"Shit." Anton couldn't help but let it out loud, though his tone remained under control.
He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, trying to contain the anger burning inside.
He took a deep breath and, instead of yelling into the phone, said with a patient voice:
"Phil, you need to find a way to figure out how Eddie is doing. And if there's a chance to get him out of there... do it. Understood?"
"Y-yes, sir. We will." Phil replied instantly, his voice tense.
That tremble gave him away. But it also revealed something else: guilt.
During all those days of silence, Phil hadn't stopped thinking about Eddie. About how he had suggested sneaking into the shelter. About how Eddie, instead of putting him at risk, volunteered to go alone. And now he was missing.
The idea that Eddie had taken that risk to protect him was eating him alive.
"I promise, Mr. Anton. I'll do everything I can to rescue the Editor-in-Chief."
"I know," said Anton, unusually calm. "Just... keep your eyes open. And if you need anything, call me."
He hung up without another word.
For a few seconds, he stood still, staring at the black screen of his phone. It wasn't rage he felt. It was something more... persistent. Like a knot that wouldn't loosen.
He shook his head and forced himself to focus on another concern: the novel.
Batman Begins was already in motion, being serialized in the paper.
He wanted to know if it was generating the noise he hoped for.
He dialed Betty.
Her voice came through immediately, full of complaint:
"Anton! I'm just leaving work!"
"The world needs heroes, Betty. Some wear capes, others stay late at the office."
She sighed, resigned.
"You can't use inspirational quotes to justify labor exploitation."
"Sure I can. I'm the boss," he said, shrugging even though she couldn't see him. "How's the novel going?"
Betty snapped into professional mode at once.
"We've got a third published. Feedback's good. Some readers are sending letters asking us to serialize faster."
"Letters? What year is this?" he joked, then nodded. "Good. And sales?"
"Up. Thanks to the Bat."
"Perfect. Anything else?"
"Yeah. We found pirated versions online. Should we proceed?"
Anton thought for a second.
"Nah. Let them steal all they want. Just make sure our website gets it first and better. Tell the tech team to set up an exclusive section for the novel. Clean, fast-loading. No frills, just text and fire."
"Got it."
"And... get some trolls."
"What?"
"Trolls, Betty. Strong opinions. Stir the pot. We need noise. Use the old trick: compare Batman to Tony Stark. Something like... 'What if Bruce Wayne is cooler than Stark?' That'll start some fires."
Betty hesitated.
"You sure you want to piss off the most spiteful playboy in the country?"
"Tony's financing the film. He can get mad all he wants—he'll still be counting bills in the end. Trust me, he'll survive."
"Understood," she said, and hung up.
After the call, Anton opened the system and checked Batman's fan value.
A nice round number floated in front of him:
[Template: BATMAN]
[Deferred Activation]
[Current Fan Points: 32,145]
[Progress: 0.322%]
"Wow..." he muttered, scratching his temple. "We're flying."
He dropped into his chair as the system shoved the cold math in his face.
An epic advance: barely 0.322% of the way.
"Only..." he opened his fingers, "nine million nine hundred... forty-seven thousand eight hundred fifty-five left. Almost there."
He silently thanked the newbie starter pack. Without that "system discount," the original goal would've been fifty million.
Yeah, that number not even selling Stark as an NFT would cover.
"Okay, step one complete," he told himself, ironically. "Only ninety-nine steps left. Maybe less if I make the film explode at the box office."
His eyes lit up, not with excitement, but strategy.
The higher that film soared, the faster the counter would rise. And with it, he'd get closer to activating the template.
BATMAN.
His only real card in this game where villains were real and resources ran dry.
"If I had that armor now..." he whispered, "I wouldn't be so screwed against the Life Foundation."
And for the first time in days, he understood what Eddie had felt going to San Francisco.
Sitting in a safe zone, waiting for news, unable to lift a finger...
It was torture.
The kind no sarcasm could sweeten.
San Francisco.
Homeless Shelter.
Eddie's face was dirty, clothes in rags, and the smell of misery soaked into his skin. He curled up in a corner of the common dorm, among damp mattresses and empty stares. The others didn't see him. They didn't even see each other. Just meat shadows, piled in a forgotten corner of the world.
They looked like zombies. Soulless. Aimless. Stripped of dignity.
Eddie swallowed, stifling a gag. He'd been in places like this before, but never one that reeked so much of defeat.
The Life Foundation had lied. Reports, press conferences, smiling interviews and medals... trash.
