Chapter 31: Framing Homelander, Making Him Taste the Agony of Being Indefensible
"Ahhh!"
A shrill howl pierced through the collapsed roof, tearing into the night wind of the Manhattan suburbs.
The sound was nothing like something a human could make; it was more like a beast being skinned alive.
Homelander knelt on the chaotic, debris-strewn wooden floor.
That Stars and Stripes cape, usually spotless, was currently soaked in a pool of dark red blood, saturated with the viscous liquid.
His hands, clad in red gloves, clutched Madelyn's broken body tightly.
Tears mixed with dust from his eyelashes fell, dripping onto the woman's silk robe, which was soaked in blood.
"Who… who the hell did this!"
With bloody phlegm stuck in his throat, the corners of his mouth trembled like a three-year-old child unable to find his mother.
His azure eyes were filled with swirling red bloodshot veins.
Right at this moment.
"Woo—woo—woo—"
A shrill siren shattered the silence around the villa.
Flashing red and blue lights swept in through the hole in the wall, hitting Homelander's blood-stained face again and again.
In the shadows of the room's corner.
Lynn was leaning against the cold load-bearing wall, keeping his breathing at the shallowest frequency.
He raised his wrist and glanced at the fluorescent hands on his watch dial.
The timing was just right.
Ten minutes ago, he had used a burner phone to call 911.
He had only said one sentence to the operator: "The Vought International Vice President is being attacked by a superpowered individual; someone is about to die."
The commotion outside grew louder and louder.
The screeching sound of tires braking against the asphalt merged into a cacophony.
Not only were there a dozen police cars, but also two news broadcast vans with satellite antennas that crashed recklessly through the villa's iron gate.
Long and short-barreled cameras were mounted on the roofs of the vans.
Reporters swarmed over, smelling blood.
Lynn pulled the black detonator from his suit's inner pocket.
His thumb rested on the red plastic button.
He looked at the blonde man-child kneeling on the ground, a mocking curve forming at the corner of his mouth.
He had specifically adjusted the yield and explosion angle of the C4 explosive under Madelyn's chair.
This thing wouldn't kill Homelander; it wouldn't even hurt a single hair on his head.
But it was enough to tear down the outer wall of this mansion.
His thumb pressed down lightly.
"Click."
"Boom—!"
A muffled explosion erupted violently beneath the oak chair.
A dazzling orange-red fireball rose from the ground, carrying thick black smoke, and directly blew away the entire south load-bearing wall.
Broken bricks and glass shards sprayed outward like bullets.
Homelander was shaken by the sudden shockwave.
Subconsciously, he arched his back, using his broad shoulders to shield the headless corpse in his arms.
The searing airflow singed his blonde hair, and the smell of burnt protein wafted through the air.
The dust had not yet fully settled.
The entire wall of the villa had completely collapsed, revealing a hole several meters wide.
The gruesome scene inside was exposed without cover to the cold night wind.
"Oh my god…"
On the lawn, a female reporter holding a microphone went weak at the knees, dropping the mic into the mud, which emitted a piercing screech.
Dozens of high-definition camera lenses aimed in unison at the man standing in the center of the ruins.
Camera flashes flickered like crazy.
Lighting up the night as bright as day.
At this very second, viewers all over the world watching their screens held their breath.
They saw clearly.
Homelander, the national idol with a sunny smile who saved the world every day.
Was currently kneeling in the rubble, covered in blood.
In his hands, he was holding the headless corpse of a woman.
And the surrounding ruins, the scorched cutting marks on the walls from high-temperature rays.
Were all his signature methods of destruction.
"No… it's not like that."
Homelander froze.
He looked down at his gloves, stained with bits of flesh and brain matter, then looked up at the dense crowd outside.
The fans who usually screamed for his autograph now looked at him as if they were looking at an ogre.
"I just got here… I didn't kill her!"
He opened his mouth, his voice cracking with undisguised panic.
"You idiots, turn off the cameras! Stop filming!"
No one in the crowd listened to him.
A few SWAT officers holding riot shields swallowed hard, their legs shaking, their hands trembling so much they could barely hold their rifles.
"He's lost it… he killed Ms. Stillwell."
A young police officer muttered, the voice not loud, but clearly reaching Homelander's ears.
"Shut up! I said I didn't kill her, so I didn't!"
Homelander stood up abruptly, his chest heaving violently.
He took a step forward, his boots crunching loudly on the broken glass.
The police outside were so scared that they all retreated several meters in unison, stumbling over each other in a chaotic mess.
Just then.
A violent sound of rotor blades came from overhead.
Two black helicopters painted with police insignia tore through the night, circling above the villa.
The blinding high-power searchlight beams, like two sharp swords, hit Homelander's face squarely.
The strong light made him squint, leaving his vision completely white.
"Homelander! Stay where you are!"
The megaphone on the helicopter made eardrums numb.
"Drop the corpse in your hands! Put your hands behind your head! Surrender immediately!"
These few sentences became the last straw that broke the camel's back.
The panic on Homelander's face vanished completely.
Replaced by a hideous expression that twisted his features.
He was a god.
These ants that he could crush with a flick of his finger actually dared to shine searchlights in his eyes and tell him to surrender?
"Surrender? Based on you pieces of sewer sludge?!"
Homelander roared at the top of his lungs, the veins on his forehead bulging one by one.
He slowly raised his head.
Those azure eyes were quickly replaced by a layer of boiling crimson under the glare of the searchlights.
The red light at the bottom of his eyes grew brighter, and the surrounding air was scorched until it distorted.
"I told you… turn off that damn light!"
"Zzzzt—!"
Two thick, blindingly hot beams of Heat Vision erupted without warning from his eye sockets.
The red light, like two red-hot scalpels, instantly sliced through the night sky.
Cutting straight through the tail rotor of the police helicopter on the left.
The steel skin didn't even last a tenth of a second against the laser.
With a crisp "crack," the tail rotor was sliced clean off.
The helicopter instantly lost balance, spinning in mid-air and plunging into the woods below.
"Help! The aircraft is out of control! Ahhh—"
The pilot's desperate screams came over the loudspeaker, followed by a deafening explosion.
A massive orange fireball rose into the sky, illuminating half the night.
The police and reporters on the lawn were completely terrified.
"Fire! Fire!"
Some SWAT officer yelled at the top of his lungs and pulled the trigger.
Dense rifle bullets poured onto Homelander like raindrops, creating sparks before ricocheting into the mud.
Bathed in the hail of bullets, Homelander threw his head back and let out a sick, maniacal laugh.
He stomped hard on the marble floor.
"Boom!"
The ground collapsed into a large crater, and he turned into a red and blue afterimage, charging straight into the sky against the bullets.
