Harris cursed his luck under his breath even as his body prepared to bolt. Every instinct he had sharpened over years in the gray market screamed at him to run, to vanish into the maze of backstreets and never look back. Unfortunately, instinct moved faster than muscle, and the figure standing a few feet away had already sensed the shift.
"If you take one more step," Ethan said quietly, his voice stripped of warmth, "I'll crush your skull. Try me."
There was no dramatic emphasis in the threat, and that was what made it convincing. Harris froze mid-motion, his foot suspended before settling slowly back onto the pavement. He could feel the weight of the other man's gaze like a blade pressed to his throat.
"I'm not interested in whatever deal you had planned," Ethan continued, his tone turning almost conversational. He flicked a dagger loose from the sheath at his waist, letting the metal catch the dim streetlight for a second before lowering it casually. "Find me somewhere quiet to stay. Do that, and you walk away. Otherwise, I can't guarantee what happens next."
He tilted his head slightly. "Friend or enemy. Pick."
Harris swallowed hard. Relief came in small, shaky increments. This thing—this superhuman—could be reasoned with. That alone was a blessing. Internally, he spat at fate for delivering such a nightmare to his doorstep, but he also understood when survival required cooperation.
He led Ethan to his car without further argument.
The drive was silent, tension thick inside the vehicle. Harris kept both hands on the wheel, hyperaware of the man in the passenger seat. Ethan stared forward, occasionally glancing at passing buildings as if memorizing layouts and escape routes. They drove far from the ruined research facility, skirting the outer edges of Pennsylvania until they reached a sparsely populated area with aging houses and minimal traffic.
"This is as isolated as it gets," Harris muttered, pulling into a modest residence.
Ethan stepped out, scanning the perimeter before nodding once. He did not relax entirely, but after observing Harris for several hours and confirming no calls had been made, no messages sent, he allowed himself a fraction of ease.
The next morning, Ethan stood in front of a narrow bathroom mirror and studied his reflection. His body bore the aftermath of the previous night's violence. Bruises layered his chest and abdomen in dark patterns where bullets had struck. His enhanced physiology had prevented penetration, but kinetic force had still transferred through muscle and bone.
He rotated his shoulder slowly, testing range of motion. It hurt, but it was manageable.
He summoned the panel.
[Multiverse Role-Playing System]
[Current Role: Doomsday]
[Template Progress: 10.8%]
[Destruction Ray – Lv1 (3.8%)]
[Superhuman Physique – Lv1 (8.2%)]
[Role Points: 862]
He blinked at the final number.
Before the facility riot, his accumulated points had been barely over a hundred. The night of destruction had multiplied that several times over. The death of Lamplighter alone had granted more than four hundred points. It was clear now that devastation aligned perfectly with the role template.
Doomsday grew through destruction.
He exhaled slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Fitting," he murmured.
He turned on the television in the living room and flipped through channels until local news appeared. As expected, Vought's public relations machine had moved quickly. The incident at Sage's Forest was described as a tragic gas pipeline explosion triggered by a severely unstable patient. Casualties were labeled unfortunate but contained.
Lamplighter was memorialized as a fallen hero who had sacrificed himself while attempting to rescue patients.
On-screen, Homelander spoke solemnly about loss and safety. He promised improved oversight and enhanced protections. The segment transitioned seamlessly into promotional footage for recruitment to the Seven.
Ethan scoffed softly. A massacre repackaged as heroism. Corporate efficiency at its finest.
Miles away, in Manhattan, another man watched the same broadcast with narrowed eyes. Billy Butcher leaned closer to his television, jaw tight. He had long since stopped believing Vought's narratives. Lamplighter dying a hero's death? He remembered a different story—one involving children and fire.
"Bloody hell," Butcher muttered. "What are you covering up now?"
Back in the safe house, Ethan shut off the television and turned his attention to the rooftop.
Harris had spent the early morning hauling mirrors up a narrow stairwell and arranging them in a rough circular formation. The request had confused him, but he had learned not to question instructions that did not involve immediate violence.
"What exactly are you planning?" Harris asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Optimization," Ethan replied.
He took a seat in the center of the mirror circle as sunlight crept over the horizon. Reflected beams converged inward, intensifying exposure. The effect was crude but functional. He could feel the warmth increase slightly across his skin, though it was far from overwhelming.
The panel flickered in his peripheral vision as incremental gains ticked upward.
The rate was modest compared to the chaos of battle, but steady.
Harris watched him sit there in focused sunlight like some deranged monk and shook his head. "You know," he said carefully, "most people use rooftops for barbecues."
Ethan didn't respond. He monitored the role point increases in silence. The consumption rate for future unlocks was climbing, but this was still forward motion.
After half an hour, he opened one eye. "Any superhumans operating in this neighborhood?" he asked.
Harris stiffened. "I don't deal with them if I can help it. Most of them don't negotiate. They take."
"What about a guy named Butcher?" Ethan continued. "Black beard. Former federal."
Harris frowned. "He's known in certain circles. Used to be government. Now he hunts supers. Dangerous man. Last I heard, he's sniffing around that speedster who killed someone during a botched stop."
Ethan filed that away. That meant the timeline aligned before certain later events. Some targets might still be available.
"What about others?" he pressed.
Harris hesitated. Temptation flickered behind caution. "There's someone," he said slowly. "Name's Nelson. They call him Timberwolf."
Ethan's gaze sharpened.
"Enhanced strength," Harris continued. "Heightened senses. Likes to prowl wooded outskirts. Not officially affiliated. Small-time, but vicious."
Ethan considered. Not top-tier, but sufficient.
"If I take care of him," Ethan said calmly, "what do you gain?"
Harris's jaw tightened. "He's cost me shipments. Men. He thinks he owns the routes."
"And in return?"
"I help you locate whoever you're looking for," Harris replied.
A transaction. Clear and simple.
Ethan stood, stepping out of the circle of mirrors. Sunlight faded slightly as clouds shifted overhead. He rolled his shoulders once, ignoring residual soreness.
"Tell me where he hunts."
As Harris began outlining locations along forest edges and abandoned mill roads, Ethan's mind calculated risk versus gain. Timberwolf wasn't Homelander. He wasn't Lamplighter. But each confrontation reinforced the role.
Each kill fed the template.
Miles away, in a Vought Security Department office, alarms had quieted but tension remained high.
A uniformed officer burst into a room holding a sealed evidence container. "Jake," someone shouted from across the desk, "what the hell did you bring back?"
Inside the container, blackened fragments of something that had once been human lay scattered like burned paper.
The chaos that had begun in one hidden facility was already spreading outward in ripples.
And Ethan was preparing to create more.