The Broadcast
Time slipped by. Damien led most of the conversation while Cecelia listened more than she spoke, occasionally smiling, occasionally drifting somewhere else. At one point, she glanced at the wall clock. It read 7:55. Remembering his earlier request, she chose to stay quiet.
They settled in for the broadcast. Robert stood directly behind the couch, motionless.
The anchor's tone was solemn, introducing the segment by painting Mr. Cole as a monster hidden behind a carefully constructed façade. Then, the world's top ten Executives appeared on screen one by one. Each publicly distanced themselves from the fallen billionaire, using nearly identical, pristine vocabulary to condemn his actions. The statements followed each other like a perfectly rehearsed sequence.
The anchor smoothly transitioned, announcing that Mr. Cole's daughter, as the sole victim of his crimes, would retain full ownership of all family properties and assets.
"And now," the anchor said, "the Executive of Health, Dr. Julian, has an announcement."
The camera cut to a limestone balcony rising above the city's largest national hospital. A massive crowd had gathered in the plaza below. Julian stepped forward into the lights, his white doctor's coat hanging open, the silver-hilted sword resting visibly at his hip.
"My first words tonight," Julian said into the microphone, his voice warm and resonant, "are an apology. I am deeply ashamed that I was oblivious to my former associate's crimes. I offer my heartfelt apology to his daughter."
The crowd quieted to a dead hush.
"It has become clear to me that I cannot entrust the health of the people I love to distant corporations," Julian continued. "From this point forward, every hospital will operate its own dispensary. We will no longer rely on commercial pharmaceutical companies."
The plaza erupted into cheers.
Wayne scoffed softly from the couch. "Different animal. Same species."
Damien turned to Cecelia, his eyes wide. "Hey, that's great. You get to keep the mansion."
"Yes," she said, her eyes fixed on his face. "And the cars, too."
Robert cleared his throat from behind them. "Please. He is not finished."
On screen, Julian raised a single hand. The crowd settled instantly.
"We will personally test every drug. With approval from lawmakers, we will introduce the J-Seal, a mark of strict regulation and trust. No seal means no safety. Until formal approval is granted, medicine will be distributed directly by my department." He paused, offering a benevolent smile to the lens. "Take this as our apology to all of you."
The crowd roared.
Wayne crossed his arms, his analytical mind already mapping out the corporate maneuver. "So they absorb Cole's market, regulate out the competition, and put their own stamp on the entire supply chain." He glanced at Cecelia. "Guess you won't be joining the family business."
She didn't hear him.
Damien was already thanking her, his voice a rambling, relieved blur of genuine excitement. They stopped listening to the television entirely.
Cecelia leaned in closer to Damien, her voice dropping to a quiet murmur. "I remembered your request. Come choose whichever car you want as soon as I'm discharged."
Damien went still for a fraction of a second. Then, his face broke into a massive smile.
The Garage
A few days later, Damien stood in the subterranean garage beneath the Cole estate.
Row after row of exotic vehicles rested under stark white lights. There were sports cars, luxury sedans, and custom-built machines that looked more like status statements than transportation. All of them gleamed. All of them were untouched.
Damien walked slowly down the concrete aisle, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Then, he stopped.
Sitting completely apart from the rest was a deep, blood-red muscle car. It was low, wide, and inherently aggressive, its metallic paint catching the overhead LEDs like an apex predator waiting in the dark.
He pointed. "That one."
Robert nodded approvingly. "An excellent choice."
When Damien turned the key, the engine's raw growl filled the concrete cavern—deep, heavy, and alive. For the first time in days, the heavy weight of the city left him, replaced by pure excitement.
The Assembly
Classes resumed later that week.
Students packed into the central auditorium. Mr. Han stood at the podium, flanked by temporary canvas banners and half-repaired concrete walls.
"I'll keep this brief," Mr. Han said, his voice echoing through the microphone. "The administration failed you. For that lack of oversight, we take full responsibility."
A heavy silence fell over the student body.
"We won't be closing the institution," Mr. Han announced, his expression hardening. "Instead, we are moving the inter-class tournament forward."
The hall erupted into a frenzy of shouts and whispers.
"Matchups begin this week," Mr. Han shouted over the noise. "And there will be one critical rule change. Before each match, every student must publicly declare their innate ability."
Wayne groaned quietly, his posture sinking into his chair. Declaring his power meant putting a definitive value on $X$, stripping away the anonymity he had just learned to weaponize.
Beside him, Damien's eyes were already alight with a dangerous, competitive heat.