In the blink of an eye, he disappeared into the thick black clouds, leaving behind only an expanding sonic boom cloud.
A few hundred meters away from the villa.
On the flat rooftop of an old apartment building.
The night wind caused the rusty antennas on the roof to creak.
Lynn deactivated his invisibility, his cheap gray suit rippling with folds in the wind.
He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and kicked a piece of broken brick with the toe of his shoe.
In his earpiece, Frenchie's boisterous voice came through mixed with static.
"Boss! That frame-up was brilliant; Twitter is currently flooded with live replays of Homelander slaughtering the police."
Frenchie was chewing potato chips on the other end, crunching loudly.
"The folks at the Vought PR Department are probably already lining up on the rooftop to jump."
Lynn didn't reply.
He looked up at the red trail gradually disappearing on the skyline.
The smell of aviation fuel from the helicopter explosion still lingered in the air.
He slowly pulled a metal lighter from his pocket and spun it twice between his fingers.
A flame flared up, illuminating his cold, emotionless eyes.
Facing the smoke-filled night sky, a sneer tugged at the corner of Lynn's mouth.
"Run, you're the number one most wanted criminal in the U.S. now."
Chapter 32: The Seven? Now it's become The Three.
Lynn sneered after saying, "Run, you're the number one most wanted criminal in the country now," and casually shoved his lighter back into his pocket.
Across the skyline, the red and blue blur was completely swallowed by the night.
The helicopter's rotor smashed into the mud.
Flames licked at the leaking jet fuel, crackling loudly.
The orange glow illuminated half the sky, and thick, rolling smoke swept in on the night wind, tightening the throat with every breath.
A burst of static crackled through his hidden earpiece.
Frenchie smacked his lips over the comms channel.
"Boss, the CBS helicopter broadcast the whole thing."
The sound of his typing was deafeningly loud. "The Twitter servers just crashed for three minutes. That cape-wearing freak is the top trending topic on Twitter right now, and the whole internet is hunting him."
Butcher's voice cut into the channel, laced with heavy gasps.
"Let him run. No matter how fast that son of a bitch flies, he can't outrun the blood on his hands."
"Let him fly."
Lynn rubbed the back of his aching neck.
"Vought Corporation is a sinking ship, and the hull is already riddled with holes."
The next morning, 7th Avenue, Manhattan.
Two of the revolving glass doors on the ground floor of Vought International Tower had been smashed by the mob the night before.
Cold wind whistled into the lobby.
No one had come to fix them, and the security guards who usually stood at attention were nowhere to be seen.
Lynn stepped over the shattered glass, his leather shoes crunching with every step.
The lobby was a mess, looking like a market that had just been ransacked.
The floor was littered with A4 paper, all covered in dark, muddy footprints.
The receptionist's chair was overturned, and hot cocoa had spilled across the desk.
The thick, brown liquid dripped onto the carpet, emitting a cloyingly sweet, sour stench.
Most of the executives had fled overnight.
Those who remained were locked in their homes, afraid to show their faces, terrified of being jumped and beaten to death by angry fans if they stepped outside.
This once-gleaming empire, which had held the power to shape American public opinion, had turned into a ghost town overnight.
Lynn walked to the elevators and pressed the button reserved for executives.
The metal doors reflected his expressionless face.
"Ding."
The elevator stopped at the 99th floor.
The doors slid open to reveal The Seven's circular conference room, where the air conditioning was cranked so high it could freeze a person solid.
The area around the iconic large round table was empty.
Lynn glanced at the empty chairs, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Translucent had long since been reduced to a pile of bloody, pulverized remains.
A-Train's severed leg was probably rotting in a landfill somewhere.
The Deep had been fed to the green-eyed mutant piranhas in his tank.
Black Noir was still in the building, though he was currently lying in a sterile pod in the medical wing, hooked up to tubes.
The mute assassin's sternum was completely shattered, leaving him barely clinging to life, his EKG reading pitifully flat.
The once-invincible The Seven couldn't even scrape together enough people for a game of bridge.
Homelander had killed Madelyn and fled, and as for the rest who were still breathing...
There was only Queen Maeve and Starlight, who had only just joined a few days ago.
Even if you counted the fugitive, The Seven had shrunk directly into The Three.
"Clang."
The sound of a glass liquor bottle hitting the marble bar shattered the deathly silence of the room.
Lynn looked toward the sound.
Maeve was slumped on a leather bar stool.
She wasn't wearing her flashy battle armor, just a loose, baggy gray sweater.
Her hair was a mess, plastered against her cheeks, and her eyeshadow had smudged into dark circles.
She tilted her head back and took a long, hard swig of whiskey straight from the bottle.
The liquor ran down her chin and into her collar, but she didn't bother to wipe it, letting the stain soak into the fabric.
"Hiccup..."
Maeve let out a loud, drunken hiccup and turned her head, her eyes glazed with intoxication.
Upon realizing it was Lynn, she pulled at the corner of her mouth in a smile that looked worse than crying.
"Well, well, if it isn't... the clever deputy director of the PR Department."
Maeve's tongue felt thick, and she gestured vaguely at the air.
"Madelyn's dead, the big bosses have all tucked their tails and run, and you're still clocking in? Hoping for a perfect attendance bonus?"
Lynn walked to the bar, ignoring her jab.
He reached for a clean glass and poured himself half a cup of ice water.
"Someone has to stay behind to clean up the mess."
Lynn took a sip, moistening his parched throat.
"Clean up?"
Maeve's voice suddenly rose, as if she'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.
She slammed her hand against the bar, rattling the empty glasses.
"I've watched the footage of Homelander slicing that helicopter in half a dozen times! He's gone bloodthirsty!"
She covered her face, her shoulders slumping in a display of utter, hopeless defeat.
"The company is finished... and we, this bunch of artificial monsters, are finished too."
She dug her fingers into her tangled hair and scratched violently.
"That lunatic could fly back at any moment, twist our heads off, and flush them down the toilet."
Lynn watched her, unimpressed by her pathetic state.
He pushed the water glass toward her.
"You need to work on your tolerance. You start talking nonsense when you've had too much."
"Screw you."
Maeve swept the glass off the bar.
It shattered on the floor, splashing water all over Lynn's trousers.
"I'd rather drink myself to death here than wait around to die while sober."
Lynn didn't bother arguing with a drunk.
He brushed the water off his trousers and turned to walk out of the conference room.
At the end of the hallway was the private dressing room for The Seven.
The heavy, solid wood door was ajar, leaving a gap two fingers wide.
Lynn lightened his footsteps and pushed the door open.
His leather shoes made no sound on the soft, sound-dampening carpet.
