need rest.
Because once a decision like this is made, there's no version of the future where it stops being true.
Two versions.
One for influence.
Another for action.
One for daylight.
Another for problems the daylight can't touch.
When I finally step into the light, it won't be as the figure from the sky.
That one belongs to the dark.
And he won't answer to anyone.
You don't become a hero by showing up.
That's the first mistake amateurs make.
Power doesn't introduce itself.
It gets introduced.
I sit in the chair at the center of the lab, screens lit just enough to matter. I'm not rushing. This isn't improvisation. Every public asset Vought ever owned followed a pattern, even when they pretended it didn't.
Heroes don't appear out of nowhere.
They are discovered.
That's the story people accept.
So the first rule is simple:
I don't arrive as myself. I arrive as something already explained.
Compound V does the heavy lifting here. It always has. It's the narrative glue of this world messy enough to excuse anything, familiar enough to stop questions before they get dangerous.
The file already exists in principle.
A child injected early.
An undocumented success.
Lost in bureaucracy.
Recovered late.
That story has been used before. It works because no one wants to admit how often it happens.
I don't need to fake everything.
I just need to give them something they recognize.
The identity builds outward from limitation.
That matters more than power.
If I present too much, too cleanly, too perfectly, they'll look closer. Vought doesn't fear strength. They fear exceptions things that don't fit their models.
So the public version of me will fit.
Enhanced physiology.
Extreme durability.
Cold-based respiration.
No flight or lasers.
Strength that obeys leverage. Speed that still looks like motion. Ice instead of fire contained, directional, visually understandable. Something that can be framed as "strong, but manageable."
Cold photographs well.
Don't scare shareholders.
I lean back and let the simulations run.
The first appearance can't be dramatic.
It has to be useful.
A localized incident. Something small enough not to trigger panic, but public enough to circulate. A rescue with witnesses. No fatalities or spectacle. Someone pulls footage on their phone. Someone else uploads it before Vought can stop it.
And then nothing.
No interviews.
Follow-up or attempt to capitalize.
That's what makes them curious.
Vought doesn't chase heroes.
They chase assets that already have momentum.
I'll let them come to me.
When they do, the timing matters.
Not immediately. Or eagerly.
Confusion is leverage. Silence creates demand.
They'll run background checks. They'll dig. Find the planted fragments medical anomalies, sealed records, financial noise that looks like compensation payments buried under layers of corporate paperwork.
Enough to suggest I already belong to their world.
Enough to suggest I slipped through their fingers once.
They hate that.
When contact happens, it won't be dramatic either.
No suits or boardroom.
A woman in an expensive jacket. A man who doesn't introduce himself. Polite questions disguised as concern. An offer framed as protection.
I won't say yes.
Not right away.
I'll ask about liability. About oversight. About image management. I'll ask questions that make it clear I understand the business side without sounding like I'm challenging it.
Competence reassures them.
Fear closes doors.
The version of me they meet will be calm. Measured. Grounded. Someone who understands rules even if he hasn't agreed to them yet.
I won't threaten.
I won't ask for a place in The Seven.
They'll offer it themselves.
Because that's how power works in this world: the illusion of choice matters more than control.
Once I'm inside, the boundaries become clear.
Where I can go.
What I can say.
And more importantly what I'm not.
That's where the other version of me exists.
The one without contracts.
Without interviews and explanation.
Who leaves nothing behind for a PR team to clean up.
Two presences.
No overlap.
If anyone ever tries to connect them, it won't hold. The shapes won't match. The behavior won't align. One stands under lights. The other avoids them instinctively.
That's not an accident.
I shut the screens down one by one.
This isn't about becoming a hero.
It's about positioning.
Because in a world owned by corporations, power doesn't belong to the strongest.
It belongs to the one who understands where the cameras are and where they aren't.
And I intend to stand comfortably in both places.