"Surprised?"
Stan nodded. "Yes. I wanted to ask how you got in, but there's no point dwelling on it."
He then raised the wine glass in his hand in a gesture.
"Drink?"
"Sure. We've got time tonight."
Hearing this, Stan stood and went to fetch a glass for Locke, as if sharing a drink with a friend he hadn't seen in years.
Locke's eyes were like blades, locked tightly on Stan, but the man remained composed, showing no sign of pleading.
"You don't seem afraid of me."
"Why? Did you expect me to fall to my knees, cry bitterly, grovel at your feet, kiss the tops of your boots, and beg for mercy?"
Stan's voice dripped with cold mockery. He raised his hand, picked up the crystal wine glass on the table, slowly walked over to Locke, and handed it to him. Then he straightened the lapel of his suit, his movements noble and composed, before calmly sitting back down across from him.
"I was born in the 1960s." He raised his eyes, his gaze sweeping past Locke and landing on the heavy night outside the window. His voice was low and deep, wrapped in the vicissitudes and coldness of the years. "Back then, people like us had just been legally defined as 'human.' We were only just beginning to grasp this small piece of so-called human rights. And the truth? The future of this country has never truly belonged to us."
Locke rested his elbows on the table, his palms supporting his chin, watching Stan with heavy eyes. He couldn't help but murmur to himself: Is he apologizing? Or saying his last words? Or… both?
"The reason I'm here is because I know full well that I can't afford to be as vicious as a spoiled madman. That's a privilege reserved for white people, not for me."
Stan had run Vought for half his life—from the very bottom to the position of CEO, step by step. How much unknown effort he had expended, how many damn prices he had paid, even he himself had long since lost count.
It wasn't that he had never failed before; he had always managed to climb back. But this time, his heart knew like a mirror—there was no room for a comeback.
Simply because he had seen in Locke's eyes a glimmer of the ruthlessness and resolve he himself had possessed in his youth. And that meant the other man would never let him live.
"The only thing I learned as a child was to always be elegant." Stan's voice was calm and steady, each word measured. "Because dignity is something that only ever belongs to the victor."
He raised his glass and drained it, the bottom striking the marble table with a crisp sound. No more circling around—he got straight to the point, looking directly at Locke.
"Let me be blunt. I know you'll never let me go, and I'm not stupid enough to try to grovel for peace like Cyfer."
"So?" Locke raised an eyebrow, a hint of playful provocation in his voice.
"So let's talk business."
The moment the word "deal" left his lips, the melancholy that had surrounded Stan since his fall from power vanished instantly.
He leaned forward slightly. The sharpness and confidence inherent to Vought's captain reignited in his eyes. His words were precise, laced with seductive temptation—the bargaining table, the field of interests where he had immersed himself for half his life, a stage where he had never known fear.
"I know what you want. You want revenge. You want us to feel your pain. But I also know you're not a short-sighted man focused only on immediate gains. You must have grander ambitions for the future."
Stan's voice remained calm, a seemingly gentle, kindly smile playing at the corners of his lips.
That smile—the one he had worn for half his life—had long been etched into his bones and blood. At this moment, it bloomed on his face, perfectly tailored, as if it were simply a sincere greeting. But in reality, he was quietly laying bait, leading Locke step by step into the game he had set up, to achieve the ultimate goal he held in his hands.
"If you want me dead, that's fine." He raised his eyes to look at Locke, his voice firm, his words clear. "But my death has to have value. Even if I die, I die as the CEO of Vought International. I dedicated my life to this company. That's the dignity I've earned."
"But the question is, why are you negotiating with me?" Locke's voice turned colder, laced with unmistakable pressure. "Why shouldn't I just kill you tonight?"
Hearing this, Stan let out a loud laugh, the smile spreading to his eyes, brimming with complete confidence, as if everything was still under his control.
"If you were truly the kind of reckless man driven solely by anger, my plan would have succeeded from the start." He leaned forward slightly, his pace unhurried, but every word hit its mark. "Let me make this clear: I hired mercenaries, bribed the police, and sent Black Noir to cause you trouble—specifically to provoke you into a bloodbath."
"The moment you drew blood, I could have branded you as a superpowered terrorist, manipulated public opinion, pressured the government to act, and turned the entire country against you."
"But you didn't." He paused, his gaze locking with Locke's, a gleam of certainty flashing in his eyes. "You suppressed the rage inside you. You made the wisest choice with reason. You drove off Black Noir, killed no one, brought in the Bureau of Transhuman Affairs, and neatly extracted yourself."
"You are calm, intelligent, decisive, and far more patient than the average person." Stan's voice was low, but his words were precise, like reviewing a chess game that had already been played. "If your only goal was revenge, you could kill me right now, spend some time finding Cyfer, then vanish. With your abilities, no one in the world would ever find you again."
"But you didn't." He paused, his eyes fixed on Locke, burning with a certain certainty. "So you must have other plans in mind. And that means there's a basis for cooperation between us."
"I still have resources at my disposal and the entire Vought platform." Stan's voice suddenly deepened, each word laced with determination. "As long as you ensure the safety of my daughter and granddaughter, and allow me to die with dignity in that chair—that chair belongs to the CEO of Vought—I can help you get anything you want. Rather than squandering my remaining usefulness, this deal is clearly far more advantageous for you, isn't it?"
Locke said nothing.
He simply stared at Stan, the murderous intent in his eyes nearly condensing into something tangible, the cold pressure like a dense net, instantly covering the entire office. Stan's back broke out in a cold sweat, his fingertips clenching almost imperceptibly.
But in the end, he showed no cowardice.
Instead, under this suffocating pressure, he slowly raised his hand and extended it toward Locke—the hand that had steered the Vought empire. Though it trembled slightly now, his voice was sharp, carrying a desperate resolve:
"So, partners?"
Locke took a few more seconds before finally moving. He didn't shake Stan's hand, didn't even stand. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his hands clasped under his chin, pushing the oppressive sense of control to its limit.
His voice was very low, carrying an indescribable coldness, as if he were issuing a command rather than negotiating:
"First, put your hand down."
Stan's shoulders suddenly dropped, as if a thousand pounds had been lifted—or as if the last shred of confidence had drained away.
He obediently lowered his hand, his fingertips pale. When he sat up straight again, he subconsciously smoothed the lapel of his suit, but no longer possessed the composure he had before, only a cautious humility. At this moment, he was no longer the captain at the helm of Vought, but simply a survivor admiring another.
Just as Stan slowly closed his eyes, his fingers clenching slightly as he prepared to meet death with calm, Locke's voice suddenly cut through the dead silence, cold and hard as ice:
"I changed my mind."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Stan's tense face, each word laced with incredible restraint:
"I want you to watch Vought's destruction with your own eyes. That's the price—the currency—for you to live a little longer."
The word "destruction" rang in his ears. Stan's heart seized, then leaped violently. Euphoria, like a wave of heat, instantly shattered the last trace of mortal calm in his heart.
He snapped his eyes open. In those eyes, once hidden and calculating, a genuine light now blazed. The next second, the signature smile returned to the corners of his lips. The affability he had perfected over the years still cloaked him like a city under siege, but now there was a sharper edge beneath it—the edge of a man who had just escaped death.
"Of course. No problem." He answered quickly, as if afraid Locke might change his mind. "Then I can't save it after all... Let it burn, like a bright candle."