The main lights in the dressing room were off.
A few slivers of pale daylight filtered through the blinds, cutting across the cold metal lockers.
The air carried a faint scent of disinfectant mixed with air freshener.
The sound of stifled sobbing came from the corner of the innermost row of lockers.
Annie was curled up into a small ball.
She was huddled on the cold floor, her knees pulled up to her chin.
She wasn't wearing makeup, and her bare face was streaked with tears.
Her eyes were red and swollen like bruised peaches, and the tip of her nose was raw from crying.
She was clutching the revealing costume the Vought executives had forced her to wear.
The skimpy outfit, with its neckline plunging to her stomach, was crumpled in her tight grip.
Her knuckles were white from the strain.
Her entire body was trembling uncontrollably.
After seeing the crates of blue Compound V on TV and the human experiments exposed by Popclaw.
Annie felt as if her world had collapsed.
The God she had believed in since she was a child, the "God-given power" her mother had preached about every single day.
All of it had been stripped of its hypocritical, pretty packaging.
Revealing the stinking, nauseating biochemical rot underneath.
She didn't even dare to think about what she really was.
A chemical experiment in a glass jar?
A marionette Vought Corporation used to make money, to be played with and discarded?
She didn't know who to hate.
Her mother, who had lied to her for over twenty years, or this rotten world.
Her faith lay shattered on the floor, beyond repair.
Lynn stopped half a meter in front of her.
His gaze dropped to the girl's trembling shoulders.
The girl's worldview had completely collapsed.
Everything around her was black, and she couldn't find a single lighthouse to guide her; she was as desperate as a kitten abandoned in the snow.
Lynn raised his hand and undid the plastic button of his suit jacket.
"Sizzle."
He took off his clean suit jacket, still warm from his body heat, and reached it out toward her.
He gently draped the gray fabric over Annie's thin, trembling shoulders.
The garment carried a faint scent of aftershave.
It instantly shielded her from the biting cold of the dressing room's air conditioning.
Annie's body stiffened.
The sob in her throat caught, escaping as a short, sharp gasp.
Her grip on the costume loosened slightly.
She slowly looked up.
Her eyes, filled with tears and confusion, met Lynn's gaze.
Lynn's face showed the weariness of someone who had been working overtime.
But there was none of his usual workplace calculation in his eyes.
Instead, they held a sense of calm and gentleness that made her want to lean on him.
Lynn leaned down slightly, meeting her gaze.
"Don't stay down here on the floor, Annie."
Lynn looked into her red-rimmed eyes, his voice soft.
"The floor is cold. Wipe your tears—we still need to figure out how to survive."
Chapter 33: Starlight's Despair, Boss Lynn is the Only Light
A gray suit jacket now rested on Annie's shoulders.
The fabric still retained the warmth of a man's body.
A faint scent of mint aftershave drifted over, just enough to mask the sour smell of air freshener in the locker room.
She looked up, gazing into Lynn's eyes, which were bloodshot from lack of sleep.
The tears in her eyes could no longer be held back, crashing down like a bursting dam.
Annie felt like someone drowning in the deep sea who had finally found a piece of driftwood.
She lunged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around Lynn's waist.
"Wuu wuu… they, they are all monsters!"
Annie buried her face in the abdomen of Lynn's wrinkled shirt and began to wail.
Hot tears seeped through the shirt fabric, pressing against Lynn's stomach with a warm, damp sensation.
"Madelyn is dead… even, even Homelander has gone crazy; he's killing people everywhere outside!"
She cried until she was gasping for air, her voice completely hoarse.
"Those chemical agents mentioned in the news… human experiments. What exactly is going on!"
Lynn's body stiffened for a moment, but he didn't push her away.
He raised his hand, his palm landing on the girl's thin, trembling back, patting her rhythmically.
"Cry it out. You'll feel better once you've gotten all that disgust out of your system."
Lynn sighed, his voice low and heavy, filled with an indescribable sense of pity and burden.
Annie's nails dug into the shirt on Lynn's back, pressing so hard her knuckles turned white.
She cried until she was hiccuping, her shoulders heaving.
It took several minutes for the crying to gradually subside, turning into intermittent sobs.
Only then did Lynn reach out, holding her arms to help her sit on the locker room's wooden bench.
He then pulled over a round metal stool and sat opposite her.
Their knees were almost touching.
"Do you think that box of blue Compound V just happened to come to light on its own?"
Lynn interlaced his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees.
His gaze was fixed on Annie's red, swollen eyes.
"And how do you think that self-destruct video of Popclawended up on the internet?"
Annie froze.
She forgot to wipe the teardrops from her eyelashes, her mouth slightly agape as she stared blankly at the man before her.
"Could it be… you?"
Lynn did not deny it.
He gave a bitter smile and reached up to pinch his weary brow.
"I've been in the PR Department for years, cleaning up after that bunch of scumbags every day, whitewashing all those shady, rotten affairs."
He paused, gritting his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bulging.
He played the image of an avenger enduring humiliation, lurking in the shadows, perfectly.
"I've long since had enough of this disgusting life."
Lynn lowered his voice, his gaze vigilantly sweeping over the partially ajar door of the locker room.
"I've been hiding in the shadows collecting evidence, originally wanting to find a safe opportunity to peel away Vought's layer of hypocrisy bit by bit."
He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"But that lunatic in the cape lost control, and the situation turned into a complete mess, so I had no choice but to detonate those bombs early."
Annie was stunned.
She had always thought this newly appointed assistant manager was just another corporate drone who knew how to read his superiors' moods.
Every day, he did nothing but calculate spreadsheets and fetch coffee.
She never expected that he would dare to single-handedly topple an entire arrogant empire of superheroes.
This was a true hero.
Ten thousand times nobler than those fakes wearing colorful spandex who just pose for the cameras.
"Then… then what can I do?"
Annie wiped her face haphazardly, tucking her messy blonde hair behind her ears.
Her expression slowly changed.
The despair and confusion from just a moment ago faded, replaced by a trace of near-blind worship in her eyes.
"They are all rotten to the core."
Lynn leaned in, taking Annie's cold fingers in his hands.
His warm palms transferred their heat to her bit by bit.
"Annie, you are the only clean person in this entire building."
He looked into the girl's eyes, his tone so sincere it could move God.
"Are you willing to help me rebuild true justice together?"
Annie bit her lip hard, tasting a hint of blood.
The flame that had been extinguished in her heart was reignited by these few words.
She gripped Lynn's hand back tightly and nodded heavily.
"I'm willing! No matter what you ask me to do… I'll listen to you!"
Done.
A faint, imperceptible arc curled at the corner of Lynn's mouth.
