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Inside, Richard Thornfield's office stretched wide and pristine, wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooked HeroCorp Island. Below, waves slammed rhythmically against the jagged cliffs, white foam exploding upward before being swallowed by the sea. Sunlight reflected off towering structures across the island—sleek housing complexes, domed training arenas, sterile med-labs gleaming like monuments.
A perfect view.
A perfect lie.
From up here, it all looked peaceful. Controlled. Clean.
Richard sat behind his dark wooden desk, leaned back comfortably in a high-backed leather chair. One ankle rested casually over the other. A half-full glass of whisky sat loose in his hand, amber liquid catching the light as he tilted it slightly. A cigar burned slowly in a crystal ashtray, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals.
He looked relaxed.
Too relaxed.
The doors slid open with a soft hiss.
Black Mentis stepped inside.
His boots tapped lightly against the marble floor— slow, measured, each step deliberate. His dark blue and silver suit absorbed the sunlight rather than reflecting it, matte and unassuming, but heavy with presence. The mask hid his expression, though the tension in his posture betrayed him. His shoulders were set. His jaw was tight beneath the helmet.
"You called for me," Mentis said, voice flat, irritation leaking through despite his restraint. "What do you want now? I told you— I'm retired. I only intervene when it's absolutely necessary."
Richard's lips twitched into a smirk. Just enough to be noticed.
"Retirement," Richard said, swirling the whisky in his glass, the ice clicking softly, "is a luxury you can't afford. Especially not you."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. The cigar smoke drifted between them, hanging in the air like a deliberate obstacle.
"You're the Top Dog," Richard continued calmly. "You don't get to walk away."
Mentis exhaled sharply through his nose— more annoyance than sigh.
Instead of replying, he reached out, grabbed one of the leather chairs across the desk, and dragged it back with a slow scrape against the marble. He dropped into it heavily, leaning back until the chair creaked in protest.
Then— deliberately he swung one leg up and rested his boot on the edge of Richard's desk.
The glass of whisky trembled slightly.
"Just get to the point, old man."
Richard didn't flinch. His eyes flicked briefly to the boot on his desk, then back to Mentis' mask. The smirk stayed, but his fingers tightened around the glass for half a second before relaxing.
He chuckled quietly, tapping ash from the cigar.
"I need you to do something for me," he said. "And who's better than my most trusted ally, hm?"
He lifted the whisky in a mock toast, wrist loose, eyes sharp.
"Your expertise is irreplaceable. HeroCorp needs you. I need you. Retirement is just a fantasy you tell yourself to sleep at night."
Mentis' eyes glowed faintly beneath the mask— not enough to let Richard notice, just enough to change the air.
Richard's smirk twitched upward, the kind that always made Mentis' knuckles itch.
His voice dropped.
"I said get to the damn point. Now."
Richard leaned back again, leather creaking softly beneath him. He turned his chair slightly toward the window, eyes drifting over the island below— the orderly paths, the distant figures moving in formation, the illusion of control.
"Our S-Rankers," he said casually, "Rank Two through Ten, are departing for the Mars mission today. They won't be back for a while."
He took a slow sip of whisky, letting the silence stretch.
"In their absence, we need someone to oversee the training of our top A-Rankers. Promotion tests are coming. Ember City still needs protecting."
Mentis' boot shifted slightly on the desk. His fingers drummed once against the armrest.
A beat.
"And since the S-Ranks won't be here," Richard added, turning back toward him, "you're the only one with enough authority— and power to keep things from falling apart."
Mentis tilted his head a fraction. His arms crossed over his chest, metal plates shifting softly.
"So what," he said dryly. "You basically want me to babysit a bunch of kids now? Train the next generation?" He scoffed quietly. "Come on, Richard. You and I both know that's not the full story. I know how HeroCorp operates. I know your schemes."
Richard's smirk sharpened— colder, wider.
"You give me too much credit," he replied. "These 'kids' climbed the ranks faster than any batch before them. They're dangerous. Talented."
