Wilson's calm, controlled voice flowed through the squad's earpieces like steady oxygen. Confidence surged among the advancing teams, especially with the reinforced shields forming a wall in front of them. Superhumans were powerful, yes—but they weren't gods. They bled, they made mistakes, and with preparation, they could be contained. Subject Fifty-Eight was dangerous, but he wasn't Homelander.
The front line pulled gas grenades from their belts in unison. Pins were yanked free. Arms arced forward.
The grenades sailed toward the house.
Before they even touched the ground, twin beams of red light burst from the living room window.
Boom.
Both grenades detonated midair, erupting in thick white smoke that swallowed the front yard in seconds.
"Gas masks!" someone shouted.
The shield bearers snapped masks over their faces, formation tightening instinctively. Visibility dropped to near zero.
Then the smoke split open.
Two crimson beams carved straight through the fog like surgical lasers. The first shield team braced, crouching behind the black alloy plates. The beams slammed into the shields with a violent hiss.
The sound was unmistakable—metal under stress.
Steam and glowing residue bloomed across the surface, but the shields held.
The lasers swept once more across the formation before cutting off.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then the earpieces erupted.
"Hahaha! The shield's holding!"
"That's it? That's the famous laser eyes?"
Excited laughter crackled through the comms.
Wilson exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders. The experiment department's estimate had been accurate. The reinforced titanium alloy—rated above 2,500 degrees Celsius—was doing exactly what it was built to do.
"Do not get sloppy," Wilson snapped, though satisfaction colored his tone. "Advance. Sixth Squad, take rooftop position. RPG on standby. Only fire on my order."
He didn't want to escalate unless necessary. Vought was in delicate negotiations with the Department of Defense. A rocket blast in a residential neighborhood would be a PR nightmare.
Still, he wasn't naïve.
He wanted a sniper solution. Clean. Precise.
But the Seven weren't answering to him. They were busy with piracy crackdowns and merchandise protection, far removed from this quiet war.
"Move!" Wilson commanded.
Inside the house, Ethan's eyes narrowed.
The shields hadn't melted.
Two black scorch marks smoked faintly across their surfaces, but the structure remained intact.
So they had studied him.
Of course they had.
They knew his output. They built counters.
A slow smile curved his lips.
Outside, the squads relaxed further. They had felt the heat impact, and they had survived it.
"Open fire!"
Gunfire erupted from all sides simultaneously.
The neighborhood echoed with thunderous cracks as dozens of rifles unleashed synchronized bursts. The night air filled with smoke and brass.
Residents nearby reacted with mechanical indifference. Doors shut. Curtains drawn. Televisions turned up. Coffee brewed. In America, gunfire wasn't news—it was background noise.
Bullets tore through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Glass exploded inward. Furniture splintered.
Ethan moved through the hailstorm with calculated precision. His body absorbed impacts, though each strike still thudded against muscle and bone. Bruising blossomed beneath skin, but nothing pierced.
He didn't focus on the bullets.
He searched.
And then he found them.
On a rooftop across the street, partially shielded, two figures adjusted their stance. One braced a large tube across his shoulder.
RPG.
So that was the real plan.
Ethan's expression shifted.
He could probably survive it.
Probably.
But survival wasn't enough. A direct hit would cripple him long enough for containment teams to flood in. He would wake up strapped to a table again.
That future was unacceptable.
Without hesitation, he mentally opened his system interface.
Role-Playing Points: 1,0—
The number dropped instantly as he committed the upgrade.
Heat surged behind his eyes.
Destruction Ray: Level 2.
The red glow intensified dramatically. Air around him shimmered.
He stepped toward the shattered window, bullets still striking around him.
"Let's see," he murmured, voice calm amid chaos, "if your shield survives three thousand degrees."
Outside, rooftop shield bearers positioned themselves in front of the RPG operator.
They never saw the difference until it was too late.
Ethan's eyes ignited.
Twin beams exploded outward, thicker, brighter—no longer clean lines, but concentrated torrents of annihilating energy.
The beam struck the reinforced shield head-on.
There was no prolonged hiss this time.
There was a scream of metal.
The alloy glowed instantly from black to orange to blinding white. Within a single second, its structural integrity failed. The shield buckled inward like melting wax.
The beam punched through.
The shield bearer had no time to react. His upper body vaporized in a flash of superheated mist. The beam continued forward, striking the RPG launcher.
The warhead detonated prematurely.
The rooftop vanished in a fireball.
Shockwaves rippled down the street. Windows shattered for three blocks.
Screams burst through Wilson's headset.
"Oh God—!"
"What the hell was that?!"
"He melted it—he melted the damn shield!"
Wilson froze for half a second, binoculars pressed tight.
On the rooftop, nothing remained but fire and debris.
Three thousand degrees.
His jaw tightened.
"Fall back! Reposition!" he barked.
But Ethan was already moving.
Inside the house, the smoke parted as he stepped fully into view. His silhouette framed against the shattered window.
The red glow around his eyes pulsed like something alive.
Across the street, Harris had just turned his ignition key, pistol in hand, when the blinding beam ripped through the night.
The explosion followed.
He flinched violently.
"What the hell…" he breathed.
The rooftop had ceased to exist.
He stared at the house, pulse hammering.
Then he slammed his truck into gear and accelerated toward the chaos.
Back at the perimeter, Wilson's teams scrambled. The carefully rehearsed confidence dissolved into panic.
"How are we supposed to fight that?!"
"He cut through the shield like paper!"
"RPG team is down!"
Wilson clenched his jaw hard enough to ache.
The experiment department had miscalculated.
Or the subject had evolved.
Either way, this was no longer a porcupine.
It was something worse.
Through his binoculars, Wilson saw Ethan clearly now—standing at the broken window, blackened clothes clinging to him, eyes burning with a hellish intensity.
The confidence from moments earlier evaporated.