"Go! Open this fucking door!"
"I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I haven't even made it to the top hundred—I still have an unfulfilled dream! Don't do this!!"
"Stan! Edgar! You dog! This is probably your doing! I'll drag you to hell with me!"
"Aaaaah—John Godolkin! Why didn't you die! Why!"
On the 82nd floor of Vought Tower, Stan Edgar's private office was dimly lit.
The head of the Vought Group stood silently before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, his eyes fixed on the surveillance screen before him.
He had watched twice as Locke clawed his way back from the brink of death—each time growing stronger, each time becoming more terrifying.
His thoughts couldn't help drifting back to the day Locke had come to his door. The fear of death made his knuckles clench involuntarily, the anxiety churning in his eyes now impossible to hide, weighing heavily beneath his brow.
Yes, how could Stan, at the helm of a giant like Vought International, simply offer up his life?
Though his willingness to die had been genuine at first, his will to live was equally genuine now.
To go with the wind, to steer the ship—Stan believed that was a necessary quality for any qualified businessman.
"You've seen it." Stan's voice echoed in the dim office, low as matte paper against steel. "His abilities seem different from the information you provided."
He raised his phone, and as soon as he spoke, a response came from the other end.
"His superpowers have evolved." The voice seemed altered, hoarse, cold, and hard—the same voice from memory, but the indifference and detachment etched into it had not diminished at all. "He's solidified a form he can maintain for extended periods… Under certain conditions, he can grow stronger without limit."
"I didn't call for your analysis." Stan abruptly cut off the other man, his knuckles white from gripping the phone, the anxiety in his voice nearly overflowing. "Let me ask you this—are your previous research methods still effective?"
"From a scientific standpoint, no solution is 100 percent—"
"No!"
The low roar carried an undeniable oppressive weight through the earpiece.
A brief silence fell on the other end of the line, as if weighing something. After a few seconds, Cyfer's voice came again—light as a sigh, but carrying a heavy resolve.
"There's only one final method left."
"You'll have to use Compound Six."
Six—a taboo number. Cyfer had used "No.6" to name this compound for a reason.
At the mention of "Compound Six," Stan sharply turned his head, looking at the briefcase in the corner of his desk.
He walked over and opened the case, sealed with a chilling black substance, thick as congealed blood, locked inside its container.
Stan stared at the vial, clearly seeing small solid particles slowly writhing inside, as if alive.
It reminded him of something from an old movie—The Blob—and it made his skin crawl.
"This was one of the research results from six months ago." Cyfer's voice came through the phone again, still cold and steady. "At that time, after we completed the injection on test subject 0165, his biological signs underwent a malignant mutation, forming a super-regenerative structure with five brains and seven hearts. He became a vampire-like mutant that nearly broke through the threshold of death, even capable of escaping through somatic cell division."
"Unfortunately, the lab was equipped with an embedded light source array at the time. The ultraviolet spectrum released by the array had a strong lethal effect on the mutant. It not only completely blocked his escape route but nearly killed him from ultraviolet burns."
"It was also a serendipitous breakthrough in the research process. After he reverted to his original form, we successfully collected tissue samples that had shed from his previous form and retained some biological activity."
"Possibly due to the morphological change, the consciousness carrier in the sample was active but dormant and inert. We extracted the genomic fragments with aggressive expression signatures from the sample, combined them with the iterative formulation of Compound V, and completed the construction of Compound Six."
"In other words…"
Stan's knuckles gripping the phone were white. His Adam's apple bobbed, a trace of inexplicable self-mockery in his tone, as if asking Cyfer, or perhaps muttering to himself.
"In other words, this Compound Six will drag you straight to hell." Cyfer's voice on the other end was cold as quenched ice, each word carrying unconditional cruelty. "It will make you completely abandon your human form, turn you into a grotesque monster you won't even recognize."
"But the good news is, it can grant our pathetic, humble wish to survive."
Hearing this, Stan suddenly laughed softly. The laughter was wrapped in too much self-mockery and sorrow, stark and jarring in the dim office. He raised his hand, lifting the cold vial of Compound Six, his fingertips rubbing against the container. His gaze fell on the writhing black mass inside—sticky and strange, like living darkness.
He stared at the mass for a long time. The corners of his mouth rose higher and higher, but the smile never reached his eyes, leaving only stagnant silence.
"We…" he said slowly, his voice hoarse and almost relieved, "from the first day you walked through Vought's doors, were already destined for hell."
The moment the words left his mouth, he tore off the needle cap and, without hesitation, plunged the needle into his carotid artery, pushing all the black viscous substance from the tube into his bloodstream.
In the next second, a scream exploded—so terrible it didn't sound human—piercing every corner of the 82nd floor of Vought Tower.
The sound gradually distorted and warped from the initial roar of pain, slowly fading from a human voice, finally becoming a low, hoarse beastly growl that echoed long in the empty office.
————————————————————————————————
Meanwhile, downstairs at Vought Tower, a few journalists stood with camera straps hanging from their chests, cigarettes in their mouths, chatting idly. They watched the Vought security across the street, not daring to approach.
"Hey, what do you think Vought is doing with this party? Gathering so many people, not even letting ordinary folks get close." The reporter blew out a smoke ring, his voice full of curiosity.
"Who knows. That bunch of superpowered lunatics never do anything good. Why bother wondering what they're up to?" Another waved his hand, looking indifferent. "Looks like I won't be getting any explosive news today."
"By the way, did you hear? The order to kick out all the ordinary people came from Homelander himself." Someone suddenly chimed in.
"Huh? Stan Edgar's not even out yet, and he dares to throw his weight around like that?" Someone was surprised, then sneered. "Looks like Vought might be about to cook its own golden goose."
"Remember that incident where Black Noir ran away?" Another replied, lowering his voice. "Vought's PR department went crazy, throwing money everywhere to buy up the news. I heard they even paid off the two cops who saw him."
"Don't worry about him. Let's just grab a bite together." The first reporter stubbed out his cigarette. "If no one comes out in a while, we'll head off and grab a drink?"
"Sounds good. I'm in."
"No problem."
"I know an old tavern. The waitress there looks like—" someone laughed and started to say, but—
"BOOM——!!!"
Suddenly, a deafening crash erupted. The entire Vought Tower seemed to shudder violently.
Before the smoke rings had even dispersed, the cigarettes in the reporters' hands fell to the ground.
They snapped their heads up, their pupils contracting.
They saw the glass on the top floor crack inch by inch in an instant, then explode outward, as if struck by an invisible giant hammer! Countless sharp glass shards, carried by howling wind, poured down like rain, like arrows falling with immense force.
The reporters who had been chatting casually moments ago erupted in chaos. Screams and curses mixed with the sharp sound of shattering glass into a piercing roar.
In the chaos, a black figure wrapped in broken glass plummeted straight down from the top floor!
The reporters froze for a moment, then looked at the roof, still raining glass, then snapped their gazes to the figure that had crashed to the ground—it was a superhero!
Professional instinct instantly overrode fear. They didn't bother dodging the glass shards shattering at their feet. They scrambled forward, grabbed the cameras hanging on their chests, and frantically pressed the shutters. Flashes lit up across the rain of broken glass.
But before they could take many shots, the superhero who had fallen dozens of floors suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood, his body convulsing.
He tried to reach out, grabbing the wrist of the nearest reporter, his knuckles white with force, his voice hoarse and broken, crying out with a sob:
"Monster... monster!! Save me... save me... Save me!"