The Triskelion. Director's Office.
Nick Fury stared at the data pad, his single eye narrowing until it was just a slit.
To anyone else, Emperor Industries was the American Dream incarnate. A startup that pulled itself up by its bootstraps, invented a miracle cure, and became a unicorn overnight.
To Fury? It was a lie. A massive, fifty-billion-dollar lie wrapped in a flag.
"It's a front," Fury muttered, tossing the pad onto his desk. "It has to be."
He'd seen this playbook before. The CIA did it all the time. You want to fund a black-ops war? You don't ask Congress for money. You set up a shell company, smuggle some arms, or in this case, sell "miracle vitamins" to the highest bidder.
Fury wasn't a saint. You don't get to be a Level 10 Agent by following the Ten Commandments. He knew how the sausage was made. He looked the other way when Stark sold missiles to "allies" who turned out to be questionable. He ignored the small-time gunrunners because he had bigger fish to fry.
But this? This was different.
Luther, the slippery son of a bitch, had outmaneuvered them legally.
He hadn't classified Compound One as a weapon. He hadn't even classified it as a pharmaceutical drug, which would require years of FDA trials.
He'd labeled it a "High-Potency Nutritional Supplement."
"A health product," Fury scoffed, rubbing his temples. "He's selling super-soldier serum like it's whey protein."
Because of that classification, and the mountain of cash Emperor Industries was likely funneling into lobbying, S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't touch him legally. The FDA was happy, the IRS was happy, and the Pentagon was ecstatic.
"They're profiteering from the next war before it even starts," Fury concluded.
He walked over to the holographic map of the world.
He didn't care if the US, Russia, or China had super soldiers. They had nukes. They had deterrence. Mutually Assured Destruction kept the big boys in check.
But what happens when a warlord in a small, unstable nation buys a thousand vials? What happens when a separatist group in Eastern Europe suddenly has a platoon that can outrun a Humvee and punch through a brick wall?
Chaos. Absolute, uncontrollable chaos.
"I can't shut them down," Fury whispered to the empty room. "But I can't let them run wild."
He tapped his earpiece.
"Hill? Get me a list of our best deep-cover operatives. I need someone who can pass a background check for a biotech firm. We're going inside."
Emperor Tower. The Penthouse Office.
"Boss, based on the Q3 projections and the current sales velocity... the valuation models are going crazy."
Michelle, Luther's executive assistant, placed a leather-bound folder on his desk. She was a fresh hire—a brilliant Oxford graduate with a degree in Financial Management and a crisp British accent that made even bad news sound polite.
She had zero prior work experience, which was exactly why Luther hired her. No bad habits. No corporate baggage. Just raw talent and a clean slate.
"The street is valuing Emperor Industries at fifty billion dollars," Michelle said, her eyes wide. "And that's conservative. If we factor in the overseas interest, we could be looking at a trillion-dollar market cap within two years."
She paused, taking a breath.
"Boss, the investment banks are begging for a meeting. Goldman, Morgan Stanley... they all want to underwrite an IPO. If we go public now..."
Luther didn't look up from his tablet. He was reading a report on genetic markers in potential recruits.
"Emperor Industries will not be participating in the stock market," Luther said calmly.
Michelle blinked. "Sir?"
"We don't need their money, Michelle. And I definitely don't need a board of directors asking me why I spend my weekends in a lab instead of playing golf."
"But... the capital injection," Michelle stammered, trying to make the math work in her head. "It would accelerate expansion. And the employee stock options..."
She bit her lip. She wasn't just thinking about the company. She was thinking about her portfolio. Everyone knew the drill: join a startup, get equity, wait for the IPO, retire on a yacht in the Mediterranean. It was the same playbook early employees at Stark Industries used.
If Emperor went public, even a fractional percentage of shares would make her a millionaire overnight.
Luther finally looked up.
The moment his eyes met hers, Michelle's train of thought derailed.
It was... distracting.
Luther had always been a good-looking guy. But over the last year, as his Kryptonian physiology fully integrated and optimized his DNA, he had transcended "handsome."
It wasn't just symmetry. It was an aura. A subconscious biological signal that screamed APEX PREDATOR.
His skin was flawless. His eyes held a depth that felt like staring into a star. His confidence wasn't arrogant; it was absolute. It was the kind of confidence a lion has when walking past a gazelle.
Michelle, who had dated captains of industry and titled nobility back in London, felt her heart skip a beat. Those men looked like boys compared to him.
"Michelle?" Luther asked, his voice bringing her back to reality.
"S-sorry," she stammered, flushing slightly. "I just... I think it's a missed opportunity. But I understand the desire for control."
She quickly pivoted back to business, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks.
"Regarding production... we've fulfilled the initial government contract. The first one hundred units of Compound One have been delivered to the Department of Defense. But the backlog is growing. The new orders are massive. We need to expand the manufacturing capability."
She looked at him with concern. "You've been handling the synthesis personally in the sub-basement lab. It's not scalable, sir. We need a team."
Luther smiled. It was a charming, disarming smile that hid a terrifying reality.
"Don't worry about the labor, Michelle," he said smoothly. "I've already brought in some... dedicated specialists. Production is ramping up as we speak."
"Oh. Good," she nodded, relieved.
She didn't know that the "specialists" were the very black-ops assassins sent to kill him, now hypnotized and working 20-hour shifts in the underground bunker, churning out serum with robotic efficiency.
"Is there anything else?" Luther asked.
"No, sir," Michelle said, clutching her folder. "I'll... I'll get back to the spreadsheets."
She turned and walked out, her heels clicking on the marble floor a little faster than usual. She needed a glass of water.
Luther watched the door close, his smile fading into a look of indifference.
"Fifty billion," he mused. "Cute."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the ants crawling on the streets of New York.
"Money is just paper," he whispered. "I'm building an army."
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