Chapter 31 Kimiko Was Casually Saved By Me, And Her Gaze Toward Me Changed
Frenchie collapsed in a puddle on the rooftop.
The crotch of his jeans was soaked through.
Urine mixed with the post-rain puddles, releasing a warm, foul, fishy stench.
He even forgot how to breathe.
His eyes stared dead ahead at the blown-open circular hole on the 112th floor opposite him.
That three-million-dollar antimatter bullet had now become a flattened piece of scrap iron, embedded in the low concrete wall behind him.
In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite.
Shen Che finished the last sip of his tea.
The white porcelain cup was placed on the obsidian table.
The bottom of the cup tapped out a "Click" sound.
He felt it was a bit noisy.
The bullet just now hit his temple, making little commotion.
But it was like a mosquito buzzing by his ear.
He turned his head.
His gaze crossed a kilometer of Manhattan's main thoroughfare.
Locking onto the rooftop of the unfinished building opposite.
Shen Che walked over to the window.
Without pushing the door open, he walked straight forward.
His leather shoes stepped onto the edge of the window frame, his body leaning forward.
The sensation of weightlessness did not appear.
He stopped mid-air.
His black custom suit was blown flat back against him by the high-altitude cold wind.
Then.
The air exploded with a ring of white sonic boom clouds.
Like a black cruise missile, he shot straight toward the unfinished building.
A distance of one kilometer.
Shen Che took only one second.
A violent gale swept across the rooftop.
The green dust-proof net was torn to shreds, and synthetic fiber cloth strips flew wildly all over the sky.
The light in front of Frenchie was blocked.
Shen Che landed in front of the puddle, without splashing a single drop of water.
His leather shoes stepped on the gravel on the ground, making a slight creaking sound.
Frenchie's teeth slammed together, chattering away.
He raised his head.
Looking at the man in front of him.
No red light. No energy fluctuations.
It was simply a pure, suffocating physical sense of oppression.
Like a mountain crashing down on the tip of his nose.
"Did you fire the shot?" Shen Che asked.
The voice dispersed in the wind, very bland.
Frenchie's Adam's apple rolled, unable to make a sound.
His right hand groped in the puddle and grabbed the matte-black heavy sniper rifle.
The barrel was still hot.
He wanted to raise the muzzle.
Shen Che lowered his head and glanced.
The tip of his leather shoe moved forward half an inch, stepping on the barrel.
"Clack."
The thick-walled barrel made of special steel was flattened directly, just like crushing a straw.
Frenchie's hand was jarred loose, his fingernails peeling back and bleeding.
He completely went limp.
There was only one thought left in his head: wait for death.
"Bang!"
The rusty iron door of the rooftop was kicked flying by someone.
The door panel, along with the hinges, slammed onto the concrete ground, sliding three or four meters.
A thin and small figure rushed out.
It was Kimiko.
She wore a filthy gray hoodie with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
Her black hair was messy, blocking half her face.
Like a stray dog protecting its young, she blocked directly in front of Frenchie.
A heavy "grunting" sound came from her throat.
She couldn't speak; her vocal cords had long been destroyed by the Vought Company laboratories.
Kimiko dug her hands into the concrete debris on the ground.
Her fingernails were filled with black mud.
She bared her teeth, staring at Shen Che.
Her calf muscles tightened, and her back under the hoodie arched into an exaggerated curve.
This was a posture ready to fight to the death at any moment.
Shen Che looked at her.
Not moving.
He was not in a rush to kill. The fierce glint in this girl's eyes was somewhat interesting.
In this city where everyone knelt and trembled before him.
This mute stray dog actually dared to bare its teeth.
Quite novel.
Kimiko dug her heels into the ground.
Preparing to pounce and bite through this man's windpipe.
Just at this moment.
A harsh metallic friction sound came from the scaffolding on the outside of the unfinished building.
Three men in gray tactical suits climbed up along the exterior steel pipes.
The Vought Company's cleaner unit.
The modified assassins arranged by Stan in the shadows of New York before his death.
The building suffered a blackout, the system paralyzed, and they lost instructions from headquarters.
Now they only acted according to the old list.
The list contained the names of The Boys.
"Here!" shouted the lead assassin.
He was holding a short-barreled shotgun in his hands.
The other two assassins pulled out the serrated steel blades from their waists.
They didn't recognize Shen Che.
Shen Che stood in the backlight; his suit blended into the low-hanging dark clouds of the overcast day.
In the assassins' eyes, there was only the bounty target.
"Frenchie!" The assassin pulled the trigger.
"Bang."
A large swath of steel pellets sprayed out in a fan shape.
Kimiko didn't hesitate in the slightest.
She gave up the standoff with Shen Che, suddenly turned around, and threw herself onto Frenchie on the ground.
Using her own back to block the shotgun blast.
Pfft, pfft, pfft.
A dozen steel pellets hit her hoodie, tearing the fabric to pieces.
The steel pellets embedded into her flesh, blood bursting open.
She let out a muffled groan, her body pushed forward toppling over by the impact force.
But her hands braced the ground tightly, not crushing Frenchie.
Frenchie's eyes turned red. "Kimiko! Leave me alone!"
He wanted to push her away.
The two steel-blade-wielding assassins had already rushed over.
Their speed was very fast. Hydraulic boosters were implanted in their thighs.
One of them leaped into mid-air.
The serrated steel blade in his hand, utilizing gravity, slashed fiercely at Kimiko's back neck.
Kimiko made a backhanded sweep.
Grabbing the edge of that rusty iron door on the ground.
She forcefully swung it up, smashing it toward the assassin in mid-air.
"Clang!"
The assassin was hit in the chest by the iron door, flying backward and crashing into the water tank.
But the other assassin seized the opening.
He slid on the ground.
The steel blade in his hand thrust upward.
"Swoosh."
The muffled sound of a sharp blade entering flesh.
The steel blade directly pierced Kimiko's abdomen, stabbing in from her lower back and protruding out from in front of her navel.
Blood gushed out instantly, staining the gray hoodie red.
Kimiko's eyes widened.
She grabbed the blade tip protruding from her abdomen.
The blade cut her palm, and blood streamed down her wrist.
She didn't let go.
Her right leg lifted fiercely, kicking that assassin right in the face.
The assassin's nasal bone shattered, his mask collapsed, and he fell backward.
Kimiko couldn't hold on either.
Her knees went soft, and she knelt on the concrete ground.
Her hands covered the knife on her abdomen, blood gushing out between her fingers.
Flowing into the rooftop puddles, blooming a large patch of dark red.
Frenchie crawled over, frantically trying to cover her wound.
"No... don't die..." Frenchie's voice carried a crying tone.
Kimiko pushed his hand away.
She panted heavily, blood foam overflowing from the corners of her mouth.
