Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco.
The sea breeze was biting, making the steel cables whistle and rattle.
"This is what they call Shocker Combatant?"
In front of the camera, a man wearing a blue and white striped, homemade spandex suit is striking what he thinks is a cool side pose for the live stream camera.
His name is " Riptide," a local San Francisco street hero.
His daily tasks mainly involve catching robbers and helping elderly women cross the street.
But today, he feels he's about to become famous.
At his feet, a Shocker Combatant was tightly entangled in a special, high-strength, quick-drying adhesive net, struggling violently like an insect caught in a spider web.
Riptide kicked the Shocker Combatant on the head with his toe.
"If you find the right method, these guys are just stronger lunatics!"
This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Riptide. If he can capitalize on this opportunity, he'll be making headlines tomorrow!
Who knows, that grumpy senior talent scout from Vought International might be kneeling at his apartment door begging him to sign a contract first thing tomorrow morning!
At that time, neither the Homelander nor the Deep will have to make way for him!
The Shocker Combatant had been struggling frantically, suddenly stopped moving.
That stillness was extremely abrupt.
"Babble--!"
The Shocker Combatant let out a short syllable, and his body, bound by the plastic net, rapidly expanded.
Danger!
His brain screamed in Riptide, and he instinctively tried to back away.
It's too late.
It was a near-white aura of destruction that engulfed an area of five meters in radius around the Shocker Combatant.
The live television broadcast shook violently, then suddenly became static.
Countless viewers witnessed a scene they would never forget: the once high-spirited hero " Riptide " didn't even have time to let out a scream.
Not even a pool of blood was left.
We'll probably have to look for trace elements in tonight's air quality report in San Francisco.
A few seconds later.
A small, charred crater appeared on the asphalt surface of the Golden Gate Bridge.
As for " Riptide "?
The only place we can probably find him is in the air quality monitoring reports.
This is not an isolated case.
This is a global "fireworks show".
On Michigan Avenue in Chicago, a "strongman" hero Shocker Combatant with his superhuman strength was blown to bits, incidentally damaging a Starbucks that was open for business.
A severed hand, with half of its forearm burned, fell with a thud into a woman's newly bought latte, the splashing milk foam scalding her and making her scream.
Paris, Berlin, Tokyo, London...
The whole world has been gripped by a hysteria called "it might explode."
This fear is unsolvable.
You can't grab him, you can't hit him, you can't even get close to him.
Because you never know when these lunatics will turn themselves into a high-explosive bomb.
Some police officers are even afraid to handcuff ordinary thieves, fearing that the thief might suddenly yell "Ee!" and die on the spot, taking them with him to meet God.
There was only one exception.
New York.
Here, prosperity and order are strangely maintained.
The basement of an old brownstone apartment building on Manhattan's Upper East Side.
It's only fifteen square meters here, and even the window is just a tiny crack, barely the size of a palm. You have to stand on tiptoe to see the soles of people's shoes outside.
One million US dollars?! And it has to be paid in full upfront?
The middle-aged man stared at the price list in his hand, his eyes practically bulging out of their sockets.
"Are you crazy? This lousy place was only listed for 50,000 last week! And nobody wanted it! Even rats would get depressed living here!"
The real estate agent standing opposite him was a fat man with an oily face.
The fat man wasn't angry, and he didn't even bother to maintain that professional fake smile.
He slowly took a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his sweat, and pointed to the ceiling.
"Mr. Smith, you're aware of the current market conditions."
The real estate agent stretched out his chubby finger and pointed to the moldy ceiling, his tone carrying a slick, worldly-wise air.
"You didn't just buy a house, you bought your life."
"Look at the chaos outside! Have you seen Twitter? Last night, three city blocks in Chicago were bombed, with over a hundred dead and injured, and even the National Guard didn't dare to go in. And what about New York?"
The fat man held up one finger, his tone carrying a strange sense of pride.
"Yesterday, some weirdo from Shocker just popped up in Queens, and before he even had a chance to yell, Homelander came crashing down on him, grabbing him by the neck with one hand—like he was a chick!"
The fat real estate agent gestured vividly, his chubby face jiggling with each movement.
"Whoosh! It was thrown straight into the stratosphere at 30,000 feet! 'Bang!' Like a firework, not even a single pane of glass on the ground shattered! The scene, wow, it was simply art!"
"This building is right on Homelander's daily patrol route. This million dollars isn't just for these fifteen square meters; it's for Homelander's watchful eye and Vought's protection. You should weigh it yourself: is money more important, or the lives of your entire family?"
"And I must warn you, there are three more groups of clients in line. One of them is a guy from Wall Street, who's even willing to pay an extra 10%."
The agent glanced at his watch and made a move to take back the quote.
"Etc!"
The middle-aged man's hands trembled, his eyes filled with struggle and pain, but in the end, fear triumphed over everything.
If we don't grasp at this straw, we might be the next ones to turn to ashes.
"Make a deal."
The middle-aged man gritted his teeth and forced out the two words, "I also want to buy the storage room next door for my daughter. Sign the contract now; I have a check."
"A wise choice." The fat man grinned so wide his eyes disappeared. "Welcome to Noah's Ark. In this damn world, thank Vought."
The voices that once protested outside Vought Tower, chanting "Limit superhero powers" and " Vought out of the community," vanished overnight.
The public's anger intensified.
But this anger was no longer directed at Vought, but at the White House, which was still running around like a headless fly, and at the politicians who did nothing but hold meetings to condemn.
The top three trending topics on Twitter were completely dominated, with every single one dripping with blood and burning with fire:
#Is the president dead?#
# Homelander #
#Hand over command to Vought #
In the comments section, those who were once considered "rational and objective" and "public intellectuals" are now more extreme than anyone else.
"Is all the taxpayers' money being wasted? Why can't the military even handle a group of terrorists? Hundreds of billions of yuan in military spending every year just to support a bunch of incompetent fools?!"
"Our children are afraid to go to school, afraid to even leave the house! And the president is still hiding in his bunker drinking coffee? Tell him to get out here!"
"I apologize for the insults I've made against Homelander! Now all I want to say is: Homelander, please save Chicago!"
Fear is the best tamer.
It can make the proud bow their heads and the free kneel and beg for their chains.