"Mu… rphy…"
A bellows-like wheeze rasped from the monster's throat. Black, foamy blood spilled out as the unfinished word died with him. His grip slackened, pupils dilated—and then there was nothing.
"Murphy?" Jessica frowned, looking down at the corpse. "Is that a name? Or… some kind of code?"
"Perfect! Absolutely perfect, Jessica!" Dave's excited voice burst out from the side. "That flying shield smash was INSANE! And that stance—god, that stance! Pure style!"
"Quick! Face the camera! Say the line!!"
Jessica took a deep breath, suppressing the unease rising in her chest. She turned toward the cameraman crawling out from behind cover.
She let out a soft sigh, wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth with her thumb, planted her hands on her hips, and delivered the pre-rehearsed line with practiced calm:
"When the world calls for heroes, the Seven answer."
Then she flicked her cape and strode out of the battlefield.
-----
S.H.I.E.L.D. Director's Office
A massive screen filled the room, looping breaking news from Vought News.
On-screen, Jessica Jones' fluid Aikido counter—her cloud-hand deflection—was replayed in slow motion again and again.
The commentator's voice echoed with manic enthusiasm:
"—Did you see that?! This is Queen Jones! This is the power of the Seven! Efficient! Elegant! Zero civilian casualties! Compared to that, the efficiency of certain 'mysterious agencies' is frankly embarrassing—"
Nick Fury shut the screen off, face dark as thunder.
"Sir," Maria Hill said, standing beside him with a thick stack of files in her arms, her expression just as grim. "Vought's PR department already released an official statement. They're calling this operation 'the dawn of a new era of law enforcement.' Congress… several senators just swung over to Starr's side."
"A new era of law enforcement?" Fury stepped out of the shadows, his single eye glinting dangerously. "Sounds more like the dawn of anarchy."
"These superhuman crimes used to be our jurisdiction," Hill snapped, pointing at the screen. "We detained, evaluated, and contained them. Now? They're set dressing for that blond bastard's reality show."
"Bonechewer," Hill continued angrily. "Our agents tracked him for three months. We were planning to close the net tonight. And then Vought rushed in like sharks smelling blood."
"They didn't just steal the arrest," she said. "They turned it into a TV spectacle."
"They're eroding our relevance," Fury said quietly. "The moment the government starts calling the Seven instead of S.H.I.E.L.D., we lose our reason to exist."
"But… results-wise," Hill hesitated, "they did solve the problem. No civilian casualties."
"So what do we do?" she asked.
"Nothing," Fury said, standing up and flipping through the files Hill brought.
"You know what scares me most, Hill?"
"It's not Vought stealing our work. It's not Homelander's soaring approval ratings."
"It's the silence."
"…Too quiet."
Fury turned, cold light flashing in his eye.
"I ordered the highest-level internal audits. Funding. Communications. Field operations."
"And?" Hill asked.
"Other than a few low-level agents embezzling money for gambling—and two idiots selling intel to corporations—nothing."
"Everyone's loyal. Too loyal."
Hill went still. As a veteran agent, she understood immediately.
"That means…" her voice dropped, "the entire system is lying."
"Exactly."
Fury clenched his fist.
"Vought's arrogance out there is just a skin disease. Ugly, but not fatal."
"But in here—" he pointed to the floor beneath their feet, "—we've got cancer."
"We're fighting an enemy we can't see, one that's everywhere."
"A storm is coming," Fury sighed. "Hill—pause all visible investigations. Resume normal operations."
"What? Sir?" Hill stared at him. "We're just letting this go?"
"Of course not."
Fury's eye narrowed.
"If we can't find the rats inside the house… then we let the cats outside flush them out."
"Contact him."
Hill froze. "You mean—"
"Yes," Fury nodded. "That old soldier still punching bags in a Brooklyn gym. Tell him his vacation's over."
"And one more thing," Fury added. "How's the Avengers expansion plan?"
"Not great," Hill admitted. "Tony Stark scheduled surgery—he's heading to it. Banner's missing. Only the Captain is fully cooperative."
"Most promising candidates," she sighed, "got sucked into Vought's damn show."
"Fifty million dollars per person, sir. We don't have that kind of money. The Council cut our budget."
"Then find the ones who don't fight for money," Fury said coldly. "There are always fools who bleed for 'justice.' Find them—before Vought does."
-----
Vought Tower, New York — Homelander's Office
A massive holographic display projected the real-time voting data for Who Is the Next Superhero?
Antony lounged in his executive chair, boots propped on the desk, munching popcorn.
Ashley stood beside him, nervous but efficient, fingers flying across the interface.
"As of ten minutes ago, sir," she rattled off, "first-round audition uploads passed 800,000. We expanded server capacity three times. After filtering invalid applicants, about 300 candidates show real potential. Would you like to review them?"
"No need." Antony waved lazily. "Anyone ugly, gross abilities, or criminal records we can't whitewash—cut them."
"Uh… sir," Ashley hesitated. "There's one called 'Frog Prince.' His tongue extends five meters and secretes corrosive mucus. Combat capability is very high—"
"Cut." Antony didn't even look up. "I want superheroes, not horror movie props. Who the hell wants a slime-covered freak on a cereal box? Kids would have nightmares."
"And this one?" Ashley switched screens. "Calls himself 'Indestructible Man.' Skin hard as stone."
"Too ugly. Pass. We're the Seven, not the Gargoyles."
"And this?" Ashley tried again. "Code name Big Bertha. She can freely control her body fat, turning into a multi-ton mass to crush enemies—"
"..."
Antony went silent for two seconds.
Then he looked up slowly.
"Ashley," he said flatly, "do you have some kind of misunderstanding about the word 'idol'?"
"I want beauty. Style. Coolness," he snapped, pointing at the screen. "The kind that makes nerds lick their screens and girls scream!"
"Even if he's useless—if he looks like Leonardo, glows a little, and burns into the audience's memory at first glance—he advances!"
"And villains are fine too," Antony continued coldly, "as long as they're cute, charming, and marketable. Got it?!"
Antony had never cared much about raw power.
After all—none of them could ever compare to him anyway.
His selection criteria were brutally simple:
Popularity ＞ Looks ＞ Ability.
Everything else… was irrelevant.
--------------
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