New York.
Queens.
Deep within the underground railway tracks.
A man huddled in the Shadow of a concrete pipe, his coat stained with grime and smelling damp and musty.
His name has long been forgotten; people just call him " Haozi ".
Several large brown rats surrounded him, quietly chewing on the half-pizza he had rummaged through the trash can.
They were his only subjects, and also his eyes and ears in this underground kingdom.
A mouse suddenly stopped what it was doing, pricked up its ears, and made a sharp "squeak" sound.
A look of alertness flashed in the Haozi's cloudy eyes.
He can understand.
Strangers are approaching, their footsteps are very light, and there's more than one.
This is not a glorious ability.
It cannot make him breathe fire, nor can it make him infinitely strong.
It only allows him to live a little longer than others in this city's sewer kingdom.
He chose not to believe the smiling face of the man on Vought International Television.
Because he knew very well that when someone smiles at you so perfectly, they must want something from you.
A person like him has nothing but this worthless life.
Haozi pulled out an old laptop wrapped tightly in oilcloth from his pocket.
He opened an encrypted forum and skillfully typed a long string of random characters.
The screen lit up, and a stream of eerie green data cascaded down like a waterfall.
The title of a pinned post was bright red and glaringly obvious.
Beneath the sugar coating lies a soul-devouring poison – The Prophet.
The post contained only a few brief sentences, not a lengthy one.
"They promise you exemptions to put your guard down."
They promise money to put a price tag on you.
"Their promise of a ladder is a way to get yourself into the Slaughterhouse."
"Don't register, don't believe, don't go near."
"They huddle together for warmth, hiding in the Shadow."
"Waiting for the true dawn."
Haozi looked at the last sentence, its chapped lips moved slightly.
He didn't know what dawn looked like.
But all he knew was that the Shadow would at least keep him alive until tomorrow.
This underground network called the " Awakened Mutual Aid Society " is their Shadow.
"Warning! Vought's 'elite training' has begun! The ' Vulcan ' in Chicago is their first sample! They will polish you into a commodity, label you, and put you on the shelf! Forget who you are, only remember their brand!"
The Haozi's pupils contracted.
He had seen the boy named " Vulcan " on the news.
That hero who was hailed by the media as a "prodigal son who turned over a new leaf".
So... that was fake too.
He quickly typed a line on the keyboard. "Coordinates: Queens, Subway maintenance access gate 17, men in suits approaching, suspected to be two Vought agents."
After sending the message, he closed his laptop, wrapped it in an oilcloth, and tucked it into his pocket.
"Squeak!"
The rats became agitated and scattered, fleeing deeper into the pipe.
Without Haozi hesitation, the rat crouched down and, like its subjects, nimbly slipped into another, narrower ventilation duct, its figure quickly disappearing into the endless darkness.
The top floor of the Vought Tower stands in stark contrast to the filth of the underground world.
The air here is filtered until it is spotless.
Motoko Kusanagi placed a report on Lynn's desk.
This is the preliminary report from the " Awakened Mutual Aid Society."
"An underground network spontaneously formed by newly Metahuman. Most members are from the lower rungs of society, their ability assessment levels are generally low, and their commercial value is limited."
"Their communication method is an encrypted BBS, their leader's codename is ' Prophet,' their identity is unknown, and they are highly inflammatory. They just issued a warning about Project Vulcan, and our infiltrators have confirmed that they possess a certain level of intelligence gathering capabilities or keen intuition."
Motoko Kusanagi's voice was steady and efficient.
"Based on our infiltration, this organization's core demands are distrust, non-cooperation, and not being defined."
Lynn's fingers tapped lightly on the table, listening to the words swirling in his mind, but without stirring any emotional ripples.
Distrust, non-cooperation, and a lack of definition?
This doesn't sound like a rebellion; it sounds more like a flock of lambs to the slaughter praying in vain.
" Lecter, come to my office."
He did not order the removal, nor did he instruct monitoring.
Shortly after, Hannibal Lecter walked in.
Today he wore a dark brown vest with a silk scarf, looking as elegant as an art critic about to attend a concert.
He noticed the report on the table.
"It seems that some lost sheep have rejected the shepherd's guidance."
Lynn gestured for him to sit.
"Look at this, a group of interesting experimental samples."
Hannibal browsed through the documents without showing any disgust or wariness on his face.
"A homeless man who communicates with rats..."
"A repairman who makes metal rust..."
A fortune teller who can briefly foresee the future...
He read a few cases aloud, a look of pleasure gleaming in his chestnut eyes.
"How simple, how primal, untamed vitality."
"Get rid of them directly is a waste, boss."
Hannibal looked up at Lynn.
"Just like preparing a grand feast, if there's only a main course, it would be too monotonous. These... small snacks can add more layers to the entire dining experience."
"My suggestion is that instead of suppressing them, we should support them."
Hannibal crossed his fingers and placed them in front of him.
"I will send someone posing as a philanthropist sympathizing with their plight, a wealthy man who also harbors 'suspicions' about Vought. This person will provide funding, supplies, and even some... misguided guidance to some of the most radical and impulsive groups."
"We must give them weapons, and we must also give them a reason to be angry."
"We want the public to see for themselves where Metahuman are outside the Vought system will ultimately end up."
His voice was gentle and magnetic, but what he said sent chills down your spine.
"They will become thieves, robbers, and thugs who abuse their power in the streets."
"They will use their own foolishness and loss of control to highlight the order and glory of our heroes."
"They will become a perfect, controllable opposition."
"A living example of what not to do, used to prove that all your decisions are absolutely correct."
Hannibal stood up and bowed slightly.
"People will be more grateful to you, their sole Gardener, when they scream in fear of these unruly 'weeds.'"
Lynn picked up his glass, the liquid inside reflecting his unfathomable eyes.
He did not comment on the cruelty of the plan.
He only cares about the result.
"I need a target that's conspicuous enough."
"Certainly."
A satisfied smile spread across Hannibal's face.
"I will carefully select the most magnificent stage for them."
"After all, for a successful tragedy to leave a lasting impression on the audience, the protagonist's destruction must be spectacular enough."