Another useful pawn had entered the game, heart and soul, and he had even saved himself the trouble of using violent means to tame her.
He was just about to say a few more nice things to solidify this newly established brainwashing effect when his suit pocket suddenly vibrated.
"Bzz—bzz—"
The muffled motor sound interrupted the tragic atmosphere in the locker room.
Lynn let go of Annie's hand and pulled out the encrypted phone.
The cold light of the screen lit up, displaying an unknown number with no contact name.
But he knew whose exclusive encrypted frequency this was.
Stan Edgar.
Lynn made a shushing gesture at Annie.
He stood up, walked to the corner near the window, swiped to answer, and held the phone to his ear.
"Boss."
Lynn's tone instantly switched back to that respectful, professional PR demeanor.
On the other end of the line, Edgar's voice was as steady as stagnant water.
No anger, no panic.
You couldn't tell at all that Vought had suffered a devastating blow just half a day ago, with even the Vice President left without a trace.
"Madelyn's death is a regret. But this company machine must keep turning."
Edgar didn't waste a single word, getting straight to the point.
"I saw your plan for shifting the blame regarding that batch of outsourced security companies; it was clean and efficient, with no flaws to be found."
A rustling sound of flipping paper came through the receiver.
"The board just passed it unanimously. Ashley will replace Madelyn as the new CEO."
Lynn raised an eyebrow, his gaze drifting toward the skyscrapers outside the window as he listened quietly to what followed.
"As for you, Lynn."
Edgar paused for a second, his voice carrying the cold, calculated tone typical of a capitalist.
"You are promoted to Senior Vice President of the company. Go be Ashley's deputy and assist her well."
The order was delivered, leaving absolutely no room for refusal.
The call hung up directly, replaced by a rhythmic, harsh dial tone.
Lynn took the phone away.
The phone's faint light illuminated his chin.
Letting that basket case Ashley, who can't even string a coherent sentence together, be CEO?
That woman is probably kneeling under the solid wood desk in her office right now, trembling while pulling at the few hairs she has left.
That old fox Edgar has his abacus well-calculated.
He just wants to find an obedient and cowardly puppet to put out in the open to take the heat, ready to be thrown away at any moment to appease public anger.
Annie sat on the bench, cautiously tugging at Lynn's pant leg.
"Did something happen? Is it more bad news from above?"
Lynn tucked the phone back into his pocket.
He turned around, looking at this newly recruited lackey who was full of admiration.
He reached out to straighten his shirt collar that had been tugged askew, a hint of hidden mockery curling at the corner of his mouth.
"Edgar just called, telling me to go assist that Ashley who can't even fix her own hair loss."
Lynn scoffed and shook his head.
"Assist?"
His leather shoes clicked against the carpet as he walked out.
"It's more like taking over."
Chapter 34: New CEO Ashley, Kneel Down and Sing "Conquer" for Me
The protests outside the corridor were separated by dozens of floors, turning into a dull buzzing sound by the time they reached the top floor.
Lynn hung up the phone and tucked it into his suit pocket.
His leather shoes stepped onto the dark red wool carpet, leaving a few shallow indentations.
The double doors of the CEO's office were left slightly ajar.
Lynn didn't even touch the door handle; he lifted his toe to press against the solid wood door panel and kicked it forward nonchalantly.
With a "creak."
The gap widened. The main lights in the room weren't on; there was only the daylight filtering in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Ashley sat in that leather executive chair, which symbolized the highest power at Vought.
She was wearing a dark gray haute couture professional suit.
The outfit was clearly tailored to Madelyn's measurements, and worn on her gaunt frame, it sagged at the shoulders, creating two unsightly wrinkles.
She looked like a comical puppet playing dress-up in adult clothes.
The woman was biting her own thumb.
Her teeth gnawed at the cuticle around her nail, emitting a teeth-grinding "click-clack" sound.
The edges of several fingers had been bitten until they oozed blood.
Her other hand clutched a large clump of blonde hair she had just ripped from her scalp, her palm slick with cold sweat.
Hearing the sound of the door hinges turning, Ashleysprang up from the chair as if she had been electrocuted.
She frantically stuffed the clump of hair, complete with follicles, into a drawer.
Then she pulled out two tissues and wiped the blood spots on her fingertips messily.
Upon seeing that the person who entered was Lynn.
Ashley cleared her dry throat and forced herself to straighten her back.
She tugged at the hem of the ill-fitting suit, trying to make herself look like she had the air of a Chief Executive Officer.
"Lynn! Don't you even know the rules about knocking before entering?"
Ashley raised her voice, the sound echoing in the spacious office.
"You received Mr. Edgar's internal email just now, didn't you?"
She braced her hands on the wide mahogany desk, chin slightly raised, glaring with eyes full of bloodshot veins.
"I am now the new CEO of Vought International. Your direct superior."
Lynn stopped by the door.
He didn't respond, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, a curve at the corner of his mouth that betrayed no emotion.
He just left the door wide open, letting the draft from the corridor outside pour into the room.
It blew the unsigned reports on the desk, making them rustle loudly.
Ashley was unnerved by his stare, her Adam's apple bobbing twice as she suppressed the inexplicable chill rising from the bottom of her heart.
"That Senior Vice President position of yours is just there for you to be my deputy."
She pointed her index finger at the desktop.
"Now, go gather those brainless idiots in the PR Department, issue a statement to stabilize the stock price first, and then make me a hot coff..."
The word "fee" was still stuck in her throat.
Lynn took a step.
His leather shoes trod on the carpet, and in a few strides, he was upon the large desk.
He suddenly pulled out his right hand from his pocket.
The movement was so fast that even a shadow couldn't be caught.
His arm reached over the desk and grabbed a tight handful of Ashley's already sparse, short blonde hair.
"Ah—!"
A tearing, excruciating pain shot through her scalp.
Ashley let out a shrill, distorted shriek, her whole body yanked forward by this unreasonable, brute force.
"Bang!"
Lynn pressed down on the back of her head, slamming that face caked with thick foundation hard against the solid wood desk.
The dull thud made the coffee cup at the corner of the desk jump.
Ashley's nose bridge hit the wooden edge, the stinging pain shooting straight to her crown, and two lines of involuntary tears instantly gushed out.
"Let go! Are you crazy!"
Ashley's hands clawed at the air, her manicured nails trying to scratch Lynn's wrist.
"I'm going to fire you! Security! Someone come and save me!"
Her cheek was pressed firmly against the cold desktop, her lips distorted by the pressure, screaming incoherently.
Lynn reached into his inner suit pocket with his left hand and pulled out an encrypted phone.
He swiped his thumb across the screen twice to bring up the audio folder.
With a flick of his finger, he turned the media volume to the maximum.
