Hush money

Lucian stood by the window and looked down through a gap in the curtains. Three police cars were parked below. For the old woman in 402, they had come far too late; for Lucian, who had just bludgeoned Quake to death, they had arrived unusually quickly. Perhaps one of the neighbors had finally called the police.

He looked down at the hammer in his hand. Quake's brains and blood clung to its head, already turning sticky. His clothes were soaked in blood. Although his LV1 constitution had stabilized the bones in his right shoulder, every movement still hurt.

Run?

Climb down the fire escape and slip into the Queens night. With his current stamina, he could just about manage it. But getting away was easy; the hard part was staying on the run from tonight onward. Vought would probably intervene, though. Even if it did not, the system was his last fallback. There was no need to turn himself into a wanted fugitive now. For the time being, he still needed to retain his legal status. Without it, he could not even sign a rental agreement in this country, let alone get close to Vought Tower.

Stay. For now, this was still a society governed by law. Homelander had not yet become the country's de facto ruler as he did later in the story. The FBI and CIA were still around, and the police system was still functioning. A former superhuman had broken into someone's home after taking drugs and been bludgeoned to death with a hammer by an ordinary teenager. It sounded like self-defense. On paper, at least.

He made his decision.

Lucian dropped the hammer on the floor. He raised both hands, walked to the shattered doorway, and stood among the bloody footprints in the hall, quietly waiting.

Hurried footsteps soon sounded from the stairwell. Two uniformed officers rushed up to the fourth floor, their gun barrels rounding the corner first. "Don't move! Hands up, face the wall!" Lucian did not remind them that his hands were already raised. He simply lifted them a little higher and slowly turned to face the wall.

"Fuck, is this place a slaughterhouse?" The young officer took one look inside 402, went pale, and braced himself against the wall as he dry-heaved.

The older officer kept his gun trained steadily on Lucian. "The person in 402—was that you too?"

"It was this one." Lucian shifted aside, revealing Quake's mangled body inside the room. "She came out of 402, then smashed my door open. I fought back." The older officer followed his gaze and fell silent for two seconds. Then came the search and the handcuffs.

He had to admit, being Asian was inexplicably useful in this situation. His hands were merely cuffed, and he received no rough treatment.

The older officer holstered his gun and tipped his chin toward Quake inside the room. "Still, what the fuck did you fight back with? A rocket launcher?"

Lucian did not answer. He was pushed toward the stairs. As he passed 402, he glanced inside. The old landlady's body lay in the entryway, her head bent at a strange angle. Quake's body was still in his room, like a bag of trash.

The interrogation room was standard issue for a Queens police station: white walls, a metal table, and a buzzing fluorescent light. Lucian sat on a hard plastic chair, the chain of his handcuffs threaded through a fixed ring at the edge of the table, leaving him just enough room to lift a paper cup. His bloodstained T-shirt had been sealed in an evidence bag. He now wore a gray shirt the police had found for him, with bandages wrapped around his right shoulder and ribs.

An officer pushed the door open and came in carrying two coffees. He set one in front of Lucian and leaned against the table without sitting down.

"Lucian. Eighteen. Convenience store clerk. No criminal record. Raised at Vought Orphanage. Not a superhuman." The man read from the tablet in his hand, his eyes fixed on Lucian. "Tell me how you beat a superhuman to a pulp."

Lucian lifted the paper cup and took a sip.

"She was on drugs," Lucian said. "Unsteady on her feet. Slow when she clapped her hands. When she came close, I hit her in the head with a hammer. Then she kept attacking me, so I had no choice but to keep hitting her."

The older officer stared at him and raised his eyebrows. "A hammer?"

"An eighteen-year-old Asian kid used a hammer to bludgeon a superhuman who could once overturn trucks to death in a fifteen-square-meter rental." The officer's voice was openly skeptical. "Do you know what that sounds like?"

"Self-defense," Lucian said.

The older officer let out an exasperated laugh. He set down the tablet and leaned forward, planting both hands on the table and bringing his face close to Lucian's.

"Listen, kid. I don't care what secrets you have. There was no one else at the scene. The fingerprints are all yours and hers. The blood spatter pattern is consistent with repeated strikes at close range. She really did kill the old woman next door. Judging by the evidence, you were indeed defending yourself." The officer paused. "But the problem is, however far she'd fallen, she was still a superhuman. Her bones were harder than an ordinary person's. Her muscle density..."

"Maybe she was on drugs," Lucian interrupted. "And there was something wrong with her powers to begin with. She was the one who fainted on TV. Her body couldn't withstand her own powers. Vought abandoned her. You can look all of that up."

The officer narrowed his eyes. He straightened and was about to speak when someone knocked on the interrogation room door.

A young uniformed officer poked his head inside with an odd expression. "Captain, someone's here to see you. From Vought International."

His brow furrowed. "Vought?"

"A lawyer. And someone from PR. They say this case involves 'the reputation of a former company employee.'"

"Fuck!" the older officer muttered. He picked up the tablet and walked out.

Only Lucian and the buzzing fluorescent light remained in the interrogation room.

Ten minutes later, the door opened again. This time, a woman in a dark gray Armani suit entered. She was around forty, with blonde hair pinned behind her head and rimless glasses. A young man followed her, carrying a briefcase and holding a stack of documents.

The woman did not introduce herself. She walked to the table, placed a document in front of Lucian, and took a Montblanc fountain pen from her breast pocket, setting it gently beside the document.

"Mr. Lu. I'm with Vought International's legal department. The document before you is a nondisclosure agreement and settlement statement. Once you sign, you will be cleared and released as soon as possible, and receive thirty thousand dollars in compensation. In exchange, you must not disclose any details of tonight's incident to any media outlet, social platform, or individual. Quake-the former superhuman under contract with Vought-did nothing tonight."

"Thirty thousand dollars, in cash or by transfer. You can leave tonight. No bail, no court appearance. The police will drop all questioning of you. You'll have a clean record."

Lucian looked down at the document. The pages were packed with legal jargon, but he understood the essentials: take the money, keep quiet, and disappear from the matter.

Thirty thousand dollars was merely the price laid on the table. What truly mattered was getting out immediately and keeping his record clean. He picked up the pen and signed his name at the end of the document. Three copies, three signatures.

"Decisive." The woman gathered up the documents, a hint of surprise finally appearing on her face. "Most people haggle or ask more questions."

"You're paying enough," Lucian said. He put down the pen and flexed his wrists, numb from the handcuffs. "And I hate trouble."

The woman nodded, turned, and left. The young man gave Lucian one last look, something indefinable in his eyes, then followed her out.

That night, Lucian walked out of the Queens police station. His judgment had been correct. Vought International had recently been pushing hard to get superhumans into the military. If news of a former neighborhood hero taking drugs, committing murder, then being bludgeoned to death by an ordinary teenager with a hammer made the headlines, Quake's reputation would not be the only one affected. Thirty thousand dollars was far cheaper than a round of crisis PR. His personal belongings had also been returned, along with a nondisclosure agreement, a release certificate, and a bank card. Vought's people had already deposited the thirty thousand dollars.

He walked to the ATM on the street corner, inserted the card, and entered the PIN. The balance read: 62,847.33.