Chapter 312 Apple.

Chapter 312: 312 Apple.

"Clearly not true," I said, casually resting my arm along the back of the vinyl booth. "Doctor Bradburn keeps him away."

Vanessa gave a slow, reluctant nod, her silver earrings swaying. "He’s forced my father to retreat, yes. But he’s never actually managed to kill him," she corrected, her tone sharp. "That is a very important distinction, Miles. And believe me, it isn’t from a lack of trying."

Fair enough, I supposed. A forced retreat wasn’t a corpse. "Well, how exactly does the good doctor pull it off? What’s his specific countermeasure?"

She grimaced, looking down at the scarred surface of the table. "I don’t know," she admitted. "He’s never shared the secret. At least, not with me. I tried to approach him for an interview when I first went pro as a hero, but..."

"But?" I prompted.

She shrugged uncomfortably. "His head of security tried to kill me."

"Ah," I said. "Yeah, that would make networking a bit difficult."

"Not that I blamed her!" Vanessa added quickly, holding up her hands. "I mean, I realize exactly how it must have looked. When I was younger, my father used to send his children to actively harass Bradburn on a regular basis. It was practically a family tradition. We’d crash his birthday parties, his wedding anniversaries, his charity galas, his corporate retreats, children’s plays, and so on."

I blinked, thrown off by the sudden pivot in scale. "Children’s plays?"

"Father tried to physically smash the moon into one of those," she said completely deadpan.

I just stared at her. Smashing a celestial body into a middle school auditorium wasn’t just insane, it was an unbelievable waste of overhead and resources.

The nightmare of moving a moon just to ruin a billionaire’s afternoon off... that right there was the absolute definition of a pathological Archvillain. No wonder Jester’s profit margins were always a mystery to the rest of the industry.

"Seems a bit extreme," I noted, "no matter how bad the kids were singing off-key. Did you ever actually go on those specific harassment missions?"

She shifted uncomfortably in the booth, her dark eyeliner contrasting with the sudden flush in her cheeks. "Once or twice," she admitted quietly.

"Is that why you’re so heavily invested in this whole... hero thing?" I asked, keeping my voice gentle. "Guilt over the family business?"

Her flush deepened. "A bit," she admitted. "N-not that I’m not genuinely committed to heroism!" she added, sitting up straighter. "I am. I’ve seen firsthand the evils my father is capable of. The pointless suffering he inflicts on innocent civilians.

"I’d always felt deep down that it was wrong, but he insisted I treat the world as nothing more than a sandbox to be played with. A disposable source of personal amusement. He taught us that the misery of others wasn’t just our right, but our entertainment."

She looked down at her hands, her voice dropping a fraction. "When I was young, I genuinely wanted to please him. You want your parents to be proud of you. But I could only stomach so much.

"And when he tried to unleash a highly contagious zombie plague using a shipment of candied chocolates on Valentine’s Day, I just knew I couldn’t be the heir he wanted me to be. It was fundamentally wrong."

"So you packed up and became a licensed hero," I said, nodding slowly.

She nodded firmly. "Of course. And I want to be perfectly clear, Polaris. I’m not doing heroism just because I hate my father. I’m an independent woman with my own moral compass. I’m just, you know... also highly committed to murdering him."

"No, I get it. I totally get it. Nothing brings a family together quite like a little premeditated patricide," I said smoothly. "Anyway, hopefully, we’ll be changing this whole ’immortal evil’ dynamic by the end of the week. I’ll be dealing with Bradburn directly if I can get into his charity gala. I’ll see what I can dig up on his anti-Jester countermeasures."

"Good," Vanessa said, her eyes flashing with renewed intensity. "I wish you all the best with the billionaire. And, of course, I will be formally joining you on the assault on my father’s castle."

"Really?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "You literally just spent ten minutes telling me it was a guaranteed suicide mission."

"Maybe," she said with a slow, calculating nod. "But you’ll desperately need my help in there. He has dozens of overlapping magical defenses, and my own wards will be a strong counter-tool against him.

"Not to mention he’s absolutely sure to have VIP protection stationed in the throne room. Like my brother," she growled, her hands suddenly tightening into fists. "Samuel."

"The monochromatic guy in the 1930s suit?" I asked.

"Yes," she spat, the word carrying a shocking amount of venom. "He’s always hated me. He thought I was father’s favorite growing up, and he constantly went out of his way to spite me. Taking my dolls. Teasing me about my pigtails. Mercilessly making fun of my original characters."

"Oh," I said, entirely unsure how to respond to that.

"And his OC drawings were so much worse!" she added sharply, leaning across the table as if this was a deeply sensitive secret. "He couldn’t even draw hands properly, which was why he hated my art. And the fact that father put my sketches on the kitchen fridge instead of his? Petty, miserable bastard."

I eyed her carefully. Honestly, that just sounded like standard, everyday sibling stuff. I kind of expected a bit more from the heirs to a global supervillain empire. "Sounds rough," I offered diplomatically.

"Yes! And then he killed my favorite pop singer by slowly dipping him in a vat of boiling acid. At my own sixteenth birthday party!"

There we go.

I shook my head, exhaling a long breath. Ah, super families.

All the dramatic, resentful backbiting of a Fortune 500 board of directors, just with extra premeditated murder and death traps thrown in for fun.

Still, there was absolutely no denying she was right about me needing her help. I would take any edge I could get against a seated member of The Order.

"Great," I said, wrapping up the meeting. "I’ll let you know the exact time and coordinates when things are moving, along with any other logistical details of the infiltration plan."

"I eagerly look forward to it," she said, smoothly rising from the booth.

I watched her walk out of Hero’s Slice, the bell jingling above the door. The set of her shoulders and her expression were almost viciously excited with lethal purpose.

Once she was gone, I let out a massive sigh, letting my head fall back against the vinyl seat.

Damn, but I needed a drink.

And more importantly, I needed to unload my worries. Sure, I could talk to the girls back at the chalet, but there were some things you simply couldn’t say out loud to your employees.

But there was one man in this city I could honestly unload on.

Or, rather, many men.

I pulled out my encrypted cellphone and brought up the familiar contact for Psyren’s older brother, Steve Smith.

I quickly thumbed a message.

Drinks?

No sooner did I hit send than a response popped up on the screen.

McLaren’s in fifteen?

I grinned, the tension in my shoulders loosening just a fraction.

Looking forward to it. See you there, man.

With a heavy sigh of satisfaction, I pocketed the phone, dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table to cover the coffee, and slid out of the booth.

Time for a quick union break before the real nightmare started.