With a "slap," he slammed the phone right in front of Ashley's widened right eye.
The screen flickered with a ghostly blue light.
A recording mixed with the sound of water and piercing wails exploded in the office.
"Don't... please don't press it! I promise I'll never touch Annie again! I resign! Ah—!"
"Click, click."
That was The Deep's broken, sobbing cry.
Immediately following was a hair-raising sound of flesh and bone being torn, along with the chewing noises of hundreds of mutant piranhas rolling frantically in a tank.
Ashley's screaming instantly cut off.
Like a hen whose neck had been wrung.
She stared at the phone, her pupils instantly shrinking to the size of pinpricks.
Her blood felt as if it had been thrown into an ice hole at dozens of degrees below zero, chilling her to the bone.
The Deep?
Didn't the PR Department's press release say he fled in fear of punishment and jumped into the sea? What is this screaming in the water tank!
Lynn didn't give her any room to breathe.
He lightly swiped his fingertip across the screen.
The next audio clip began to play.
"Someone is trying to kill me! Come back... please!"
Madelyn's desperate, tearful plea for help drilled clearly into Ashley's eardrums.
Immediately followed by a dull "thwip."
After the sound of a suppressed gunshot, only deathly silence remained in the recording, along with the chillingly steady footsteps of someone.
Ashley's brain went "buzz" and completely crashed.
Her stomach churned, and that terror shot up her spine from her tailbone.
Her scalp tingled.
She remembered it all.
Yesterday in the top-floor monitoring room, before The Deep's vitals disappeared, Lynn was at the scene and had taken that fatal USB drive.
Madelyn died tragically at the villa, and Lynn was also the last person to walk out of this office yesterday.
This was no honest, submissive deputy head of PR.
This was a living King of Hell who slaughtered The Sevenlike pigs!
Lynn loosened his five fingers, releasing the blonde hair soaked in sweat.
He slowly and deliberately pulled a tissue from the box on the desk.
He wiped his knuckles, which were stained with a bit of hair oil, one by one.
"Fire me?"
Lynn pulled the corner of his mouth, looking down condescendingly at the woman slumped on the desk like a pile of mud.
His tone was full of nonchalant mockery.
"Your old boss, Madelyn, was much tougher than you before she died."
He threw the crumpled tissue onto the table.
"Though, when her brains splattered on the wall, it wasn't a pretty sight."
Ashley gasped for air.
She scrambled down from the large desk, her legs as soft as two cooked noodles, unable to stand at all.
Her back pressed hard against the metal base of the executive chair, and she plopped onto the carpet.
That haute couture suit was all wrinkled, snot mixed with tears smeared all over her face, looking as pathetic as a drowned dog.
"Don't kill me... Lynn... no, Boss!"
Her teeth chattered, and she couldn't even straighten out her tongue, desperately trying to shrink backward.
"I didn't hear anything, I'm blind, I'm deaf!"
She finally understood now that the CEO title she was so proud of was worth less than a shoe-shining rag in this man's eyes.
Lynn's leather shoes stepped on the carpet, moving half a step forward.
The polished toe of his shoe was almost touching Ashley's thigh.
"Do you think Edgar let you sit in this position because he values you?"
Lynn's voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a bloody ice pick, hammering hard into Ashley's skull.
"Vought is now a powder keg with a lit fuse. Outside, there are tens of thousands of rioters who want to eat people, and in the sky, there's a caped freak who could lose control at any moment."
He bent down slightly, his eyes cold without a trace of warmth, piercing straight into Ashley's unfocused pupils.
"You are just a dead person who can take the blame at any time."
Ashley was shaking like a malfunctioning motor.
She wasn't stupid; she certainly knew Edgar wasn't a philanthropist.
This chair was a guillotine filled with knives; whoever sat on it had to die.
Lynn let go and looked down at the trembling Ashley.
"If you want to live, obediently be my puppet."
These words were the final straw that broke Ashley.
Fear and a strong desire to survive completely drowned out her pathetic workplace vanity.
Ashley completely broke down, her knees buckling, and she knelt on the carpet.
Like a stray dog begging for mercy, she crawled on her knees toward Lynn.
Both hands held onto Lynn's leather shoes tightly.
Fearing that this only lifeline would run away.
Her nails dug into the leather texture of the shoes, tears and foundation mixed together, staining a large part of Lynn's trouser leg wet.
Ashley looked up with her terrified, disheveled face, howling with a hoarse throat.
"I'll listen to you! Vought is yours!"
Chapter 35: Controlling Vought from the Shadows, I Am the King Here
Lynn frowned in disgust, his calf muscles tensing.
He yanked the custom leather shoe, stained with foundation and tears, straight out of Ashley's embrace.
The leather surface scraped against Ashley's high-end suit, emitting a dry, rasping sound.
Ashley's hands grasped at thin air, her upper body lunging forward.
Her forehead nearly slammed into the solid wood leg of the desk, causing her to gasp in pain.
Lynn didn't even spare her a glance.
He stepped over the scattered fake passports and cash on the floor, walking straight to the leather executive chair that symbolized the highest power at Vought.
He plopped himself down into it.
The hydraulic shaft under the chair let out a dull creak.
He casually propped his long legs up onto the wide desk, crossing his ankles.
His back sank into the soft chair, his gaze sweeping downward.
He looked down at the new CEO, who was huddled on the carpet, shaking like a leaf.
"Get up."
Lynn tapped his fingers against the desktop, creating a dull thudding sound.
"There's no one else here. Drop that pathetic stray dog act; it's an eyesore."
Ashley bit her lower lip, bracing herself against the corner of the desk to slowly climb to her feet.
Her legs were as soft as noodles, and she had no idea where she had kicked off her high heels.
Barefoot on the thick wool carpet, her toes were still trembling.
"B-boss... what should I do?"
She had even changed her form of address, her shoulders hunched.
Her fingers were clutching the hem of her clothes tightly, with bloodstains from scratching her scalp still visible under her fingernails.
Lynn tilted his chin, pointing at the internal computer on the desk that held the highest authority.
"Log in."
His voice was flat, carrying an air of unrefusable firmness.
Ashley hurried over, leaning her body over the keyboard.
When entering the password, her fingers shook so much she made two mistakes.
The screen lit up with a ghostly blue light, illuminating her pale face.
"Open the weapon inventory for the fourth basement level."
Lynn took out his phone and glanced at the black market request list that Frenchie had just sent.
"And the directory for the special enhancement serums in Lab Seven."
Ashley swallowed, her Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty.
She dragged the mouse cursor across the screen, pulling up a long, dense list of supplies.
"Take that batch of high-frequency electromagnetic guns and individual exoskeletons in Zone C."