She turned her head and looked at Shen Che.
Her gaze hadn't changed; it was still that fierce, stray dog look ready to bite.
She was warning Shen Che not to touch Frenchie.
Shen Che looked down at her.
His black leather shoes were only three inches away from that pool of blood.
He had originally planned to stomp these three people on the rooftop to death together.
Now he changed his mind.
This mute girl was ruthless enough, and ruthless enough to herself as well.
Those paid superheroes of Vought Company would call an ambulance just from scratching their skin.
This stray dog, with her intestines pierced, was still baring her teeth.
"Hey."
That shotgun-wielding assassin reloaded his bullets.
He pointed the muzzle at Shen Che's back.
"Suit guy. Scram. This is none of your business."
The assassin didn't clearly see Shen Che's face, only feeling that this tall guy was somewhat in the way.
Shen Che ignored him.
He looked at Kimiko.
"Want to live?" he spoke.
Kimiko coughed up a mouthful of blood, unable to answer.
Seeing himself ignored, the assassin got furious.
"I told you to get lost!"
He pulled the bolt, preparing to fire a shot at Shen Che's back.
Shen Che sighed.
There were always flies that liked to buzz around the ears.
He didn't turn around.
He waved his right hand backward, like shooing away an annoying flying bug.
His palm swept through the air.
A high-pressure airflow formed instantly, emitting a harsh sonic boom.
"Bang."
Not a gunshot.
It was that shotgun-wielding assassin.
His upper body, the moment it came into contact with that high-pressure air wave.
Exploded directly.
Shredded meat, bone fragments, and internal organs flew backward more than a dozen meters like a fountain.
Hanging on the iron railing at the edge of the rooftop, blood dripped down the rusty iron pipes.
His lower body was still standing in place, both legs maintaining the posture of holding the gun.
The wound was smooth as a mirror.
Two seconds later, the severed legs crashed to the ground.
The rooftop fell quiet.
The remaining two assassins, one holding his broken bridge of the nose and the other just crawling up from the water tank.
Seeing this scene, the two of them froze in place.
Their calves trembled frantically.
They finally recognized that back in the black suit.
It was the newly ascended god on the top floor.
"President Shen..."
The assassin with the broken nasal bone dropped to his knees with a thud.
His voice trembled like a sifting sieve.
"We are... the cleaners..."
Shen Che didn't turn back.
His index and middle fingers together, he casually flicked backward.
Two tiny air bullets left his hand.
"Pfft. Pfft."
Two soft sounds.
The heads of the two assassins burst open directly like smashed watermelons.
The headless corpses slammed onto the concrete ground, the smell of blood completely overpowering the earthy smell of rainwater.
Frenchie was stunned.
He looked at Shen Che.
Killing was as simple as breathing, without even blinking an eyelid.
Kimiko's breathing grew weaker and weaker.
The blade couldn't be pulled out; excessive blood loss turned her lips pale white.
Her fierce gaze began to scatter.
Shen Che walked over.
His leather shoes stepped in the bloody water.
He stopped in front of Kimiko and bent down.
Reaching out, he grabbed the back collar of her hoodie.
Lifting her up from the ground with one hand, just like carrying a cat.
Kimiko's feet hung in the air, the steel blade on her abdomen still dripping blood.
She convulsed all over from the pain, but still stared dead at Shen Che.
Biting her lips, she tried to raise her hand to scratch Shen Che's eyes.
Her strength was too small; her hand dropped halfway through.
"Savage and untamable."
Shen Che looked at her.
"But I like dogs."
He raised his other hand, his index finger pointing at the center of Kimiko's brow.
Silver Age Superman's bio-energy.
That was a high-dimensional energy surpassing the limits of Earth's carbon-based life.
Shen Che forced out a trace from his fingertip.
A trace of light blue shimmer, following his index finger, burrowed into the center of Kimiko's brow.
This trace of energy traveled through her blood vessels, instantly wandering throughout her entire body.
Kimiko's body shook violently.
She felt as if she had been poured a mouthful of scalding magma.
But wherever the magma flowed, her wounds were healing rapidly.
That fatal piercing wound on her abdomen saw granulation tissue growing wildly and intertwining at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Squeezing that bloody serrated steel blade out bit by bit.
"Clang."
The steel blade fell onto the concrete ground.
Her wounds completely healed, leaving not even a single scar.
Her damaged vocal cords were repaired, and the beaten-up skin on her back grew back anew.
Under the scouring of this high-dimensional energy, the genes of compound v mutated.
Becoming stronger, and completely branded with Shen Che's mark.
She lived.
Kimiko opened her eyes abruptly.
She panted heavily, feeling the unprecedented surging vitality within her body.
She lowered her head and looked at her smooth-as-new abdomen.
Raising her head again.
Her gaze met Shen Che's bottomless black eyes.
Shen Che released his hand.
Kimiko's feet landed on the ground. Unsteady on her feet, she staggered slightly.
She didn't pounce again.
That food-protecting ferocity and the frenzy of a killing machine vanished completely at this moment.
She had witnessed with her own eyes the God of Death's scythe being casually snapped by this man.
Witnessed a creator-like bestowal.
Kimiko looked at Shen Che.
Her eyes, originally filled with murderous intent and frenzy, instantly melted upon feeling Shen Che's absolutely crushing power and the bestowal of a casual rescue, transforming into a deep awe and a distorted infatuation.
Chapter 32: The essence of a plutocracy is to put a clear price tag on justice.
Kimiko knelt in a Water puddle.
Rainwater mixed with blood, staining her gray hoodie a dark red.
She tilted her face up, staring straight at Shen Che.
Those black pupils, which originally looked like a stray dog guarding its food, had now completely softened.
A layer of sticky moisture floated at the bottom of her eyes, exuding a hint of fanaticism.
Shen Che rubbed his fingers together.
He hated trouble the most.
He was too familiar with this look.
That crazy childhood sweetheart of his at home had this expression every day.
If he brought another little stray dog back, the top floor of Vought Tower would probably be blown off.
Half a meter away, Frenchie collapsed in a pile of gravel.
A large dark patch soaked through the crotch of his jeans.
The stench of urine was blown straight up his nose by the high-altitude cold wind.
Frenchie dug his hands desperately into the concrete ground.
His fingernails split, oozing blood.
His chin kept shaking, his upper and lower teeth clattering together to make a faint clicking sound.
The three-million-dollar antimatter bullet had just like that become a piece of scrap metal.
He couldn't even squeeze out words for mercy.
Shen Che ignored these two people.
He lowered his head and patted away the non-existent dust on his suit cuffs.
His legs bent slightly.
The concrete floor beneath his feet let out a dull groan, cracking into a spiderweb-like shallow pit.
"Bang."
