(THE “S” STANDS FOR HOPE) CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT: MAX

The message from Victor had come just before dawn, the screen of Max’s personal phone lighting his bedroom with an intrusive glow that cut through sleep and dragged him reluctantly into wakefulness.

It was curt, almost to the point of insult, consisting of only a few lines that stated Victor was leaving the Empire effective immediately, that Othala would be leaving with him, and that by the time Max read the message they would already be on their way out of Brockton Bay. There was no explanation beyond that, no justification offered, and no attempt at negotiation or apology. It was simply a declaration of intent, signed with Victor’s legal name rather than his alias or even an initial, which was the first reason Max dismissed it out of hand. Victor was a meticulous man who did nothing without calculating every outcome, and he was not prone to theatrics that could be mistaken for betrayal.

Even the idea that Victor would simply abandon the Empire, abandoning everything they had built together, without any warning, was absurd on its face.

Max had smiled at the message then, a thin and knowing expression, and assumed it was either a tasteless joke or an intentional provocation meant to precede a conversation that would end with Victor presenting him with a far more satisfying update. Victor enjoyed posturing, enjoyed reminding others of his value, and the implication that the Empire could lose him was exactly the sort of provocation he might use to extract concessions. Perhaps he wanted greater autonomy, or a larger cut of the profits, or explicit assurances regarding Othala’s safety if tensions with Superman or the Protectorate escalated further.

Whatever the case, it could wait until after breakfast.

The first call went unanswered, which was mildly irritating but not immediately concerning. Victor slept late when he could, and Othala had never been particularly fond of mornings. However, the second call, placed an hour later, rang until it went to voicemail. The third, made in the early afternoon, met the same fate. By then, irritation had intensified into something closer to unease.

As such, Max sent a brief reply, asking what game Victor thought he was playing, and set the phone aside with the confidence of someone accustomed to getting what he wanted quickly.

He did not

By late afternoon, the lack of response had begun to grate. Victor was many things, but unreliable was not one of them, which was why he had been chosen over people like Hookwolf or Cricket in the first place. If something had gone wrong, Victor would have reported it. If he had succeeded, he would have demanded recognition. Silence did not fit either outcome.

Max delegated what he could, postponed what he could not, and made the drive himself.

Victor’s house sat in a quiet neighborhood chosen as much for its anonymity as for its distance from Medhall, a modest structure that made no effort to advertise the kind of wealth Victor might have accumulated if he had ever been inclined to indulge. 

Max parked across the street and observed it for several minutes before getting out of the car, taking in the closed curtains, the empty driveway, and the absence of even the smallest signs of habitation. There were no trash bins waiting for collection, no packages resting on the porch, and no lights glowing behind the windows.

Certain there would be no one inside to hear it, Max forwent knocking in favor of letting himself in using the key Victor had given him years ago, back when trust between them had still been uncomplicated.

The house was clean in a way that made it immediately obvious it had been stripped.

The walls were bare where pictures had once hung, the shelves empty where Victor kept his books, and faint outlines on the carpet marked the absence of the few pieces of furniture Victor had actually seemed to care about. Closets held nothing but hangers, drawers slid open to reveal only empty spaces, and Othala’s presence, usually evident through small personal effects that softened Victor’s otherwise utilitarian tastes, was missing. 

It was not the aftermath of a hurried escape. It was the result of careful preparation, and it made Max realize that the message he had received that morning had likely been scheduled well in advance. Victor and Othala could already be on the other side of the world, and Max knew, with absolute certainty, that there would be no locating Victor unless he wished to be found.

And based on the contents of said message, the man didn't want to be found. 

Max stood in the middle of the living room and felt something well up within him, a reassessment he had not intended to make. Victor was not impulsive. Victor was not sentimental. Victor did not abandon power unless he believed he was exchanging it for something greater, or fleeing from something worse.

By the time Max returned to his car, the idea of a prank had been discarded entirely.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of forced normalcy. He attended meetings, listened to reports, issued instructions, and maintained the image of control that both the Empire and his candidacy depended upon. Yet beneath it all, his mind kept circling back to the same line of thought. Victor had been a cornerstone of both organization’s operational strength, embodying its ideology more completely than anyone save perhaps Hookwolf. His ability to acquire skills and elevate those around him had been indispensable, both in open conflict and in more subtle undertakings.

He had also been cautious to the point of paranoia.

Victor would not abandon Brockton Bay without a compelling reason, and he would not abandon it without warning Max unless he believed that warning would be used against him.

That night, Max reviewed everything he knew about Victor’s recent activities. There had been nothing overtly unusual, no sudden changes in behavior, no requests that hinted at dissatisfaction, and no signs of strain between Victor and Othala beyond those common in any second marriage. The only anomaly, the only new introduced that could account for such a drastic and abrupt change, had been Clark Kent.

The mild-mannered reporter had been an irritant from the start, polite to the point of mockery, yet unimpressive in all the ways that were supposed to matter. Max had dismissed him easily, despite the oddities of their conversation, categorizing him as the sort of civilian who existed to be moved aside or crushed without consequence. Even after Victor had been assigned to deal with him, Max had not truly concerned himself with the outcome. Victor did not fail, and Clark Kent was, on paper, nothing.

In retrospect, that assumption felt increasingly naive.

The more Max replayed his last conversation with Clark, scrutinizing every word and gesture for hidden meaning, the more uneasy details surfaced. The way Clark had looked at him, neither afraid nor defiant, but attentive, as though Max himself were a problem to be solved rather than a meaningful threat to be feared. It had left Max feeling unsettled afterwards, though he had initially attributed it to irritation and fatigue.

Now, he was not so sure.

By nightfall, annoyance had twisted into something colder and more dangerous. Max did not like being left in the dark, and he liked even less the implication that someone had also unsettled one of his most disciplined lieutenants without his knowledge. If Clark Kent had been involved, if he had somehow frightened or coerced Victor into abandoning everything he had helped build, then Max had misjudged the man far more severely than he cared to admit.

He remained alone in his office long after the others had gone, the city lights casting distorted reflections against the large windows, and allowed himself the luxury of a single, unguarded thought.

What had Clark done to Victor to warrant such an overreaction?