Lynn swiped his fingertips across his phone screen twice.
"And those two cases of undiluted Compound V derivative serum—check them all."
Ashley's hand froze as she turned her head, her face full of astonishment.
"Th-these are all first-hand goods reserved by the military..."
Her tongue was a bit tied, and cold sweat broke out on her forehead again.
"If they go missing and the board investigates..."
She didn't finish her sentence.
The heel of the leather shoe Lynn had propped on the desk tapped heavily against the wood.
"Is it that hard to change the status?"
Lynn leaned forward, staring into her eyes.
His gaze was like two blood-stained ice picks, stabbing directly into Ashley's pupils.
"Just write that the warehouse security system malfunctioned, causing this batch of high-precision equipment to get water-damaged and be declared a total loss."
He leaned back into the chair, a cold sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Load them onto trucks overnight and take them to the Brooklyn No. 3 Waste Treatment Plant for destruction."
Ashley shuddered in fear, not daring to say another word.
She typed away at the keyboard, making it clatter.
As long as she could save her own life, let alone a few cases of weapons, she wouldn't dare object even if he tore down the Vought building to sell as scrap metal.
...
Two hours later, an abandoned basement in Brooklyn.
A heavy iron door was kicked open from the outside.
Several gang members disguised as garbage collectors walked in, carrying several huge wooden crates.
The crates slammed heavily onto the moldy concrete floor, kicking up a cloud of choking dust.
Frenchie dropped the half-bottle of vodka in his hand and grabbed a rusty crowbar.
"Move aside, don't damage my babies."
He violently pried open the crate lid, sending wood chips flying.
Inside were black firearms, tightly wrapped in shock-absorbent foam.
The blued metal surfaces gleamed with an expensive, cold matte finish.
"Merde! These are electromagnetic rail rifles that haven't even entered mass production at Vought labs yet!"
Frenchie was practically drooling.
He grabbed a rifle and stroked the barrel with affection, as if caressing a lover's skin.
"The kinetic energy of this thing can turn the steel plating of an armored vehicle into a sieve."
Hughie leaned in, pulling a heavy tactical vest out of another crate.
The surface of the vest was covered in a dense honeycomb texture.
"This thing... can it block a supe's punch?"
Hughie's voice was filled with a hint of excitement, his fingers pinching the vest, which felt hard and unyielding.
Butcher walked over with a half-smoked cigar in his mouth.
He kicked open the thermostat box with a combination lock at the far end.
The lid popped open.
The ghostly blue enhancement serum sloshed slightly in the low-temperature glass tubes, radiating a deadly allure.
Butcher grinned, revealing his nicotine-stained yellow teeth.
He picked up a vial of serum and shook it in front of his eyes.
"With these toys, we, The Boys, can finally open a Butchershop for those caped freaks."
...
Back to Manhattan, at the CEO's office.
The cold air from the AC dispersed the original scorched smell in the room.
Ashley had just finished signing over a dozen electronic approval forms for the transfer of scrapped assets.
She slumped in front of the computer, looking like she had been fished out of the water, the back of her suit completely soaked.
"One more thing."
Lynn picked up the cup of coffee by his side that had long since gone cold and took a sip.
The bitter liquid slid down his throat.
"Have the PR Department release a press statement immediately."
Lynn pointed at his own nose, a glimmer of calculation flashing in his eyes.
"Say that the new Senior Vice President, Lynn, turned the tide during the crisis of the terrorist attack."
He drew a circle in the air with his finger.
"That he calmed the panicked board of directors and stabilized the plummeting stock market."
He tossed the coffee cup onto the desk, making a crisp clatter.
"Heap all the credit onto me."
Lynn stood up and smoothed out the wrinkles on his suit jacket.
"I want those idiots outside holding protest signs to know exactly who is steering this sinking ship called Vought."
Ashley didn't dare look up at him, only nodding frantically like a chicken pecking at rice.
"I'll get right on it... I'll go arrange the press conference immediately."
She reached for the desk phone receiver, her hands shaking so much that she knocked over the business card holder next to it.
Lynn ignored her.
He paced over to the massive floor-to-ceiling window.
The night view of Manhattan spread out beneath his feet, the sound of sirens having faded to a faint murmur.
To secretly hold the throat of a super-conglomerate in his hands.
And on the surface, to reap the benefits of being a PR savior.
The sensation of treating everyone like puppets, manipulating the situation at will, was truly addictive.
Everything seemed to be proceeding perfectly according to his script.
Homelander had become a wanted criminal, The Sevenexisted in name only, and The Boys had become the sharpest blade in his hand.
Suddenly.
Lynn's eyelid twitched violently.
His Kryptonian danger sense was screaming warnings in his mind.
Without warning, a pungent smell of ozone surged through the air.
It was like standing under a high-voltage tower during a thunderstorm, the kind of scent that made your lungs sting with every breath.
The hairs on his arms stood up one by one.
"Crackle... zzz..."
The sound of faint static crackled throughout the office.
The computer screen on the desk began to flicker wildly, and finally, with a "pop," it went black.
"What's going on? Did the power go out?"
Ashley screamed in terror, dropped the receiver, and dove under the solid wood desk.
Clutching her head tightly with both hands.
"Bang—crash!"
The entire floor-to-ceiling blast-proof window in front of Lynn was kicked in from the outside by a terrifying force.
Shards of tempered glass over a dozen centimeters thick showered into the room like a rainstorm.
A gale wind, carrying the cold air from high altitude, instantly filled the entire office.
The documents on the desk were blown everywhere.
Lynn took half a step back, squinting his eyes to shield them from the flying glass shards.
The hem of his suit flapped violently in the gale.
Floating in mid-air outside the window was a person.
Or to be precise, a woman.
She was wearing a tight black leather outfit with a heavy military style.
Violent purple lightning, like venomous snakes flicking their tongues, slithered and coiled around her arms, torso, and the surrounding air.
The blinding electric light illuminated the dim office with a stark, pale glow.
Stepping on the air currents in mid-air with her leather boots, she slowly floated into the room.
The broken glass crunched under her feet, making a teeth-grinding sound.
The woman held her chin high, scanning the room with a gaze that looked upon sewer trash.
Her gaze swept past Ashley, who was hiding under the desk, and finally fixed firmly on Lynn's face.
A sneer of undisguised contempt curled at the corner of her mouth.
Her voice, when she spoke, carried the tremor of static electricity.
"Edgar sent me to take over The Seven, so get lost, you suit-wearing piece of trash!"
Chapter 36: Stormfront Drops In, The Old Nazi Hag's Great Display of Power
Purple lightning, like dozens of crazed vipers, lashed out across the office's wool carpet.
