"Creak."
He pushed open the first stall door. It was empty, and the toilet with its lid up seemed to be mocking him, gleaming with a cold light.
Saturn Hunter frowned—or rather, the two folds of skin where his brows should have been creased.
He had no eyebrows, making his brow ridge look unusually high and his eye sockets sunken like a skull's. His appearance had always been a sore point for him.
But that was the side effect of Compound V. If you wanted superpowers, you had to endure the consequences.
Getting into Vought International already counted as fortunate. Every year, tens of thousands of babies were brought in by their parents to undergo Compound V experiments, and 90% of them died prematurely for one reason or another while growing up.
Of the remaining 10%, some were eliminated because their awakened abilities were unsuitable, some caught the CIA's attention by abusing their powers without restraint and were abandoned by the company, while others completely lost their minds and became terrorists.
People like him, who could join the company, earn money steadily, and retire home to spend it after a few years, were exceedingly rare.
"Creak."
He pushed open the second door, but that stall was empty too. Only several wads of toilet paper lay outside the bin, swaying slightly in the breeze stirred by the opening door.
Saturn Hunter showed a somewhat hesitant expression, picked up a wad of paper, and secretly sniffed it, letting out a satisfied sound.
"Ah."
Yes, he knew it was a little perverted, but what was wrong with a Superhero being perverted?
Compound V was addictive. Take him, for example: if he wanted to maintain his ability to fly and fire Heat Vision, or develop even stronger powers, he had to use it regularly.