Successor to Black Noir?

In the garden restaurant. After Qi Li departed, Stan Edgar took a sip of his coffee and reopened the folder on the table. Qi Li's photo sat prominently on the front page. It was Vought's comprehensive evaluation and psychological profile on Qi Li. It not only covered his commercial value assessment, observed superhuman abilities, behavioral patterns, personality and psychological breakdowns, interpersonal investigations, and more, but also cataloged every documented event concerning him from childhood to adulthood, sorted entry by entry under "Confirmed" and "Unverified." It was so thorough that if Qi Li were to read it himself, he would likely be stunned by how his past memories were being peeled back layer by layer. Among the findings were quite a few details that were enough to raise eyebrows—such as the true autopsy analysis of Red Colossus, the investigation report on Shuttle's disappearance, the drowning toxicology results for King Kong... Stan happened to turn to these exact pages. He calmly skimmed over the findings: Although Red Colossus's cause of death was listed as a fall from high altitude, the autopsy revealed signs of intense combat prior to death, and among the superhumans active in the vicinity that day was Bronze; on the night Shuttle went missing, he had been caught on camera heading to Jackman's residence, and slightly earlier, Bronze had escorted Mrs. Jackman back to that same home; on the day King Kong drowned, he had clashed with Bronze and publicly vowed revenge... While there was no direct evidence proving Bronze was the one who pulled the trigger on these superhumans, without exception, each death was deeply tied to him. On every page of the findings, Bronze was explicitly named the primary suspect. Were this information ever leaked, it would undoubtedly cause a massive public uproar and deal a catastrophic blow to Qi Li's career. Yet Stan's gaze did not waver in the slightest. He merely uttered a clinical term in a flat voice: "Combat hyperarousal." That was the assessment from Vought's psychological analysts. Without the slightest inkling that Qi Li grew stronger by hunting superhumans, they interpreted his frequent killings as an extreme craving for the thrill and pleasure derived from confrontation, conflict, and subjugation. This was no ordinary competitiveness. It was a heightened state of arousal ignited both physically and psychologically. The reason he targeted superhumans rather than ordinary people was that only sufficiently powerful opponents could awaken this unique state within him. To Stan, who held the reins of a corporate behemoth like Vought, the deaths of a few low-value superhumans were of no consequence. Especially when weighed against Bronze, who was about to join the Super Seven and generate astronomical revenue for the company. As for Bronze's "defect" of obsessively hunting down superhumans—that was even less of an issue. The truly defective man-children had always resided on the ninety-ninth floor of Vought Tower. Over the years, there was no telling how many diapers he and the company had changed for them. Stan never worried about superhumans with flawed personalities; what he truly feared was a superhero with an authentic heart of gold. Though such a person had never once appeared. In his view, Bronze having such a "flaw" was actually a good thing for Vought. "Homelander, Black Noir." With one hand in his pocket and his coffee cup in the other, Stan walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. His back straightened as he looked out across the skyline, those two names echoing in his mind. Homelander was growing increasingly uncontrollable. Fortunately, the company had already secured his replacement. Just as Homelander had replaced Soldier Boy all those years ago. A more perfect child with boundless potential was being meticulously raised in a secluded corner hidden from the world. Having learned from their past mistakes with Homelander, they had given that child a loving, wholesome home. As for Black Noir, a new successor had now been found as well. "Bronze." Equally seasoned in combat, equally bloodthirsty, and possessing even greater potential than Black Noir. Compared to Black Noir's baffling, inscrutable quirks, Bronze—who loved money, beautiful women, and every worldly luxury—perfectly matched all of Vought's expectations. The company could provide him with everything, even indulging his little hobby of hunting superhumans. America was a fertile ground of opportunity, naturally spawning all manner of bizarre superhumans. As Vought's black-ops fixer, Black Noir had spent years disposing of superhumans who severely tarnished the company's value and reputation, along with erratic loose cannons plagued by major psychological defects. Bronze was fully capable of taking over the job. Stan possessed tremendous foresight. He had already laid the groundwork for the next generation's Super Seven lineup. "Just as Black Noir once mentored Homelander back when he was still a rookie, Bronze will be an even better guide for that child. After all..." A faint smirk touched the corner of Stan's lips as he recalled the densely packed lines of verified rescue numbers in Bronze's file. With a touch of genuine surprise, he murmured, "Compared to the other superheroes, he has actually done plenty of good deeds and saved quite a few ordinary people." A superhero who was, in a sense, remarkably qualified? While Bronze had a penchant for killing superhumans, he didn't prey on ordinary people. For Vought executives, who were mere mortals themselves, that was undoubtedly an enormous point in his favor. "I hope you won't disappoint me." Stan raised his coffee cup, offering a distant toast in the direction Qi Li had left. *** Atop the Empire State Building. Qi Li leaned steadily against the metal spire at the very peak, moving his phone slightly away from his ear. He had no choice; the shrieks erupting from Monica on the other end were shattering all her previous decibel records. "Oh my god! Oh my god! Today isn't April Fools' Day, is it?! Or did you lose a bet and pick truth or dare, Qi Li, just to mess with me?! Oh my god—I need to calm down! I need to chug a whole bottle of whiskey right now! Where's my whiskey?! Damn it! Where did I put it?!" A chaotic racket of clattering and rummaging through cabinets echoed through the receiver. Qi Li brought the phone back to his ear, chuckling. "Monica, you do need to calm down. But not with a drink. You need to print out a non-disclosure agreement and sign your name on the dotted line." Silence fell over the other end of the line. "...So, you're serious?" "Dead serious." "Fuck—fuck—sorry, what I mean is, I never dreamed in a million years I'd become the manager of a Super Seven member this fast! And on a completely ordinary morning, right when I was about to take a shit! Jesus Christ—" Monica was so overjoyed she was practically incoherent. "Qi Li, you are literally my god! I swear I'm going to repay you big time! Tell me! Men, women, old, young, white, Black, brown, or your own skin tone?! Solo or group?! Even if it's illegal or immoral! Whatever you want, I'll move heaven and earth to get it done!!" "While I appreciate the enthusiasm, Monica, let's keep things strictly legal." Having had his fun teasing her, Qi Li steered the conversation back to business. "All right, Monica, it's time for you to get down to serious work..." Half an hour later, having covered all the relevant matters, Qi Li hung up the phone and finally breathed a sigh of relief. A woman running on pure adrenaline really wasn't easy to rein in. And he couldn't exactly give her an "injection" to settle her down—after all, a celebrity sleeping with their manager had always been a cardinal taboo for the talent. Fortunately, among the women he needed to notify in advance, Kate was the only other one besides Monica. Calming down an overly excited Kate would be much simpler. Speaking of Kate... Right at that moment, an incoming call came through from Joseph at Sage Grove Center.