This wasn't a shelter. It was a human pen.
A farm.
He knew it. He'd seen it with his own eyes.
Trucks arriving at dawn, with security personnel unlike the usual. Clean suits, discreet weapons, ready documents. They'd make people sign "volunteer" forms and take them with empty promises. They never returned.
"Reintegrated into society," they said.
Eddie scoffed silently.
He knew exactly where they ended up: glass cages, naked and monitored like lab rats. Voiceless. Rightless.
All stamped with the Life Foundation's seal.
"Carlton Drake..." he whispered.
His fist clenched in rage.
He'd recorded everything he could with a micro-camera hidden in his jacket buttons, but couldn't transmit anything. Signal was jammed. The place was covered in inhibitors and had no physical connection lines.
A tech blackout.
Yet he had an idea.
A truck rumbled in front of the shelter. Eddie recognized it.
Same guards. Same pattern.
It was time.
He swallowed, cold sweat sliding down his back, and stood up.
He knew he was risking it all.
But he also knew that inside that truck, he had the only shot at reaching the Foundation's heart.
One step. Then another.
He slipped into the group boarding like cattle.
Outside the shelter, Phil's phone vibrated on the dashboard with a sharp beep that spiked his nerves.
He glanced at the screen.
A red dot blinked on the map... and it was moving.
"No way," he muttered, heart jumping.
He adjusted the rearview mirror. And then he saw it:
a white truck, no visible markings, moving slowly down the avenue. At first glance, it looked like a regular delivery truck. But Phil had seen that model before—in the reports. And now, with that signal, he had no doubts.
"Eddie's in there..."
He shifted into first gear without thinking.
The engine roared with restrained anxiety.
He hit the gas.
The truck continued straight.
Phil caught up on a narrow, empty stretch.
His heart thundered in his ears. His plan was as dumb as it was urgent: force them to stop. Create a window. Even if just for a second.
He yanked the wheel hard.
CRASH!
The front of the car slammed into the truck's rear. A sharp screech. Metal on metal. The hood crumpled. The car jolted.
Phil froze.
For a moment, he heard nothing. Only his own breath, ragged and uneven.
The truck's door slammed open.
A massive man climbed down, footsteps heavy. Thick neck, tattooed arms, a look that would make a bull back off. He slammed a fist against the car window.
Phil swallowed hard. His hands shook.
Adrenaline screamed at him to get out and fight.
Fear glued him to the seat.
"What the hell are you doing, you idiot?!" the driver roared, opening Phil's door.
Phil raised his hands, palms open.
"S-sorry... I got distracted. Was checking the GPS..." he muttered, feigning confusion.
He didn't even know what he was saying. His chest felt crushed.
"Do you realize the damage you've done?!" The man grabbed him by the shirt collar, lifting him slightly.
Phil didn't respond. Didn't move.
He just nodded.
Like a kid who knew he couldn't win.
Then another guy appeared, dressed in tactical gear.
"Business first," he said, placing a hand on the brute's shoulder. "We'll have time to kill him later."
The driver released Phil with a grunt.
"Lucky I'm in a hurry, asshole."
They boarded the truck.
It drove off without a glance back.
A burst of black smoke spat in his face.
Phil stood still.
His legs wouldn't move.
His throat burned with bottled-up rage.
He'd had Eddie right there... and had done nothing.
He punched the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Thrice.
"Goddammit!"
He looked at the phone again.
And then... paused.
The red dot wasn't moving.
It stayed exactly where it was.
He frowned.
Had the GPS glitched?
He looked around. The truck was now a white blur in the distance.
Something didn't add up.
He stepped out of the car, body stiff. Walked a few steps, still confused.
Then suddenly...
A glint.
Just a reflection on the pavement, like sunlight bouncing off something tiny and metallic.
Phil crouched.
Between the cracks in the concrete, he found an object the size of a fingernail:
A micro-camera.
He held it between his fingers like a jewel.
"Eddie..."
He connected the portable viewer with trembling hands.
The camera had a memory card.
The screen showed files.
Dozens. Videos. Images.
Footage from the shelter.
Phil played one at random.
Eddie, covered in dust, speaking to the lens in a low but firm voice.
They had the proof.
"You genius..."
Quickly, he jumped into the car and called Anton.
His fingers didn't miss.
He knew it was now or never.
"Pick up, dammit..." he muttered, as the dial tone rang again and again.
This time, they had a chance.