Although the White House was notoriously inefficient under normal circumstances, when faced with an unstoppable death threat, its machinery moved with astonishing speed. In less than a single night, compensation had been arranged, scapegoats prepared, and a narrative crafted. The response was not only swift, it was calculated.
Richard vaguely remembered that the total assets of the Wesley family had once hovered around three hundred million dollars. It was nowhere near Tony Stark's level of wealth, nor did it rival the overseas funds Sebastian Shaw had "contributed" or the Hellfire Club's liquidity. Even so, the Wesley family had been undeniably affluent.
He had demanded triple compensation.
The White House had delivered at least five times that amount.
Beyond the money, they had quietly eliminated every employee from the Department of Mutant Affairs who had direct contact with Roy Wesley. Whether it was pride, damage control, or a survival instinct, they had demonstrated sincerity in the only language power respected.
Richard did not bother examining the documents Natasha placed on the table. He had no concern that the White House would attempt deception at this stage.
"I'm not unreasonable," he said evenly. "They've shown sincerity. I can respond in kind."
He leaned back slightly.
"Tell them they can sleep peacefully tonight."
Natasha exhaled almost imperceptibly.
"As long as they don't provoke me, I won't visit them uninvited."
"I'll relay your words exactly," she replied immediately.
She stood to leave, but Richard's voice stopped her.
"One more thing."
She sat back down.
"Does Tony Stark know I killed Rogers?"
A flicker of surprise crossed her face.
"We haven't informed him yet," she admitted. "And we haven't told him about Bucky Barnes either."
Richard gave a faint, almost amused smile.
"So you and Barton don't consider him a real friend. It's been nearly twenty-four hours, and you still haven't told him."
He swirled his wine lazily.
"He pays for the Avengers' operations, and this is how you treat him. Ingrateful."
If anyone else had spoken to her that way, Natasha would have reminded them why she was called the Black Widow. But this was not a fight she could win.
"There's nothing else," Richard continued. "You can go."
Then he added calmly:
"If you don't want Tony Stark to die in my hands, tell him the truth. If he comes looking for revenge out of stupidity, I won't guarantee he walks away."
Personally, Richard didn't dislike Tony. Among the first-generation Avengers, only Tony, Thor, and Hulk earned a measure of his restraint. That did not mean immunity. Admiration did not override survival.
"I understand," Natasha said quietly. "I'll tell him."
She bowed slightly and left.
The White Queen approached after the door closed.
"So," she asked softly, "what now? Are you going to build an organization like your father's and protect weak mutants?"
Richard laughed lightly.
"If I wanted that, I wouldn't have burned down Crimson Manor myself."
He looked at her with relaxed confidence.
"There are too many weak people in this world. I'm not interested in playing savior. I'll help who I want to help."
He leaned back comfortably.
"For now, I plan to enjoy being a billionaire."
The previous night's press conference had changed everything.
Even though the public didn't know the full truth, the cancellation of an S-level wanted order through a formal White House address had made waves. Online discussions exploded. News outlets speculated endlessly.
For ordinary citizens, it was a political curiosity.
For mutants—especially younger ones—it was something else entirely.
The Department of Mutant Affairs had issued only two S-class wanted notices in its history. Normally, such orders were revoked only after death or capture.
Richard's had been canceled publicly.
To the younger generation of mutants, that meant one thing.
Strength rewrote the rules.
After the Los Angeles branch incident, perhaps twenty percent of American mutants viewed him as an icon. Now, that number had climbed to nearly two-thirds.
He had anticipated growth in influence.
He had not anticipated this scale.
According to previous government statistics, there were roughly seven million mutants in the United States—one in every fifty people. Globally, the number was around sixteen million, aligning eerily well with the Genosha Massacre data he remembered.
That meant more than four and a half million American mutants now admired him.
Four and a half million did not sound impressive compared to online celebrities with tens of millions of followers. But influence was not about follower counts.
It was about capacity.
While browsing posts on his rapidly expanding personal forum, he found one particularly entertaining thread authored by a user named "Data Analyst."
The post meticulously calculated his known battles.
Using environmental damage, structural collapse data, and energy dispersion patterns, the analyst arrived at a bold conclusion.
Humanoid self-propelled nuclear bomb.
More specifically, a humanoid self-propelled nuclear bomb with an explosive yield equivalent to thirty million tons of TNT—capable of repeated detonation within short intervals.
To contextualize the figure, the analyst referenced the Tsar Bomba, the fifty-megaton Soviet device. Fireball radius: 4.6 kilometers. Mushroom cloud height: sixty-four kilometers. Shockwave spanning a thousand kilometers. The Eurasian plate shifting nine millimeters southward.
Richard's theoretical yield was lower.
But unlike the Tsar Bomba, he could "detonate" multiple times.
The thread generated thousands of replies and was even cited by news outlets.
The same analyst also dismantled the White House's natural gas explosion explanation. The mirror-smooth fracture of reinforced concrete was not consistent with gas detonation patterns. The official narrative was absurd—but absurdity was hardly new in American political history.
By noon, Richard and the White Queen were seated inside one of Manhattan's most exclusive French restaurants. Reservations typically required three weeks' notice.
They had walked in effortlessly.
The owner was the White Queen.
She believed women should have their own enterprises. This restaurant was one of several.
They ignored the subtle glances from other diners and enjoyed their meal without hurry. Just as they finished their appetizers, a red-and-gold streak tore across the sky at supersonic speed.
Iron Man.
Tony Stark hovered briefly above the restaurant before landing at the entrance. The armor disengaged, and he stepped out wearing casual clothes, face tense.
He walked directly to their table.
"You killed Rogers?" he demanded.
His voice carried. Conversations around the room stopped. Eyes shifted toward Richard.
Richard set down his glass calmly.
"Yes," he said evenly. "I killed him."
He held Tony's gaze.
"If you're here for revenge, I suggest you think carefully about whether it's worth it."
Then he lifted his wine and took another measured sip, unhurried, unshaken.
.....
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