Another sip.
"Some of them might rival S-Rankers one day," he said evenly. "Maybe even you."
Mentis let out a short scoff under his breath through his nose.
"Yeah. Right."
Richard ignored it.
"You'll train them. Keep them sharp. Keep the island and the city safe. And if something big happens— something they can't handle we'll call you in."
He leaned forward slightly.
"It's as simple as that."
Mentis stared at him for a long moment. The room felt smaller. The ocean outside crashed louder against the cliffs.
Then he shrugged slowly, lowering his foot from the desk and standing up.
"Fine," he said. "Sounds easy enough."
He turned toward the door, boots tapping again, controlled— but his shoulders were tense beneath the suit.
"Whatever you say," he muttered, sarcasm clear.
The doors slid shut behind him.
Richard Thornfield remained seated, sipping his whisky in the silence, eyes lingering on the empty doorway— calculating.
Outside, the waves kept crashing.
The hallway outside was colder, quieter.
Black Mentis moved through it without slowing, boots striking the polished metal floor in a steady rhythm that echoed longer than it should have. The lights overhead hummed faintly, sterile and white. A cleaning drone glided past him, lenses flickering as it adjusted course, giving him a wide berth.
His mind was already elsewhere.
Thinking: (He's hiding something. The timing's too perfect.
Sending every S-Ranker off-world at once wasn't coincidence. It wasn't logistics. It was clearance. More like a distraction. Or a setup.
Hmm, or maybe both.
His jaw tightened behind the mask.
What game are these idiots playing?)
He passed a wall of reinforced glass. Beyond it, trainees moved across a training field in clean formations— powers flashing, instructors barking corrections. Order on the surface. Control by design.
For Ben Winchester, staying near HeroCorp had never been loyalty.
It was survival.
He's doing this for his family for his powerless Alan— was growing up in a world where strength decided everything. Where the strong smiled for cameras while tearing the weak apart behind closed doors. Mentis had seen it happen too many times.
His wife. His daughter. His son.
None of them existed to HeroCorp. And that was the only reason they were still safe and breathing.
He'd measured his distance carefully over the years. Enough cooperation to stay useful. Enough resistance to stay independent. Never close enough to be owned.
The media still called him a loyal ally. HeroCorp never corrected them. It made the image cleaner.
But Mentis knew the truth.
So did Richard.
He reached the balcony overlook and stopped. Air flowed in through the open vents, cool against the armor. Below him, the island spread out—training fields, holographic arenas, housing blocks arranged with perfect symmetry.
A city built on lies.
His thoughts darkened.
(Something's off. My gut hasn't screamed like this in years.)
Five years ago.
The last time he hadn't been there when it mattered.
His hand closed slowly into a fist.
What are you planning?
The glass reflected his masked face against the skyline—still, unreadable.
He didn't move.
Only one thought settled, firm and unyielding.
I'll find out. One way or another.
Inside the office, Richard Thornfield stood alone.
The door had barely finished sealing when his expression snapped.
The whisky glass in his hand trembled once— then he hurled it across the room.
It shattered against the wall in a sharp crack, amber liquid splashing down the glass panels, fragments skittering across the marble floor.
Richard's jaw was clenched tight, teeth grinding.
"Just you wait," he muttered, voice low and venomous. "Everything comes with time, Mentis."
He stepped closer to the window, watching from above as Black Mentis crossed the training grounds below— calm and confident, already pulling away from his grasp.
"And yours," Richard added quietly, eyes narrowing, "is getting very short."
His fingers curled into a fist.
"He knows too much," he said to himself. "And he's slipping."
Richard turned back to his desk and slammed his palm down on a concealed panel. A soft click. A screen lit up.
"Prepare a meeting with the other HeroCorp leaders," he said sharply. "As soon as possible."
A voice crackled from the desk phone.
"Yes, sir."
The screen dimmed.
Richard remained standing, staring at the city he controlled— calculating, already several steps ahead.
Outside, training continued.
Inside, plans shifted.
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