Rain pounded against the convenience store's awning, pattering loudly.
Hughie sat on the faded plastic chair outside the convenience store, clutching a thirty-seven-page document. His grip had left deep creases along the edges.
The man sitting opposite him wore an immaculate suit and spotless gold-rimmed glasses, with a briefcase open across his knees.
"Mr. Hughie, this is the Vought Legal Department's final agreement." The lawyer's voice held no inflection. "Forty-five thousand dollars. Just sign, and the money will be in your bank account within ten minutes."
Hughie did not look up.
"Robin... she was hit." Hughie's voice caught in his throat.
"That was an emergency rescue operation involving circumstances beyond anyone's control. Mr. A-Train was pursuing armed criminals, and the residue at the scene fully substantiates that." The lawyer closed the folder before him, his tone unruffled. "You may refuse. In that case, over the next five years, Vought's team of thirty lawyers will see you through every last procedure until you're exhausted. Your father's home mortgage comes due next month. Sign. It's better for everyone."
The lawyer left a pen behind, rose, and got into his car. The black sedan sent up a sheet of water and quickly merged into traffic.
Hughie remained where he was, staring at the bright red seal on the page, his fingers trembling violently.
A black umbrella blocked the rain overhead.
"The price they offer never includes guilt."
The cold voice dropped from above. Hughie gave a nervous shudder and jerked his head up.
A young Asian man in a dark jacket stood beside him, the umbrella held low, a freshly purchased can of black coffee in his hand.
"You... who are you?" Hughie instinctively shrank back like a startled rabbit.
"Want some? It's warm." Lucian offered him the can.
Dazed, Hughie reached out to refuse it. The instant their fingertips touched, Lucian's fingers settled precisely on the raised vein on the back of Hughie's hand.
Skin contact.
LV3 Mind Control activated silently.
An icy psychic pulse shot along his central nervous system and pierced the core of his brain. Hughie's pupils lost focus within half a second, and his breathing abruptly stopped.
Lucian lowered his eyes, his thoughts violently piercing the layers of Hughie's memories.
He erased the entire sequence of himself observing from outside the convenience store, then stripped out Hughie's pent-up frustration and despair, gave them form, crushed them, and reassembled them.
A deeply buried memory was forcibly carved into the foundation of his cognition:
On a dark web support forum for victims, Hughie had once spent an entire night talking with an anonymous user called "Queens Ghost." The user's younger sister had had her ribs crushed underfoot by one of Vought's third-tier heroes, and had accepted the same utterly disgusting hush money.
The chat history finally froze on a firmly memorized string of digits: 646-555-0199.
"Don't trust Vought, and don't trust the Legal Department. If you really want to rip their skin off, call me."
The memory imprint took shape.
Lucian released his hand and withdrew the umbrella.
Hughie gasped sharply and sprang out of the plastic chair, drenched in sweat. He pressed hard against his throbbing temples, his gaze darting between fear and anger as he looked around blankly.
There was no one beside the bench. Only the cold, drizzling rain remained, soaking the nondisclosure agreement on the table.
Hughie clenched his teeth and shakily pulled out his phone, its screen reflecting his bloodshot eyes. That number was already etched into his optic nerves as firmly as if carved there with a knife.
Vought Tower, eighty-ninth floor.
A wall-mounted LCD screen silently played the midday news, its scrolling ticker clearly legible: [The Seven member "Lamplighter" has officially left the team for personal health reasons. Vought's Public Relations Department extends its best wishes...]
The line flashed past, immediately replaced by aggregate figures for next season's superhero merchandise.
The dressing room was filled with the strong smell of hair gel and the cloying sweetness of styling spray.
Annie January-now codenamed "Starlight"-stood stiffly between three full-length mirrors.
"Too loose. Take the waist in another two centimeters." The Public Relations Director strode down the hallway in high heels without even looking Annie in the eye. "Today is your debut, livestreamed across the internet. We bought thirty-five trending slots. Give us a sweeter smile, Annie."
The Public Relations Director walked away in high heels, and the door slammed shut.
Annie remained where she was. The blonde girl in the mirror looked bewildered and at a loss.
The door opened again.
Wearing a temporary on-site equipment crew badge on his chest and carrying a portable microphone case, Lucian walked in calmly.
"Miss January, I need to test the signal frequency of the concealed microphone on your chest." Lucian sounded like an ordinary wage slave who had spent years on the job and lost all enthusiasm.
Annie drew a deep breath, quickly wiped the dampness from the corners of her eyes, and turned around. "Sorry... go ahead."
Lucian stepped forward, crouched halfway down, and reached out to adjust the signal transmitter attached to her waist.
A system panel abruptly appeared before Lucian's eyes:
[Copyable target detected: Starlight (Annie January)] [Available abilities:] [1. Super Physique LV4] [2. Light Energy Manipulation LV4 (electrical energy absorption, intense light projection, pulse impact)]
Not copying for now.
Lucian did not withdraw his fingers, maintaining the motion of adjusting the clip.
Three brief seconds of physical contact were already enough for him to drive a psychic beacon into this utterly unguarded brain.
Without warning, an icy current flashed through the depths of Annie's brain.
An extremely vivid, chilling scene abruptly exploded into her consciousness-
The Deep's sleazy, flippant face, standing in a dark stretch of hallway without surveillance cameras, unzipping his fly, his eyes filled with vile, sordid threats. The scene finally froze on The Deep pinned against a desk by Homelander, trembling and begging for mercy like a beaten stray.
And a voice cold enough to chill her to the bone:
"He's the bottom-rung clown of The Seven. Don't listen to his threats. He's nothing."
Annie shuddered violently and stumbled back two steps, striking the dressing mirror hard enough to make the glass hum.
"Did you... did you hear that?" Annie pressed a hand to her forehead and looked at the technician before her in terror.
Lucian stood, withdrew the equipment clip, and looked as composed as ever. "The microphone is adjusted. What did you just say?"
Annie stared fixedly at Lucian's calm face, then glanced around the empty, enclosed changing room, her chest heaving.
The images in her mind were real enough to turn her stomach, yet impossibly clear.
The rapid clatter of high heels came from the hallway, along with the director's urging: "Starlight, two minutes until we're live!"
"I... I'm coming."
Annie answered hastily. With no time to examine that brief, bizarre vision any further, she straightened her suit in a fluster and hurried out of the room.
Lucian stood before the full-length mirror and straightened his work jacket.
In the mirror, the young man's expression remained utterly unruffled.
Hughie's fuse had been lit, and a crack had been pried open in Starlight's perception.
The gates to the hunting ground were officially open.
Before you continue