An abandoned warehouse in East New York. 3 a.m.
Hang's clone sat on a rusted iron chair, seven laptops laid out before him. Lines of code stread across the screens, tearing through Vought's firewalls one layer at a ti.
The engineering mastery he'd copied from Tony Stark wasn't just for building armor—cracking encryption systems was basic skill.
Military-grade firewall? Might as well be an unlocked door.
His fingers tapped the keyboard.
The global server architecture of Vought International appeared—seventy-two nodes spread across six continents. Each one hid sothing dirty: Compound V experint records, reports on rogue superheroes, internal financial transactions, hundreds of classified agreents.
The clone narrowed his eyes and activated his ntal laws.
His consciousness split into thousands of tendrils, slipping through the network into every server. Administrator access—forcefully obtained. Encryption keys—completely broken.
Alarms went off at Vought headquarters.
Too late.
Data was already being packaged, copied, transmitted to countless anonymous nodes.
The clone pulled up the dirtiest files.
Full footage of Compound V infant experints.
137 children injected. 112 died on the spot. Of the remaining 25, 19 went insane, 4 mutated grotesquely—only 2 successfully gained powers.
Holander's developnt file—every test from infancy to adulthood. Ti spent in sealed rooms. Forced dication after psychological breakdowns.
The final line of the psychiatrist's report read:
Recomndation: Terminate subject. Subject is no longer capable of normal social interaction.
The Seven's cri records—
The Deep sexually assaulting eight won.
A-Train killing a civilian and fleeing.
Black Noir abusing authority to extort businessn.
Queen Maeve allowing a plane to crash.
Each backed by evidence: video, audio, emails, bank transfers.
The clone compressed everything into a single package.
Folder na: Truth.
Then he sent it.
First recipient: The Boys. Billy Butcher's inbox received an anonymous 12GB file within three seconds.
Second: global dia. BBC, CNN, The New York Tis, The Washington Post—320 outlets simultaneously.
Third: every internet-connected device on Earth.
The clone stood up, raising his right hand. Golden light surged in his palm.
Space Law and Reality Law activated simultaneously, weaving a global transmission network.
He didn't use hacking.
He rewrote the rules of information propagation at the level of laws.
Every screen. Every device. Everything capable of displaying an image—
Was hijacked.
TVs, computers, phones, billboards, subway displays, mall screens.
All switched.
The first video began.
A scientist in a lab coat faced the cara.
"My na is Alan Fletcher, forr head of Vought's Compound V research division. Everything I say today is the truth."
He turned. The cara followed to a row of glass pods. Inside each lay an infant, tubes embedded in their bodies.
"These children were bought from orphanages. Vought spends twenty million dollars a year sourcing infants from third-world countries for Compound V experints. Survival rate: under 15%."
The footage cut.
Security recording. Date: June 1998.
A baby convulsed inside a pod. Skin rotting. Blood pouring from eyes, ears, nose.
Alarms blared—but no one rushed in. Scientists stood outside, recording data… until the infant stopped breathing.
The cara zood out. Similar scenes unfolded across a dozen pods.
Billions of people stared at their screens.
Tis Square—giant LED displays showed the footage.
Pedestrians stopped. So covered their mouths. Others scread.
London—a bar full of patrons froze as every TV switched.
Tokyo Shibuya—the Seven's advertisent was replaced by piles of experintal corpses. The crowd erupted into panic.
The second video played.
Holander's training records.
A five-year-old blond boy locked in an all-white room. No windows. No toys. Just a bed and a toilet.
Scientists issued commands over a speaker.
"Use heat vision. Target temperature: 1,000 degrees. Duration: thirty seconds."
The boy obeyed. Red beams burned through steel.
"Good. Now hold your breath. Five minutes."
His face turned purple. No one helped him.
Five minutes later, he collapsed.
Scientists recorded data. Pressed a button. Oxygen flooded the room.
The boy woke, curled in a corner, trembling.
A cold voice echoed:
"You did well. We continue tomorrow."
The third video began.
The Seven's cris.
The Deep assaulting Starlight in the locker room—caught clearly on cara.