The accumulated Water on the roof was blown more than two meters high by the shockwave.
Shen Che crashed through the gloomy clouds.
A white sonic boom cloud was left lingering in the air.
Manhattan's tall buildings retreated rapidly beneath his feet.
Vought Tower.
One hundred and twelfth floor.
The newly replaced aviation explosion-proof glass blocked the strong wind outside.
Shen Che landed on the Persian rug without making a sound.
Public Relations Director Ashley had long been waiting outside the office door.
Her hands holding the tablet computer were trembling, her knuckles clenched white.
After Stan was thrown off the building, she was forcibly promoted to fill Madelyn's vacancy.
The high pressure made her lose a lot of hair these past two days, and her hairline had noticeably receded by a finger's width.
"P-President Shen."
Ashley trotted over in high heels.
Her foot tripped slightly, and she almost fell in front of the obsidian desk.
The tablet computer dropped onto the desk, sliding half a meter out.
"It's chaotic outside."
"Broadcasting vans from major channels have completely blocked the street below the building."
She swallowed her saliva, her throat dry.
"The riots in Metropolis are still ongoing."
"Public opinion can't be suppressed..."
"No need to suppress it."
Shen Che pulled open the swivel chair and sat in it.
The hydraulic rod let out a dull hiss.
He crossed his long legs over the edge of the desk, the tips of his leather shoes brushing past that pile of messy reports.
"Half an hour later."
"First floor news hall."
"Hold a global press conference."
Ashley was stunned.
She flurriedly grabbed the tablet on the desk, her fingers swiping wildly across the screen.
"Where is the press release?"
"We need to prepare a few sets of crisis PR talking points..."
"I don't need waste paper," Shen Che interrupted her.
Tapping his fingers twice on the armrest.
"Notify all media."
"Vought is going to change the rules."
Half an hour later.
Vought Tower, first floor.
The news hall was packed with people.
Reporters from more than 300 media outlets were crammed like canned sardines.
Long guns and short cannons erected an oppressive iron forest.
The flashes were as bright as a daytime thunderstorm, so blinding that people couldn't open their eyes.
The noise in the hall was deafening, the buzzing sound shooting straight up to the ceiling.
The power outage in Metropolis.
The disappearance of The Seven.
The entire U.S. was waiting for an explanation.
The backstage door pushed open.
Shen Che walked up to the podium.
He wasn't wearing those flashy tight uniforms.
He was still wearing that custom-made black suit.
Without a tie, the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned.
His steps were steady, his leather shoes stepping on the wooden floor with a heavy accent at every step.
He walked up to the microphone.
He flicked his finger on the metal mesh cover.
"Hum—"
A screech spread through the speakers across the entire venue, stinging people's eardrums in pain.
The noise off stage was cut off as if by a knife, instantly plunging into dead silence.
The media circle had heard some rumors about the bloody purge of Vought's upper management over the past few days.
No one dared to act presumptuously in front of this man.
All cameras were tightly aimed at him, red lights flashing.
Shen Che supported the edge of the podium with one hand.
"To cut a long story short."
"I am very busy."
He spoke into the microphone, his voice transmitted through satellite signals to billions of screens around the globe.
"Starting from today."
"All superheroes under Vought Company will no longer provide free rescue."
The hall was quiet for two seconds.
Then, like a bomb being detonated.
The crowd completely exploded.
Reporters looked at each other in dismay.
Hundreds of shutters were pressed simultaneously, the clicking sounds merging into a waterfall.
"Mr. Shen!"
"What does this mean?"
A male reporter wearing black-rimmed glasses shouted at the top of his lungs, his face red and neck thick.
"Are we supposed to turn a blind eye to disasters?"
"Civilians' tax money feeds you!"
Shen Che didn't look at him.
"Vought Company is an enterprise."
"Enterprises need to make a profit."
He tapped the wooden tabletop.
"We officially launch the'Supreme VIP Rescue Insurance'."
The huge LED screen behind him lit up.
Gold characters on a black background.
A simple price list.
Personal edition.
One million USD per year.
Enterprise edition.
Starting from fifty million USD per year.
The numbers were dazzlingly bright.
A few reporters in the front row gasped, their lungs hissing.
"Buy this insurance."
Shen Che scanned the audience, his gaze like a knife scraping bone.
"Terrorist attacks."
"Fires."
"Tsunamis."
"Even if aliens smash your roof."
"Within three minutes, The Seven will appear in front of you and solve the trouble."
A female reporter suddenly stood up.
Her chair was pushed over, hitting the instep of someone in the back row.
Disregarding everything, she held her voice recorder high, her wrist shaking.
"What about those who don't have money to buy insurance!"
The female reporter's voice was sharp, carrying obvious anger.
"There are still people bleeding in Metropolis right now!"
"They can't even scrape together ten thousand dollars!"
Shen Che lowered his head and looked at her.
His gaze didn't have the slightest ripple.
"If you haven't paid."
He paused.
"Even if your hands and feet are chopped off by someone, your intestines spilling onto the ground."
"And you die under a superhero's boots."
"They won't even stretch out a single finger to help you stop the bleeding."
The hall was so quiet it made one's hair stand on end.
Afterwards, the curses slammed toward the podium like a tsunami.
"This is extortion!"
"You're feeding on human misery!"
"You are heroes!"
"You have a responsibility to protect civilians!"
Several strong male reporters rushed forward.
The cameras in their hands almost smashed into the security personnel's faces.
The scene was about to get out of control.
The red cloth curtain backstage was pulled open.
Chloe walked out.
She was wearing a blue-and-red-star uniform, twirling a steel fire pipe she had just pulled off the wall in her hand.
Red leather boots stepped on the wooden floor.
Click.
Click.
She stood beside Shen Che.
Her blue eyes were instantly submerged by blood color, two red lights lighting up deep within her pupils.
The temperature of the surrounding air suddenly rose.
Reporters in the front row felt as if they were close to a steel-making furnace, their skin baked tight.
The curses were tightly stuck in their throats.
The male reporter rushing at the very front swallowed his saliva and took two steps back.
His heel tripped on a cable, and he sat heavily on the ground.
Shen Che raised his hand.
Patting Chloe on the shoulder.
The heatwave quickly receded.
"The press conference is over."
Shen Che turned around, leaving the camera with a cold and stern back, and walked straight backstage.
One hundred and twelfth floor.
CEO office.
Shen Che sat behind the obsidian desk.
A tactical tablet was placed in front of him.
The screen was split in half.
On the left was Twitter's real-time trending search interface.
The tags in black and white characters were all red.
"Capital Demon", "Boycott Vought", "Shen Che Get Out of Earth".
The screen was full of vulgarities, refreshing so fast it made people's eyes dizzy.
Several human rights activists with Metropolis verification.
