The city below Inferno felt louder than usual.
Not the familiar roar of protests outside the Capitol—not the rainbow flags, not the chants about hero regulation or civil liberties. This was different. A dense, living mass packed shoulder to shoulder, faces tilted upward, mouths open in adoration. Hands stretched skyward like they were reaching for divinity.
Cheers rolled through the streets like surf crashing against concrete.
Mamdani stood at the podium, bathed in white-hot camera light, smiling as though the city itself had knelt and placed a crown on his head. People screamed his name. They waved signs. Some wept openly, clutching strangers as if salvation had finally arrived.
From the sky, Inferno watched.
Mamdani lifted a hand—not to quiet them, not yet—but to feel it. To drink it in. His eyes swept the crowd with practiced warmth, his smile calibrated down to the millimeter.
They're mine, he thought. Not into the microphone. Not aloud.
Hooked.
He waved again. Slow. Deliberate. The wave of a man who understood the mechanics of being loved.
Inferno hovered above the skyline, cape snapping violently in the wind. He had seen this before. Different names. Same faces. Same mouths shouting the same promises into the same empty sky.
Hitler once.
Obama once.
Saints and devils wearing the same skin.
Humanity never learned.
And neither, it seemed, did he.
Inferno accelerated without warning. The city smeared into streaks of glass and steel beneath him as he cut toward the hospital. Wind screamed around his ears. His fists clenched until the gloves creaked. His jaw tightened, muscles flexing as anger pressed against his ribs like a caged animal, desperate to tear free.
You no longer have control, Inferno.
Calvin's voice slipped into his mind uninvited. Calm. Certain. Final.
Inferno squeezed his eyes shut mid-flight. His speed increased anyway. The air itself seemed to protest as he tore through it.
Losing command was one thing.
Being forced to kill Winthrop—his right hand, his constant, the one man who had never flinched—was another.
Friend, if Inferno was still capable of such a word.
He tried to bury the thought.
It only sank deeper.
The hospital rose ahead, all glass and steel, sunlight glinting off its edges. People noticed him instantly. Nurses froze mid-step. A doctor dropped his clipboard, pages fluttering uselessly to the floor. Some rushed toward the windows. Others raised their phones, breathless, hungry.
Inferno slowed, descending like a god deciding where to land.
He let a smile form—not warmth, not joy. Performance. He opened his arms.
The crowd outside erupted.
"Oh my God—Inferno!"
"I love you!"
"Marry me!"
Hands reached for him. Bodies pressed closer. Questions spilled out—about Vortex, about rumors, about blood and footage and names whispered on the news.
Inferno accepted the adoration for exactly three seconds.
Then he stepped through the hospital doors without looking back.
Vortex's room was nothing like the others.
White tile, yes—but softened. Curated. A bed designed for indulgence rather than recovery, layered with expensive blankets and pillows that had never known discomfort. The nightstand overflowed with glossy magazines and folded newspapers, pages open to sculpted torsos and half-naked men frozen in mid-perfection. A television hummed softly in the corner.
Vortex lay submerged in sheets, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at her mouth as something played on-screen. Pleasure—not pain—curved her lips.
"Take it," she murmured, barely audible. "That's right."
A soft knock at the door.
"Ms. Vortex," a nurse said gently. "You have a visitor."
Vortex groaned and rolled her eyes. She snatched the remote and flipped the channel. Mamdani's rally filled the screen, the crowd roaring. "Fine," she muttered. "Send him in. But he better be handsome."
The door opened slowly.
Inferno peeked in first—then stepped inside.
The nurse's breath caught audibly. She reached out without thinking, fingers brushing his arm, then sliding across his chest as she turned him slightly, as if adjusting art in a gallery. Her other hand traced the hard lines beneath his suit.
"Mmm," she murmured, eyes locked on his. "Inferno… why don't you give me a call sometime?"
Inferno nodded once. No smile.
He took the scrap of paper she offered. Watched her walk away, hips swaying, glancing back with a grin that promised everything.
He shut the door.
Exhaled.
When he approached the bed, the smile vanished.
Scars cut across Vortex's face. One arm was locked in a cast. Her leg hung suspended, wrapped thickly. Bandages pressed beneath the sheets—broken ribs. Real damage. Not theatrical. Not pretty.
Inferno sat at the edge of the bed, carefully setting his cape aside. His posture remained rigid. His hands rested flat in his lap.
"So," he said quietly, eyes lowered. "You fought hard."
He looked up.
"Who did this to you?"
Vortex studied him openly, savoring his attention. "The kid," she said. "Short hair. He had help."
Inferno's head snapped up. "Connor?"
She nodded.
"How," Inferno pressed. "How did they stop you? You're invincible."
"Oh, Andrew," she teased, reaching out, fingers brushing his thigh. "After all this time… you came for me?"
He didn't move. Didn't react. Let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
"I remember when we loved each other," she continued. "When we dated. Kissed. When we—"
Inferno caught her wrist and gently placed her hand back on the bed.
"I'm here for two things," he said softly. "Who did this. And how."
She pouted. "That's no fun. When do we get to the fun part?"
Inferno stood.
"That's why I left you, Kelly."
Her smile cracked.
"It was always about your pleasure," he continued, voice calm—deadly. "Your fantasies. The things you watched. The things you did."
Her breath stuttered.
"You knew?" she whispered.
"Yes."
He stepped closer. "The cartels sent me the footage. What you did to people who couldn't fight back."
His fists tightened.
"Did you ever think about consent?" he asked. "About what it means? About what it feels like when power is taken from you?"
Vortex swallowed.
"You couldn't stand it when it happened to you," Inferno said. "But you did it anyway. To someone innocent."
He leaned in, eyes burning. "That's a human being."
"I—wait—I—"
Inferno moved.
In a blur, he crossed the room, lifting her effortlessly and pinning her against the wall. His hand drove through her abdomen with a wet, sickening force.
She gasped. Blood spilled. Her body sagged.
And she smiled.
"I'm not ashamed," she whispered. "I'd do it again."
Something broke in Inferno's chest.
He tore his hand free and struck her—once, twice—each blow precise. Controlled. Merciless.
The television flickered.
Mamdani's smiling face filled the screen again.
Blood splattered across it—thick red streaks crawling slowly down the glass.
Outside, the cheering never stopped.