A-Train sprinting through a street, killing a girl—then fleeing. Vought paid off the family, silenced the dia.
Black Noir threatening a businessman into signing a contract. When he refused—thrown off a ten-story building. Cause of death falsified as suicide.
Queen Maeve and Holander standing before a dood plane. The black box recorded everything.
"We can save them," Maeve said, voice breaking.
"Save what? It'll ruin our image," Holander sneered.
"That's over a hundred lives!"
"They made their choice."
The video cut to black.
The world fell silent.
Three seconds later—
It exploded.
New York, Fifth Avenue—a woman spat at Vought Tower. Dozens followed, smashing glass doors with trash cans.
Los Angeles—The Seven's posters torn down, burned in the streets.
London, Paris, Berlin, Tokyo, Seoul—stores selling Seven rchandise were stord, shelves overturned, collectibles destroyed.
Social dia collapsed into chaos.
Top ten trending topics:
#VoughtLies
#HolanderIsAMurderer
#CompoundVTruth
#WeWereDeceivedFor50Years
Each with tens of millions of shares.
So people broke down crying on livestreams, saying they had idolized Holander since childhood.
Others burned collections worth thousands of dollars.
Protests ford worldwide:
Vought must pay. Holander must fall.
Vought Tower, 99th floor.
Ergency board eting.
CEO Ashley stood before a screen, trembling.
"Stock down 73%. Seventeen countries froze our assets. The FBI is downstairs."
"Who did this?!" a director shouted.
"No idea," Ashley said. "Over two thousand IP addresses. All fake. Their tech is untraceable."
"Are the videos real?"
Silence.
"…Yes."
The room went dead.
"We're finished," soone whispered.
Ashley inhaled sharply. "We need a scapegoat. Bla the forr CEO. Claim current managent had no knowledge. Suspend Compound V. Disband The Seven. Cooperate with investigations."
"What about Holander?"
Ashley clenched her teeth. "Cut him loose. Declare him an unstable product. Assist in his capture."
The glass windows shattered.
A red-and-gold figure hovered outside.
Holander.
His eyes were bloodshot—not charging heat vision, but pushed to the brink.
"You're cutting loose?" he said quietly.
Ashley stepped back.
Holander floated in, landing on the table. Each step dented the surface.
"I served you for thirty years. Ads, shows, rescues, killings. Whatever you wanted."
"And now you abandon ?"
"Holander, this is crisis PR—" Ashley began.
"Shut up."
Heat vision flickered.
He turned to the board.
"You all knew. Where I ca from. What those children went through. What The Deep, A-Train, Noir did."
He smiled—a twisted expression.
"But you didn't care. As long as profits rose."
A director stamred, "We can negotiate—more resources, higher shares—"
"I don't need anything anymore."
He looked upward. His super hearing spread across New York.
Millions cursing his na. Burning his image.
The world that worshipped him—now wanted him dead.
He closed his eyes.
Then opened them.
"If I'm a monster… I'll show you one."
He turned toward the broken window.
The door burst open.
Queen Maeve stood there, with Starlight and Black Noir behind her.
"Don't," Maeve said. "This will only make it worse."
"Worse?" Holander turned. "How?"
"You haven't killed anyone yet," she said. "Those cris are Vought's. If you slaughter civilians now, there's no coming back."
He laughed.
"You think I care about being saved?"
He flew out into the night.
Maeve rushed to the window, fists clenched.
"Where is he going?" Starlight whispered.
"I don't know," Maeve said. "But if he loses control… none of you are safe."
Ashley collapsed into her chair, dialing her phone.
"Get the Departnt of Defense. Tell them Holander is rogue. Initiate highest-level contingency."
—
At the abandoned warehouse.
Hang's clone shut down the laptops and walked to the window.
In the distance, he sensed it—
The darkness inside Holander had fully erupted.
The price of Alchemy Law had co due.
A manufactured superhuman—stripped of humanity, fed false hope, then shattered completely—
What choice would he make?
The answer would co soon.
The clone raised his hand. A spatial fissure appeared in his palm.
His mission was half complete.
Vought's myth had collapsed. The world's superpower system had been dragged into the light.
Now—
It depended on Holander's choice.
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