Were broadcasting live on video, bitterly cursing with tears and snot.
Spittle sprayed onto the lens.
Cursing him for treating human lives as business, cursing him for tarnishing the word hero.
Shen Che shifted his line of sight to the right.
On the right side of the screen was the backend data of Vought's finance department.
The green order numbers were beating wildly.
Ten thousand orders.
Thirty thousand orders.
Eighty thousand orders.
The numbers shot up like riding a Rocket.
Tens of millions of USD were coming in every second.
Those were the tycoons, politicians, and Wall Street elites of Metropolis and New York.
Who, amidst the panic of power outages and riots, smashed down real gold and silver.
The more fiercely people cursed him online, the faster they transferred money in the backend.
Shen Che picked up the crystal cup on the desk.
Took a sip of ice Water.
Ice cubes struck the glass.
The bottom of the cup slammed heavily onto the obsidian tabletop.
He looked at that string of green numbers about to break ten billion.
His Adam's apple rolled.
A dull laugh came from his chest.
Chapter 33: Rescuing People Is Fine, Please Show Your Vought Supreme VIP Card First
The green order numbers broke through the ten-billion mark.
Shen Che leaned against the reinforced swivel chair.
His Adam's apple bobbed.
A muffled laugh came from his chest.
The laughter had just dissipated across the obsidian desktop when a red box popped up on the tactical tablet in front of him.
The piercing alarm drowned out the wind outside.
[Breaking: First National Bank on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan Armed Hijacked]
Lower Manhattan.
Yellow and black warning lines were set up at the intersection.
Three Police helicopters hovered in mid-air.
The propellers churned the air, making the trash cans on the roadside rattle noisily.
More than thirty Police cars blocked the front door of the bank tightly.
The explosion-proof glass on the first floor of the bank was shattered all over the ground.
More than a hundred hostages squatted in the lobby, clutching their heads with both hands.
Dozens of militants wearing black hoods held automatic rifles and walked back and forth.
Military explosives were taped directly around the necks of several bank clerks.
Outside.
New York Police Director Harris hid behind a Police car.
He was a bald fat man.
A large area of the back of his shirt was soaked through, clinging tightly to his flesh.
Director Harris tugged at the walkie-talkie, his knuckles turning white from exertion.
"Where are the people from Vought Company! The SWAT team can't rush in at all, that's C4 explosives!"
He turned his head.
Twenty meters outside the warning line, a temporary red sunshade was set up.
Several members of The Seven stood right under the shed.
Queen Maeve leaned against the hood of an armored vehicle.
She held a slender women's cigarette between her fingers.
The lighter made a clicking sound.
She took a puff and exhaled a string of grayish-white smoke rings.
A-Train sat on a folding chair.
Holding a cup of Starbucks hot latte in his hand, the plastic straw was bitten flat by him.
Starlight stood aside, her hands tightly twisted together.
Hearing the crying of a woman coming from the bank, she took half a step forward.
Maeve extended her left hand and grabbed Starlight's uniform cape.
"Stand back and stay there."
Maeve didn't look at her.
Starlight panicked.
"There are over a hundred people inside! That girl has a bomb tied to her neck!"
"That's none of your business."
A-Train took a sip of coffee.
"This latte has too much sugar added, it tastes awful."
Director Harris scrambled out of the cover.
He ran all the way to the bottom of the sunshade.
His leather shoes crunched on the broken glass.
"Maeve! What are you guys doing?"
The Director stamped his feet in anxiety, a layer of glaring oily sweat on his forehead.
"Ten minutes! They will kill the hostages in just ten minutes!"
Harris pointed at the bank's front door.
"With your speed, rushing in and disarming them only takes a few seconds!"
A-Train threw the paper cup into the trash can nearby.
He extended his pinky finger and picked his ear.
"Director. We punch in for work."
A-Train pointed at the special combat communicator on his wrist.
"Without orders from above, we can't move even if we watch this building blow up to the sky."
Starlight bit her lower lip, tasting a hint of blood.
She turned her head and shouted at Harris, "Call Vought headquarters! Make them give the order!"
As soon as her voice fell, a rapid buzzing came from the sky.
A pitch-black quadcopter drone plunged down from the clouds.
It hovered three meters above the Police car.
The searchlight under the belly of the drone lit up.
A blue holographic projection beam struck the dusty asphalt road.
The beams intertwined.
Shen Che's three-dimensional image took shape in the middle of the road.
A custom black suit, with his hands tucked in his trouser pockets.
The clarity of the virtual image was extremely high, and even the subtle textures on the suit were crystal clear.
Seeing the image, the members of The Seven instinctively straightened up.
Maeve threw the half-cigarette on the ground and crushed it out with her boot.
Harris rushed toward the holographic projection like grabbing a straw of life.
"President Shen! Mr. Shen!"
Harris patted his thighs anxiously.
"Please give the order! There are one hundred and twelve hostages inside!"
"The amount of explosives is enough to raze the whole street to the ground. We can't drag this out anymore!"
Shen Che's holographic image turned slightly.
He looked at Harris.
"I didn't ask you how many explosives there are," Shen Chespoke.
The voice came out through the drone's speaker, carrying a cold and hard mechanical texture.
"Nor did I ask you how many people are inside."
Harris was stunned.
He opened his mouth, not knowing what to reply.
"Did you get the list?" Shen Che asked.
"What... what list?" Harris's brain went blank.
"The identity list of those one hundred and twelve people."
Shen Che took a step forward, the projection passing through a falling leaf.
"Upload the list to Vought headquarters' database. Start verifying."
The sweat on Harris's forehead dripped down his cheeks, smashing onto the surface of his leather shoes.
"Verifying what? Mr. Shen, this is a time to save lives!"
Harris's voice cracked.
"People are about to die, and you still want to check their identity backgrounds?"
Shen Che looked down condescendingly at the sweating Director.
"Check it. Which of them bought Vought Company's Supreme VIP Rescue Insurance."
The surrounding air seemed to freeze.
Several SWAT officers holding guns turned back and looked at the blue projection like looking at a lunatic.
"Insurance?" Harris stammered.
He felt he had heard wrong.
"This is a robbery! It's a terrorist attack! You're talking to me about insurance here?"
Shen Che didn't explain.
He just raised his hand and looked at a non-existent virtual watch.
"You have eight minutes left. If your technician types fast enough."
"You're crazy!"
Starlight couldn't help it anymore.
She rushed out from under the sunshade, pointing at Shen Che's projection and roaring.
"Those are human lives! Not numbers in your ledger!"
Shen Che's gaze fell on Starlight's face.
Starlight felt as if her neck was pinched by an invisible hand, her roar abruptly cutting off in her throat.
She thought of Translucent's corpse, her body instinctively shuddering.
"Vought Company doesn't do charity. We only do business."