Amidst the crackling, popping sounds, the expensive carpet was scorched with several charred trenches, emitting a pungent, burnt odor.
Stormfront landed in her leather boots, walking in while stepping on the shattered glass covering the floor.
The soles of her boots made a teeth-grinding crunch.
Her black combat suit clung tightly to her skin, and purple electric arcs still leaped across her shoulders.
A chattering sound of teeth came from under the office desk.
Stormfront glanced down, not even bothering to look directly at the new CEO huddled into a ball.
She bent her legs and sat directly on the edge of the large mahogany desk.
Her thighs, wrapped in black leather pants, swung casually.
Lynn stood half a meter away, eyes half-lowered, not moving an inch.
Stormfront raised her right hand, pinching her index finger and thumb together.
A wisp of purple static electricity danced at her fingertips.
She flicked her finger at the glass by Lynn's side that still had half a cup of cold water in it.
"Bang."
Electric sparks struck the side of the glass.
The glass instantly cracked, water spilling across half the desk and dripping down the edge.
"Madelyn's outdated PR spiel makes me want to puke."
Stormfront chewed her gum, blew a pink bubble, and it popped with a "snap."
"All that'saving the world' and 'heroic role model' nonsense is just stupid."
Lynn hurriedly cooperated by shrinking back half a step, his body hunching over.
That subservient, corporate-slave demeanor was acted out even more realistically than an Oscar-winning actor.
"Then… what do you mean?" He swallowed, feigning a look of seeking guidance.
"The internet, understand? Suit man."
Stormfront leaned forward, her finger tapping Lynn's chest.
"People nowadays don't need perfect idols; they need an outlet, they need anger."
Lynn nodded repeatedly, taking the opportunity to raise his left hand, pretending to straighten his crooked tie.
His fingertips silently brushed against a small bump on the back of his tie clip.
The micro-camera lens, hidden within the black crushed diamonds, operated silently.
He even controlled his breathing frequency to that of an ordinary person, forcibly suppressing the instinctive counterattack of his steel-like body.
"Look at all that yellow-skinned and black-skinned trash on the streets outside."
Stormfront sneered, her eyes filled with undisguised disgust.
"They keep breeding litter after litter, seizing resources, and tainting our bloodline."
The more she talked, the more excited she became, gesturing in mid-air as currents of electricity darted from her fingertips.
"We need to shove white superiority back into the brains of those netizens."
Lynn's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice trembling slightly: "This… if this evidence is caught, it'll be a serious PR disaster…"
"Who's going to catch us?"
Stormfront interrupted him, laughing loudly, her laughter sounding sharp and grating in the cold wind.
"Just make a few emotionally inflammatory memes and come up with some fake news."
She kicked the table leg with her heel, shaking Ashley, who was underneath, causing her to cover her ears.
"Those netizens are like sharks smelling blood; they have no brains and will only follow the rhythm we set to bite whoever we want."
The night wind poured in from outside the smashed floor-to-ceiling window.
Blowing the reports on the desk all over the place.
One sheet happened to slap right onto Stormfront's face.
She irritably tore the paper off.
A flash of lightning from her fingertips instantly turned the paper into a pile of ashes that fell onto the desk, the black soot scattered by the wind.
"Listen up, my plan is very simple."
Stormfront stared at Lynn, her chin slightly raised.
"I want to build an army of pure-blooded super-powered individuals and cleanse all those inferior genes."
She leaned in closer, lowering her voice, radiating a fanaticism like that of a cult leader.
"Vought Corporation was founded for this very great goal."
The camera on the tie clip recorded this entire statement, along with every twisted expression on her face.
Lynn sneered internally.
This old hag was basically a perfect walking bomb, and he had been worrying about having nowhere to dig up Vought Corporation's roots.
She was practically rushing to shove the dynamite into his hands.
Lynn hunched over, rubbing his hands together, his face filled with a fawning smile.
"No problem, algorithm pushing is what our PR Department is best at."
He guaranteed repeatedly, his head bobbing like a chick pecking at rice.
"I-I guarantee your approval rating will double within a day, and the whole internet will follow your lead."
"A loser like you, living on a fixed salary, is actually quite savvy."
Stormfront narrowed her eyes in satisfaction.
She jumped off the desk, her leather boots crunching on a piece of broken glass.
She walked up to Lynn and extended that hand crackling with static sparks.
"Slap, slap."
She patted Lynn's cheek twice, neither too hard nor too soft.
The current drilled into his skin; if it were an ordinary person, half their face would be numb by now.
Lynn held firm without moving, not even twitching an eyebrow.
"You're sensible, good dog."
Stormfront dropped this remark and turned to face the large hole in the floor-to-ceiling window she had kicked in.
She slammed both hands downward.
A violent purple thundercloud exploded beneath her feet.
"Boom!"
She turned into a bolt of lightning and shot into the sky.
In the blink of an eye, she disappeared into the thick, dark night sky of Manhattan, leaving behind only a deafening rumble of thunder.
The office returned to dead silence.
Only the sound of wind blowing paper and Ashley's heavy breathing from under the desk remained.
Lynn slowly straightened up.
The servile demeanor from just a moment ago vanished completely, like a receding tide.
His facial muscles tightened again, his eyes as cold as a knife pulled from an ice cave.
He raised his hand and vigorously rubbed his cheek with his suit cuff.
Wiping away the lingering taste of static electricity left by that old hag.
Then he extended two fingers and pressed the micro-communicator hidden in his ear.
"Beep."
The channel connected, and the clatter of keyboard typing came from Frenchie's side.
"Frenchie, stop what you're doing for a second."
Lynn turned around, looking at the flickering neon lights outside the floor-to-ceiling window, and pulled a cold, murderous sneer.
"Go dig up an old file on someone called 'Liberty'."
Lynn's voice echoed in the empty office, carrying an unquestionable command.
"If this old hag wants to play at cyber-bullying, then we'll cut off her internet."
Chapter 37: Want to use populism to brainwash people? I'll just cut your internet.
In the basement in Brooklyn, the sound of keystrokes suddenly intensified.
Frenchie pushed the unfinished half-bottle of vodka to the corner of the table, his hands moving so fast over the yellowed keyboard that they became a blur.
"Boss, this job goes back a long way."
Frenchie bit his lower lip, his eyes locked onto the flickering code on the monitor.
"Digitized remnants of paper files from the seventies; Vought must have scrubbed them once when they were cleaning up their image. But hey, as long as the data existed, even if it was burned to ashes, I can piece it back together."
Hughie leaned in with a box of stale takeout, his neck stretched out long.
An encrypted black folder popped up on the screen, bearing Vought's early eagle logo.
Frenchie hit the final Enter key and let out a sharp whistle.
