Chapter 310 Seated.

Chapter 310: 310 Seated.

"Can you buy me three days?"

There was a moment’s silence through the phone. I could almost hear the gears turning in Lacey’s head as she weighed the brand risk against the sheer bureaucratic hassle of rewriting the budget.

"Well, Miles, I certainly can make no guarantees," Lacey finally replied, her voice slipping into that perfectly rehearsed, non-committal executive tone. "This is, quite naturally, a business decision which has been made with input from various departments.

"We will begin the internal process of terminating the contract at once, and it will be officially finalized just as soon as our legal department is able to properly process the paperwork."

"And exactly how long will that take?"

"I am not at liberty to offer an immediate end point for this process," Lacey said smoothly.

I exhaled a heavy, exhausted breath. Translated from corporate PR speak, that meant Legal was probably going to drag their feet for at least forty-eight hours before they officially drafted the termination notice.

It was a tiny, closing window, but it was about as good as I was going to get.

"Alright. Alright," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "I’ll be waiting for the official notice. We’ll talk more then."

"Of course, Miles. Best of luck in your future endeavors."

The phone went dead with a polite click. I stared at the dashboard screen for a second, took a deep breath, and let it out with one single, heartfelt word.

"Fuck!"

I swore, slamming a fist down on the dashboard. The impact made the glove box of the Toyota Crown pop open violently, spilling a heavy metal flashlight, a plastic first-aid kit, and a stack of dog-eared maintenance manuals all over the passenger floorboard.

I groaned, letting my head fall back against the headrest. Great. Just wonderful. Exactly what I needed right now. With a heavy sigh, I casually flicked my fingers.

A subtle wave of magnetism lifted the flashlight, the manuals, and the medical kit right off the floor mats, neatly tucking everything back into the compartment before slamming the plastic door firmly shut.

Dammit. Lacey might actually be able to stall the termination, or she might not.

Hopefully, the sheer red tape of Firefly’s legal department would buy me a little bit of breathing room, but I absolutely wasn’t banking on it.

She was a corporate executive, and climbing that ladder meant she was perfectly willing to step on anyone’s neck to protect her own bonuses.

She probably even believed that I was innocent, but whether that personal belief would actually make a difference to the shareholders was an entirely open question.

But Firefly backing out wasn’t even the real problem. The real problem was that they were only the first domino.

If I didn’t get this entire frame-job with Jester sorted out immediately, then lucrative corporate jobs were going to start canceling left and right.

People love to say that any publicity is good publicity, but that simply isn’t true in this industry.

When your entire business model depends on giving the public a good show without actually crossing the line, murdering a licensed hero voids every single morality clause in your portfolio.

Stabbing a D-list cape more times than Julius Caesar was going to cause massive, irreparable issues with our sponsors.

I had a business to keep afloat, payroll to meet, and overhead to manage. I simply couldn’t afford this crap.

With that grim reality in mind, I pressed my foot a little harder on the gas pedal.

I knew the address by heart, and within a half hour, I was parallel parking outside the familiar corrugate of Hero’s Slice.

I cut the engine and stepped out onto the sidewalk, straightening my jacket.

I pushed through the front door, the small bell jingling overhead, and let my eyes quickly scan the diner’s interior.

I spotted Vanessa pretty easily in one of the corner booths.

Honestly, her everyday civilian clothes were significantly more eye-catching than her actual super costume.

Her blonde hair hung loose over her shoulders, pinned back on one side with a pair of metal hairpins shaped like tiny bats.

She wore heavy, silver ankhs dangling from her earlobes and had applied a thick, dramatic layer of dark eyeliner.

She had finally ditched the frumpy, oversized sweaters she used to hide her chest, though she still wasn’t dressed particularly revealingly in her pale jeans and dark blouse.

"Vanessa. Hey," I said, sliding into the vinyl booth directly across from her.

"Polaris," she replied guardedly. She didn’t blink, watching my hands like she fully expected me to go straight for her jugular. "What is it you want?"

Right to business. No small talk. I genuinely appreciated that.

"So," I began conversationally, resting my forearms on the sticky table. "First off, your dad. He’s a colossal dick."

"This is exceptionally well established," Vanessa said, nodding slowly with a somewhat puzzled expression.

"Yes, but exactly how big of a dick? That’s the real question. And apparently, I now have the definitive answer. You know this whole media circus about Glacia supposedly icing that hero on live television?"

"Yes?" she said, her dark brows knitting together. "Are you saying..."

"You know how the industry works," I mused tiredly, leaning back. "Usually, when someone politely rejects a corporate recruiter, you just move down to the next qualified candidate on the list. You don’t explicitly frame one of their employees for first-degree murder just to legally extort them into accepting the job offer."

Vanessa’s brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and sudden, sharp anger. "He..." Her face cleared almost instantly. Grim, absolute understanding took the place of her confusion, her pale lips tightening into a furious, thin line. "...I see," she said quietly.

"You’re not surprised?" I asked.

"No," she admitted, her voice dripping with venom. "My father is a man who gets exactly what he wants, no matter what he has to do to get it. Everyone around him is little more than a stepping stone for his own private ambitions. They are just things to grind beneath his heel for his own sick amusement. He is a withholding, narcissistic monster who treats human lives, genuine affection, and his own flesh and blood as little more than pawns in his twisted games of cruel mirth. Japeries of existence to fuel his delusions and his sick ideas of sport!"

I glanced down at the ceramic mug of black coffee cupped between her hands. The dark liquid was literally bubbling.

Tiny, scalding drops were spitting out over the rim like hot sparks as she glowered, her jaw grinding with sheer, unadulterated hatred.

"...Uh, yeah. Exactly that," I said, carefully keeping my hands away from her boiling coffee. "The point is, he’s targeting my league in a completely new way. He meticulously framed Glacia for that kill, and he is currently using the federal warrants to corner me into becoming his new right-hand man in The New Order."

"The bastard!" Vanessa hissed, her eyes flashing. "Just another black mark against his name. Joining a thousand others, each of which deserve absolute death, if not unspeakable, eternal suffering!" She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the coffee to stop boiling, and eyed me carefully. "Did you tell Mystic about this?"

I shook my head immediately. "I would have, but she was the one who officially took ’Glacia’ into federal custody yesterday,"

I said, carefully stepping around the fact that Chamelea was currently sitting in a supermax cell in Glacia’s place.

The entire board was getting so convoluted with body doubles, demon hackers, and cancellations that I was having a hard time keeping track of the legal myself.

"And given Mystic’s inherent nature as an S-list hero, she’d immediately try to intervene if she knew the actual truth," I explained, keeping my voice low. "She plays strictly by the book. And if an S-list paragon officially gets involved in a direct, open war against a seated member of The New Order..."