Shen Che looked at Harris.
"Customers spend money to buy their lives. If I don't charge money to save people, that's a breach of contract to the customer."
"Check immediately. This is the last time I'm repeating it."
Harris clenched his teeth, the flesh on his cheeks trembling.
He had no choice.
With the Police's firepower, rushing in would just mean collecting corpses for those hundred-plus people.
He turned around and roared at the technician inside the communication van.
"Check! Hack into the bank's system! Check all those hundred-plus names!"
The technician's hands frantically tapped on the keyboard, sweat dripping onto the keys.
The screen on the Police car lit up, connecting to Vought's database backend.
Lines of names scrolled across the screen, red crosses lighting up one by one.
Uninsured.
Uninsured.
Over thirty red crosses popped up consecutively.
The robbers' roars came from inside the bank.
"Six minutes left! Where is the helicopter!"
A robber used his rifle butt to smash a man's head, the man letting out a miserable scream, clutching his head and falling to the ground convulsing.
Starlight closed her eyes, tears welling up.
The list on the screen was still scrolling: sixty, eighty, one hundred.
All red crosses.
Although the power outage in Metropolis made the rich pay frantically, ordinary people doing business in the branch lobby like this could simply not afford the basic annual premium of one million U.S. dollars.
"None... Director. None..."
The technician's voice carried a crying tone.
"Almost done checking! Not a single person bought insurance!"
Harris closed his eyes in despair, leaning limply against the Police car door and covering his face with both hands.
"Mr. Shen," Harris's voice was hoarse. "I'm begging you. Afterwards the city finance department will settle this bill..."
"Beep."
The computer screen made a crisp prompt sound, and the green checkmark lit up.
The technician suddenly straightened up, almost knocking over the coffee cup.
"There is! There's one!"
Harris pushed the technician away and leaned in front of the screen.
At the very end of the list: Gilbert, President of the First National Bank on Fifth Avenue, Vought Company Supreme VIP Corporate Edition, fifty million U.S. dollars annual premium.
"The president... the president bought it..." Harris turned back to look at Shen Che's projection.
Shen Che nodded.
"Now that's business."
He raised his right hand, rubbing his index finger and middle finger together.
"Snap."
A crisp snapping sound came from the drone's amplifier.
This snap was just like a switch.
Black Noir, who had been standing in the shadows all along, moved.
He wore all-black tactical armor, with two newly replaced alloy short blades strapped to his back, his speed so fast that not even afterimages could be seen clearly.
A distance of dozens of meters, Black Noir used only one second.
He didn't cross the warning line; he crashed directly through it like an out-of-control black road roller.
Boom.
The bank's revolving glass door was smashed to pieces by him with his body, large pieces of tempered glass crashing into the lobby like hail.
The robbers were dumbfounded.
"Shoot! Shoot!" the leading robber roared wildly.
More than a dozen automatic rifles fired at the same time, the muzzles spitting out half-foot-long tongues of fire, golden-yellow bullet casings dropping to the ground and sounding like rain.
Bullets hit Black Noir's black armor, bursting out clusters of blinding sparks, the bullet heads bouncing off and stray bullets smashing the crystal wall lamps on the wall.
Black Noir didn't dodge at all, not even making any tactical avoidance movements.
He walked straight toward the VIP counter at the deepest part of the lobby.
That pot-bellied bank president Gilbert was cowering under the counter, holding his head with both hands, a patch under his suit pants wet.
A robber rushed over, wanting to smash Black Noir with a rifle butt.
Black Noir didn't even look, waving his left hand so that the alloy brass knuckles on his tactical glove smashed into the robber's chest.
With a muffled sound of ribs breaking, the robber flew backward, crashed into a load-bearing pillar, and breathed his last.
Black Noir walked up to the counter and reached out to grab the back collar of the fat president's suit.
Exerting strength with one arm, the fat man weighing over two hundred catties was lifted up by him like carrying a dead dog.
Gilbert was scared shitless and screamed loudly, kicking his limbs frantically in mid-air.
Carrying him, Black Noir turned around and walked out.
Over a hundred hostages in the lobby watched this scene.
That female teller still had a bomb tied to her neck, the red light flashing.
"Save me! Please take me out!"
The female teller pounced over, wanting to hug Black Noir's thigh, only to be kicked away by him with a kick that didn't use full force, making her roll twice on the ground.
An old man nearby stretched out his withered hand.
"Save me..."
Black Noir turned a deaf ear, carrying the president in one hand and braving the bullets flying all over the lobby, his leather shoes stepping on the broken glass and bullet casings all over the ground as he walked step by step out of the bank's front door.
He threw the fat president into the safe zone outside the warning line.
The robbers inside shot crazily, bullets hitting the Policecars with loud bangs.
"There are still people! There are still people inside!" Director Harris yelled at Black Noir.
"Go and bring the rest of the people out! The bomb is about to explode!"
Black Noir stood beside the Police car, no expression visible through his black mask.
He patted the smoke and dust off his armor, neither looking at the Director nor looking at that bank.
He turned around directly, turning his back to the despairing cries of the more than one hundred civilians inside, and walked dashingly away with his leather shoes stepping on the asphalt road.
Chapter 34: Poor people can't afford insurance? Then go die somewhere far away and don't stain my eyes.
Black Noir's black back disappeared around the street corner of Fifth Avenue.
The revolving glass door of the bank shattered into pieces like rock sugar all over the floor.
The ringleader of the robbers stood in the broken glass, holding an automatic rifle in his hands. The barrel was burning hot.
He turned his head to look at the lobby.
The position of the fat bank president, Gilbert, was empty.
Only a pair of high-end custom leather shoes was left behind.
One hundred and twelve hostages were still squatting on the ground, holding their heads with both hands, trembling all over.
The face under the robber's hood turned flushed, and the veins on his forehead bulged.
The people from Vought Company had arrived.
No negotiation. No bomb disarming. They didn't even unload their guns.
They just hauled away a fat man.
They completely didn't take their group of heavily armed fierce bandits seriously.
"Fuck," the robber leader cursed.
The voice echoed in the empty bank lobby with a tremor.
This wasn't fear; it was anger and humiliation after being ignored.
He felt like a Joker juggling with a toy gun on the street corner.
"You don't know what's good for you."
The shiny bullets were chambered. The sound of metal impact was crisp.
He turned around, pointing the muzzle directly at the female teller with a bomb tied around her neck.
The female teller collapsed limply on the ground, and yellow liquid flowed down her thighs onto the floor.
"They only care about rich people, right?"
The robber leader's finger pressed on the trigger, his knuckles turning white.
"Then you bunch of penniless wretches, go to hell!"
He fiercely pulled the trigger.
Gunshots exploded.
The automatic rifle spewed half-a-foot-long tongues of fire.