"Done. The password shell is cracked."
Yellowed old photos and interrogation transcripts typed out on a typewriter flooded the screen like a waterfall.
Hughie squinted to make out the first black-and-white photo, and the plastic fork in his hand dropped to the floor.
"Good God... this woman is a monster."
Three days later, Manhattan.
The protests outside the building hadn't fully dispersed, but the tide on the internet had completely shifted.
Stormfront sat in the boss's chair in The Seven's conference room, with a high-wattage fill light set up in front of her.
She had changed into a casual black tight-fitting T-shirt and was holding a cup of iced matcha latte.
The scrolling bullet comments on her phone screen flickered across her delicately made-up face.
"Listen, guys, we have to protect our community."
Stormfront raised an eyebrow at the camera, her tone light and carrying that relatable, big-sisterly charm.
"Those outsiders are taking our jobs and dirtying our streets. Vought was too soft before, but now, I'm going to set everything back on track."
The viewer count in the top right corner of the livestream was jumping crazily.
Eighty thousand, ninety thousand—it was about to break the hundred-thousand mark.
Countless fanatical, inflammatory bullet comments flooded the screen, all shouting "Queen" and "Savior."
The Vice President's office on the 40th floor.
Lynn leaned back against the leather chair, his legs crossed and resting on the desk.
In his left hand, he held a cup of freshly brewed black coffee, the steam warming his chin.
His right hand toyed with a black wireless mouse.
On the computer screen, Stormfront's livestream was playing.
For the past few days, this old hag had been posting memes and giving brainwashing speeches day and night, packaging that white supremacist trash as so-called "wokeness."
Lynn took a sip of the bitter coffee, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"It's time."
He picked up the encrypted terminal on the desk and dialed Frenchie's line.
"Frenchie, the warm-up is over. Serve the main course."
A click of a lighter igniting a cigarette came from the other end of the line.
"Copy that, boss. The big package is all wrapped up, just waiting for you to hit the launch button."
Lynn moved the mouse and clicked open the backend control panel for Vought's underlying servers.
As the Senior Vice President who now actually held the reins of the company, all of Ashley's root access passwords were in his head.
The webpage listed all of Stormfront's official verified accounts on Twitter, YouTube, and Facebook.
Lynn rested his index finger on the left mouse button.
"Don't you like to incite people?"
Watching the woman on the screen who was about to announce her takeover of The Seven, a mocking smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Click."
He pressed the microswitch hard.
The operation option hovered over the word "Delete."
In just a second, the entire social media matrix Stormfrontused to build her fanbase instantly turned into a sea of 404 dead links.
Immediately after, Frenchie's Trojan script began bombing the entire web.
Over two hundred million smart devices across the US—whether they were looking at recipes or playing games—all froze for a moment.
A glaring red pop-up window forced itself into everyone's view.
The title was blunt and direct: "The Resurrection of a Nazi Ghost: Stormfront's True Face."
Clicking on the pop-up, the first image was a black-and-white wanted poster from the 1970s.
It featured a supe named "Liberty," whose appearance was identical to the current Stormfront, down to the exact curve of her eyes.
The image below was even more shocking. Liberty was wearing a uniform with Nazi elements, laughing while stepping on the corpse of a young Black man.
Swiping further, there were dozens of top-secret files stamped with World War II-era German military seals.
They clearly stated her real name and provided ironclad proof that she was the first successful recipient of Compound V.
This was no savior of equality; this was a genocidal maniac with innocent blood on her hands.
In the conference room on the 70th floor, Stormfront was tossing her hair in front of the camera.
"So, I have decided that starting today, I will officially take over The Seven..."
Before she could finish, the tablet connected to the livestream feed in front of her flickered and went black.
The fill light was still on. "Hello? What is the technical department doing? Why did the signal cut out?"
Stormfront tapped the casing impatiently, making a crisp sound.
She irritably grabbed her private backup phone, wanting to check the backend.
Just as she unlocked it, a deluge of private message notifications chimed incessantly like a death knell.
She randomly clicked on one. It was from a hardcore fan who had been showering her with gifts just a second ago.
"Go to hell, you old dog! You murderer!"
Stormfront froze. She frowned, slid her thumb down, and opened the trending list on Twitter.
The top ten trending topics were completely dominated by her black-and-white photos and vitriolic abuse.
Those high-definition proofs of her crimes, that old history she thought Vought had long ago shoved into a shredder—now they were plastered all over the faces of netizens worldwide like snowflakes.
"This... this is impossible..."
The composure on Stormfront's face collapsed instantly.
The muscles around her eyes twitched uncontrollably, and her delicately made-up face twisted into a mask of rage.
She gripped the phone tightly, her knuckles turning pale from the excessive force.
How could those old debts from a century ago suddenly be exposed across the entire internet?
A violent purple electrical current crawled up her arm. A strong smell of ozone exploded in the air, stinging the nose.
"Zzzzt—" The smartphone in her hand was instantly blasted into charred plastic waste by the lightning overflowing from her palm.
The battery burst, emitting a pungent white smoke.
Stormfront, like a lioness whose tail had been stepped on, lunged up from her chair.
She waved her hands wildly. Several thick bolts of lightning slammed fiercely into the fill light in front of her.
The glass tube shattered into pieces, and sparks splattered everywhere.
"Who did this... who the hell was it!"
She gritted her back teeth, a hoarse roar rolling from her throat.
Her figure became a purple blur as she smashed through the solid wood door of the conference room.
The 40th floor, PR Department lobby. The sound of keyboards in the cubicles had stopped.
Dozens of programmers and specialists were staring dumbfounded at the earth-shattering gossip on their computers, not even bothering to wipe the coffee spilled on their pants.
"Boom!" The glass door was kicked off its hinges by a massive force, slamming down between two rows of workstations.
Purple electricity crackled, weaving a web of fire in the air.
Stormfront stormed in, radiating murderous intent, her boots burning charred holes into the carpet.
The entire lobby fell into instant silence. Everyone was so terrified they held their breath, shrinking behind their cubicle partitions and shivering.
Stormfront strode up to the desk of the programmer nearest to her.
It was a chubby guy with thick-rimmed glasses, who was currently slumped in his chair, his legs too weak to stand.
She grabbed the chubby guy by the collar of his plaid shirt. With one hand, she hoisted the grown man straight up from his workstation, leaving his feet dangling in the air.
Purple arcs of electricity crawled up her arm and onto the guy's neck. They shocked him into full-body spasms, white foam bubbling from his mouth.
Stormfront's eyes were bloodshot as she dragged him right in front of her face. Spittle sprayed all over his lenses.
"Who did this?! Find the person who posted that for me!"