"Sir, your beef noodles are here."
Inside the War Room, Homelander carefully moved a table in front of Malrick and set the bowl down.
"There are green onions in the noodles? Thoughtful of you." Malrick glanced at the bowl, confirming that the green onions were indeed there, just as he expected.
Everyone else watched with varied expressions. Butcher peered over from the side, and when he saw the green onions, a flicker of gloom passed over his face.
A-Train and Black Noir made the same subtle movements, secretly checking the bowl to see if it contained green onions.
Homelander observed them quietly, inwardly relieved that he had overheard the terrifying bet. He bowed slightly toward Malrick.
"I know that Eastern beef noodles always have green onions, so I replicated it exactly," he said, his voice unusually humble.
Homelander had never shown such submission before, and yet he could not resist the presence of the man before him.
"So, you made this bowl yourself?" Malrick asked, ignoring the chopsticks and looking instead at A-Train.
Homelander was about to take credit, but when he met Malrick's eyes, an unexplainable tremor ran through him. He quickly corrected himself.
"Yes, Deep made it. I assisted him!"
"Is that so?" Malrick studied the noodles, his gaze calm but piercing. "I made a bet with A-Train about this bowl. If there are green onions, you live. If there are none, you die."
The Deep, standing next to Homelander, felt his heart skip a beat. He had no idea about the bet. His mind went blank as he frantically tried to recall if he had added green onions. He instinctively stepped forward, relief flooding him only when he saw streaks of emerald green in the noodles.
Malrick's cold smile met his eyes. "No need to check. There are green onions."
Before Deep and Homelander could react further, Malrick's gaze sharpened.
"However, there is another characteristic of beef noodles from my hometown: there isn't this much beef."
Sunlight cut through the windows, falling across Malrick's back and illuminating his silhouette. His face was half in shadow, his eyes sharp as blades.
"Sorry, I don't eat beef," he said casually.
The words caused a moment of confusion. Then, in unison, Homelander and The Deep screamed.
"My hand, my hand!" The Deep clutched his left wrist, staggering backward, knocking over a chair. His hand was disintegrating into ash from fingertips to wrist. There was no pain, yet the sheer terror almost drove him insane.
"My palm, my palm is disappearing!" Homelander's roar echoed through the room. Unlike The Deep, he thrashed like a wounded bear, demanding help in both fear and fury.
"Help me! Ashley! A-Train! Quickly, do something!"
The others watched in disbelief, seeing the once-mighty Homelander reduced to a panicked, helpless figure. The bizarre scene forced them to instinctively put distance between themselves and Malrick.
Homelander's left hand quickly turned to ash up to his elbow. Only then did he realize who he truly needed to plead with.
"Please, sir, please!" He slumped into a chair, staring at his disintegrated arm, then at Malrick almost tearfully. "I put in green onions! I made Deep put in green onions! I beg you, don't do this! I'll do anything for you!"
Malrick gestured toward the noodles. "Is that so? Even if you put in green onions, I said I don't eat beef."
Homelander's eyes narrowed. "The bet only mentioned green onions, not beef!"
He realized the danger in Malrick's calm but deadly demeanor. The violent instinct to survive surged within him. He could not die here—he was Homelander, god above all men.
"Give me that! Quick! Ashley, give it now!" Homelander demanded, using his only remaining hand to snatch a stack of documents and thrust them in front of Malrick.
"Stop what you're doing, or the PR Department will release everything online!"
His face contorted with rage, the flesh pulled tight with fury. "You act so righteous! You came with Butcher, thinking yourself virtuous! If you don't stop, your cruelty will be exposed! My fans, yes, my fans will cyberbully you endlessly!"
He rattled off a string of threats—an elaborate balancing tactic devised by PR after analyzing Malrick. Originally, A-Train had intended only to remind him of past humiliation, but now Homelander went all out. He couldn't die. He wouldn't.
"Cyberbully…" Malrick, still leaning back and rocking in his chair, paused. Was Homelander projecting his own fears? Thinking he, too, could be hurt by the internet?
"That's an interesting threat," Malrick said, clapping his hands slowly. "You intend to use your fans to cyberbully me? Perfect. I heard the easiest people to fool are those of low intelligence. Let's see how this works."
He snapped his fingers. Homelander, previously terrified, instantly regained his faculties, blinking in shock. His gaze toward Malrick was no longer anger, only utter fear.
"I… I just… I was wrong, sir! I was wrong!" He pleaded, the entire body of arrogance and power collapsed into desperation.
"I wasn't threatening you," Homelander continued, trembling, "I was just saying that all my fans are your fans! Didn't the bet say green onions were enough? Please, spare me!"
His arm had already begun to turn to ash, and his shoulder followed. Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably.
____
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