The bullets tore through the air and hit the female teller directly in the chest.
Blood blossomed and splashed onto the marble service counter.
The female teller fell backward.
This gunshot was a signal.
The remaining dozens of robbers went completely crazy. They raised their guns and fired wildly at the crowd.
The gunshots merged into one. Cartridge cases rained down on the ceramic tiles, clattering and bouncing around.
Screams pierced through the roof.
Someone tried to stand up and run. As soon as they ran two steps, a bloody mist burst from their back, and they plunged headfirst into the glass shards.
Someone pressed a child under their body. The bullet directly pierced through the adult's back.
The lobby turned into a slaughterhouse.
Outside the bank.
Director Harris tightly covered his ears.
He knelt behind the police car door, tears streaming down mixed with oily sweat.
"Counterattack! SWAT team, counterattack!" he roared hysterically into the walkie-talkie.
The news helicopter in mid-air hovered.
The cameraman carried the telephoto lens, his hands trembling continuously.
The lens passed through the shattered door, capturing the Carnage inside clearly.
Blood converged into a dark red stream, flowing outward along the gaps of the floor tiles.
The footage had no censorship.
Through satellite signals, it directly cut into billions of screens around the World.
In a motel in Metropolis.
The trucker smashed the beer bottle in his hand against the wall, glass shattering all over the floor.
"Bastards! Those bastards at Vought Company!" the trucker cursed pointing at the TV screen.
Twitter's servers were on the verge of collapse.
The hashtag for Shen Che the murderer surged to the top of the hot searches in three minutes.
Tens of millions of posts were frantically refreshed.
"Over a hundred human lives! They just took away one fat man!"
"What kind of heroes are these? They clearly could have saved everyone!"
"Shen Che must go to the gallows! He is a demon!"
Moral blackmail on the internet was overwhelming.
Pundits from major channels slammed tables in the studios.
Everyone pinned the responsibility for this Carnage on Shen Che.
Manhattan. Downstairs of Vought Tower.
It started to rain. Raindrops pounded on the asphalt road, splashing up gray water.
On the square outside the main entrance of the building, people were gathering more and more.
Hundreds of people. Thousands of people.
They were all citizens who watched the live broadcast, as well as the families of the hostages.
They held up protest slogans written on cardboard.
The cardboard was soaked by the rain, and the marker handwriting blurred.
"Give me back my daughter!"
"Vought, pay with your life!"
Hundreds of heavily armed security personnel held riot shields,
forming three human walls outside the glass door.
The crowd pushed forward.
An old man in his sixties rushed to the very front, his hands tightly grabbing the riot shield.
"My son is inside! He went to deposit the rent today!"
The old man cried until his voice was hoarse. Tears mixed with rainwater flowed into his mouth.
His knees softened, and he knelt directly on the cement ground.
His forehead slammed heavily against the edge of the shield.
"Thud."
A muffled sound. The old man's forehead was cut open. Blood flowed along with the rainwater into his eyes.
"I beg you, let Mr. Shen show some mercy!"
"Save them! Whatever money it takes, I'll pay it back slowly later!"
The old man kowtowed on the ground. His forehead slammed against the cement ground, making thumping noises.
Beside him, a middle-aged woman sat limply in a puddle, howling with grief.
"I'm begging you! Superheroes can't just stand by and watch people die!"
Dozens of family members knelt down in the rain as well.
Cries, curses, and pleas boiled over in Vought Square.
Reporters on the outer perimeter set up their cameras, aiming their long lenses and short cannons at this group of kneeling poor people.
Vought Tower. One hundred and twelfth floor.
Shen Che stood in front of the window, overlooking the dense black dots downstairs.
PR Director Ashley stood by the door with a stack of documents in her hand.
She was shaking all over, biting her lips with her teeth.
"President Shen," Ashley's voice drifted, "Downstairs is about to get out of control. I suggest immediately sending Starlight or Maeve to appease them."
"We can announce the establishment of a victim fund. Suppress the public opinion first..."
Shen Che turned around.
He ignored her.
He tugged at the collar of his black suit.
His leather shoes stepped on the Persian carpet, walking toward the private elevator.
"First floor," Shen Che spat out two words.
The elevator door closed, and the numbers went down.
First-floor lobby.
The heavy glass revolving door was pushed open from the inside.
Shen Che walked out the door.
The security Captain was frightened into straightening his waist, gripping his shield tightly.
The rain wasn't small. Shen Che didn't hold an umbrella.
He stood on the steps, looking down condescendingly at the weeping and wailing people in the square.
Rainwater dripped down his hair strands, falling onto his black suit without leaving a single wrinkle.
The crowd saw him.
It was quiet for a second.
Then an even louder wave of sound erupted.
"Murderer!"
A young man smashed half a cup of hot coffee in his hand over.
The coffee cup flew mid-air.
Shen Che didn't even blink his eyelids.
The security Captain raised his shield to block in front. The coffee splashed onto the shield.
That kowtowing old man scrambled and lunged toward the steps.
His hands tightly grabbed the security guard's trouser legs.
"Mr. Shen! I will be a beast of burden for you! Save my son!" The old man's face was covered in blood.
Shen Che lowered his head, looking at the old man.
He raised his foot, bypassing the old man's hand.
He took a step forward.
A large number of reporters directly squeezed through the first human wall.
Dozens of recorders with furry microphones were shoved right in front of Shen Che.
"Shen Che! How do you explain the deaths of over a hundred hostages?"
"Can you sleep at night?!"
The reporters screamed hoarsely. Flashlights flashed wildly in the rain, illuminating Shen Che's face deathly pale.
He didn't dodge. He didn't block the lens.
He looked at this group of angry people.
Like looking at a pile of mud rolling in a puddle.
He reached out and took the microphone from a reporter's hand.
His finger flicked the mesh cover.
Two muffled thuds spread across the square through the loudspeaker.
The crowd's cursing was suppressed.
"Explain?" Shen Che spoke, his voice steady.
"You go to the supermarket to buy bread and don't pay. Will the boss give the bread to you for free?"
The reporters were stunned.
The old man forgot to cry, opening his mouth to look at him.
Shen Che held the microphone, his gaze sweeping across the square.
"The security resources of this World are limited."
"The cultivation and deployment of superheroes both require funding."
"Vought Company does not print banknotes."
He pointed in the direction of the Fifth Avenue bank.
"Those hundred-plus people died. I feel regret."
"But they didn't buy Vought's insurance. That is a fact."
"I am not your daddy. Vought is neither a welfare home."
A female reporter blushed red and strongly refuted,
"That is human life! Not business!"
Shen Che turned his head to look at her.
"Human life is the biggest business," his tone was cold and hard.
"Since the poor can't even afford their own lives, they deserve to be eliminated by the laws of nature."
This sentence was like a bomb, exploding in the crowd.
"Bastard!"
"Devil!"
The protesters went crazy. Someone picked up a stone from the ground and smashed it forward.
The stone smashed onto the shield, clattering loudly.
Shen Che threw the microphone onto the ground.
He ignored this impotent rage.
He straightened his cuffs.
He turned around and walked back to the glass door.
"Mr. Shen! This is a crime!" the reporter shouted from behind.
Shen Che stopped by the door and turned his head.
"I am rectifying social order."
He looked at that female reporter.
"Want to survive? Tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, bring your bank card and line up at the Vought business hall."
After saying that, he pushed the door and walked into the lobby.
The curses outside grew louder. Family members wailed and slammed against the door.
The riot shields were squeezed until they creaked. The formation was about to scatter.
Ashley stood in the lobby, her high heels trembling.
"President Shen... we can't hold them down. They are about to rush in."
Ashley took the walkie-talkie, the back of her hands covered in sweat.
Shen Che walked to the front desk and pulled out a tissue.
He wiped a drop of rainwater on the back of his hand.
He threw the tissue into the trash can.
"Drive the riot vehicles over," Shen Che ordered.
The security Captain ran into the lobby, his helmet crooked.
"President Shen, using force will arouse even greater public anger!"
Shen Che glanced at him.
The security Captain immediately shut his mouth, swallowing the second half of his sentence back.
"Connect the high-pressure water cannon."
Shen Che pointed at the group of poor people kowtowing and cursing outside the door.
"Wash away all these eyesore garbage."
"Within one minute. I don't want to see a single piece of cardboard on the square."
The security Captain stood at attention, turned around, and roared frantically into the walkie-talkie.
Three black heavy riot vehicles drove out from the side door of the building.
The high-pressure water cannons on the roof directly aimed at the crowd.
"Boom!"
A thick pillar of water spewed out.
That blood-soaked old man was the first to be hit by the water pillar.
The whole person flew out like a broken sack, rolling seven or eight times in the stagnant water.
The water cannon swept indiscriminately.
Women holding banners. Reporters carrying cameras.
All were knocked over by the high-pressure water current, smashing into flower beds and streetlamp poles.
The screams were covered by the roar of the water current.
The protesters' formation collapsed, scrambling and crawling to escape outside the block.
The ground was full of abandoned shoes, torn cardboard, and smashed microphones.
The square became quiet. Only the sound of the water current washing the cement ground remained.
Shen Che withdrew.
Chapter 35: Media dares to smear me? I'll buy out all the newspaper offices directly.
Six o'clock in the morning. The morning mist on the streets of Manhattan had not yet dispersed.
Old Joe, the newsstand owner, yawned. A pair of scissors snipped through the nylon packing strap.
A bundle of newspapers exuding a pungent smell of ink scattered across the iron stall counter.
The topmost one was the "Daily Planet."
There were no advertisements on the front page. No political news. There was only a huge black-and-white photo.
The photo was an aerial view of Vought Tower square yesterday. High-pressure Water cannons were blasting the crowd kneeling on the ground, leaving pools of glaring, dark Water stains everywhere.
The headline occupied half the page, rendered in extra-large bold black font.
"The Bloody Game of the Century's Tyrant: When Heroes Degenerate into Executioners."
Old Joe sucked in a breath of cold air.
The New York Gazette beside it was even more blunt.
The headline was a line of blood-red characters: "Vought Must Die."
In less than half an hour, the two hundred newspapers at Old Joe's stand were snatched up completely.
Suit-wearing White-collar workers and bread-holding students each held a copy in their hands.
The subway carriages were filled with the rustling sound of newspapers being opened.
Curses fermented in every corner of the city. An iron trash can on the street was kicked over by an angry youth, rolling into the middle of the road.
Eight o'clock in the morning. Vought Tower. One hundred and twelfth floor.
Ashley, the PR director, stood outside the mahogany double doors.
She reached up and grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling down a dozen strands of blonde hair between her fingers. Her hairline receded another finger-width backward.
The tablet in her hand shook like a sieve.
The door wasn't fully closed. She bit the bullet and pushed it open.
Shen Che sat behind the obsidian desk.
On the desk sat a White porcelain plate containing a medium-rare ribeye steak.
Shen Che held a silver table knife in his hand.
The blade sliced through the bloody beef, scraping across the bottom of the porcelain plate and making a sharp, grating sound.
Ashley's scalp tingled.
"Mr. Shen." She walked over in high heels, taking tiny steps. "Something has happened."
She pushed the tablet with both hands onto the obsidian desktop.
The screen was covered with front-page screenshots from major mainstream media outlets across the U.S.
The top fifty trending searches on Twitter were all cursing Vought Company.
Behind the keywords was a dark red character "Burst".
"Sixty print media outlets across the U.S. have published joint articles. Several major television networks are also broadcasting it on a rolling basis."
Ashley's throat was dry. Swallowing her saliva felt painful.
"Pre-market stocks have already dropped by eighteen points. Shareholders are panic-selling."
She leaned over the edge of the desk, panting anxiously.
"Those old-school media outlets simply won't take our PR calls. We are finished."
She swallowed a mouthful of saliva and lowered her voice.
"Should we have Black Noir make a trip?"
"Kill a few editors-in-chief who are jumping around the most, and fake it as a gas leak..."
Shen Che ignored her.
He used a silver fork to pierce a piece of bloody beef and put it into his mouth.
He chewed slowly as the meat juices spread in his mouth.
He swallowed the beef, picked up a pristine White napkin, and wiped the corners of his mouth.
"Killing people?" Shen Che threw the napkin onto the desk.
"Ashley, is your brain filled with sludge from the sewer?"
Ashley shrank her neck in fright, not daring to make a sound.
Shen Che pressed the intercom phone at the corner of the desk.
"Send David up."
In less than a minute, David, the financial director, rushed into the office with sweat covering his head.
His bald head was shiny, and his tie was crooked over his shoulder.
"Mr. Shen." David panted heavily.
"How much cash flow is still left in the account from yesterday's shopping spree?" Shen Che asked.
David closed his eyes and recalled for a second.
"Forty-three billion. It's all in overseas tax-exempt accounts and can be mobilized at any time."
Shen Che pointed at the still-illuminated tablet on the desk.
On the screen was precisely the stock trend chart of Metropolis Media Group, the parent company of the "Daily Planet."
"Buy it out," Shen Che said.
David froze. He looked at Ashley, then turned to look at Shen Che.
"Mr. Shen, Metropolis Media is absolutely controlled by a family. The circulating retail shares in the market only account for thirty percent."
David rubbed his hands anxiously, his palms covered in sweat.
"They have a poison pill plan. A hostile takeover will trigger a large number of newly issued shares, and our little bit of money will be diluted to nothing."
"Furthermore, if we go to acquire them at this time, the Securities and Exchange Commission will definitely intervene and suspend trading..."
Shen Che picked up that silver table knife.
The tip of the knife drew a circle on the obsidian desktop.
"I didn't tell you to go to the open market to draw lots."
Shen Che leaned back in his swivel chair.
"Find their private accounts. Find those old men on the board of directors."
"Fifty percent premium over market price. If they won't sell, make it eighty percent."
Shen Che tossed the table knife into the porcelain plate with a clang, the knife handle hitting the porcelain edge.
"Smash their faces with U.S. dollars. Smash them until they voluntarily swallow the equity transfer agreement into their stomachs."
David kept his mouth open, unable to close it for a long time.
This was pure capital violence. No financial rules, no protracted tug-of-war.
Using absolute mass to crush the opponent's bottom line.
"I'll give you two hours." Shen Che glanced at the antique wall clock on the wall.
"Before ten-thirty, I want to see the equity change certificates of these newspaper offices."
"If you can't do it, you can jump out of this window."
David shuddered all over.
"Understood! I'll go right now!"
He grabbed the tablet and turned to run, his leather shoes stepping out messy drumbeats on the wooden floor.
Nine o'clock in the morning. Wall Street.
Dozens of top traders from Vought Company sat in front of their computers.
David stood in the middle, clutching a megaphone in his hand.
"Split the capital pool! Route the accounts through shell companies in the Cayman Islands!"
He took off his suit jacket, and the back of his shirt was soaked through.
The green light from the screen shone on his bald head.
Tens of billions of massive funds transformed into torrents of data, rushing into the stock market.
Wall Street's alarm system flashed red wildly.
Metropolis Media Group's stock, after plunging at the open, suddenly pulled out a straight line.
Straight upward, directly locking down the upper limit of the stock price.
Metropolis. Metropolis Media Group top-floor conference room.
Four white-haired board members sat before the round table.
A few minutes ago, they were still discussing how to use this public opinion storm to completely crush Vought Company and grab a share of the spoils.
Now, the four internal phones on the round table rang simultaneously, their piercing rings merging together.
The largest shareholder and group chairman picked up the phone.
"What? Eighty percent premium?"
The chairman's fountain pen dropped onto the desk with a snap, the ink blackening the contract.
His breathing was rapid, his face flushed.
"Who is the other party? An investment company from the Cayman Islands?"
This sum of money was too much.
It was enough for their family to cash out immediately, go to the Caribbean to buy a dozen private islands, and squander it for three lifetimes.
Fuck journalistic ideals. Fuck social responsibility.
The chairman hung up the phone.
He looked at the other three old men in the conference room whose eyes were likewise glowing with greed.
The four of them tacitly picked up their pens.
Ten-fifteen in the morning.
Metropolis. "Daily Planet" editor-in-chief's office.
Perry, the editor-in-chief, stood behind his desk and roared loudly.
"Make the wording even harsher! Louise!"
Perry waved a roll of proofs in his hand, the manuscript paper rustling loudly.
"Put all those scenes of Shen Che standing by and doing nothing! I want to turn him into the public enemy of all humanity in the evening paper!"
Louise Lane sat at her workstation.
Her hands clattered away on the mechanical keyboard, the sound of the blue switches resembling popping beans.
Her face carried an excited flush.
The humiliation of being hung on the rooftop at Vought Tower yesterday had now completely transformed into the driving force for revenge.
She would use the pen in her hand to strip off that demon's skin.
The red desk phone on the table suddenly rang.
This was a dedicated line directly connecting to the board of directors.
Perry snatched up the receiver in one grab.
"Chairman, the next front page has already been laid out! It will definitely sell out completely!"
The old man's voice came through the receiver, sounding weary yet revealing a hint of smugness.
"Perry. Stop the presses. Stop printing."
Perry froze. His smile stiffened on his face.
"What? Stop printing? Why?"
"The group changed hands ten minutes ago. It's a full acquisition." The chairman's voice sounded a bit floaty.
"Who is the buyer?" Perry's heart skipped a beat.
"Vought Company."
Beep. The phone hung up.
Perry gripped the receiver, frozen in place like a wooden sculpture.
Louise finished typing the last word and pressed the save button.
"Editor-in-chief, the article is written!" She stood up and grabbed the manuscript paper.
Perry snapped back to reality.
He looked at that righteous manifesto in Louise's hand.
The corners of his mouth twitched twice.
"Delete it," Perry said in a hoarse voice.
Louise thought she had heard wrong.
"What? This is an exclusive..."
"I told you to delete it!" Perry smashed his fist onto the desk, causing the teacup to jump up and coffee to splash half the table.
"Get lost to the layout room! Take down all of this morning's plates for me!"
He collapsed limply into his chair, covering his face with both hands.
"The big boss has changed. The one paying our salaries now is Shen Che."
The manuscript paper in Louise's hand fluttered down to the ground.
There was a buzzing sound in her brain.
Capital's crushing blow ended without even a sound of resistance being uttered.
Two o'clock in the afternoon.
The newsstand on the streets of Manhattan.
Old Joe was leaning back in his chair dozing off.
A small yellow van slammed on its brakes by the roadside, its tires screeching against the standing Water.
The rear compartment door swung open.
The deliveryman jumped down and threw two large bundles of still-damp newspapers at Old Joe's feet.
"Old Joe! Extra edition is out!"
Old Joe rubbed his eyes and picked up the scissors to cut the packing strap.
The newspaper was unfolded.
It was still the "Daily Planet."
The layout design hadn't changed, but the headline had completely changed its face.
No high-pressure Water cannons. No blood stains.
Replaced instead by a high-definition large photo of Shen Che wearing a high-end custom suit, showing his stern profile at a press conference.
The headline font was startlingly large—glaring gold-stamped bold characters.
"Great President Shen Che Brings a New Order to New York."
Subtitle: Supreme VIP Insurance is the cornerstone of the long-term development of superheroes.
The entire page below was filled with lengthy praises from financial experts.
Old Joe rubbed his eyes, thinking he had picked up the wrong newspaper.
A White-collar worker passing by dropped a one-dollar coin and snatched up an extra edition.
Walking and reading at the same time.
The anger on the passerby's face slowly turned into confusion, and finally into a default numbness.
The trending search list on Twitter.
Underwent a complete blood transfusion within half an hour.
Posts cursing Shen Che previously had their traffic heavily restricted.
Overwhelming internet trolls and co-opted media accounts began frantically reposting Vought's new insurance package.
The global public opinion trend.
Under the heavy pressure of tens of billions of U.S. dollars, it completed a 180-degree turn.
Money directly smashed the backbone of justice to smithereens.