The lights in the room were cool, sterile. An enormous digital display lit up the back wall, looping a Vought-approved promotional reel muted in the background — patriotic, heroic, and entirely detached from the tension in the room.
Stan Edgar sat at the head of the obsidian-glass table, arms folded. His eyes were impassive but sharp as ever. Beside him sat Madelyn Stillwell, noticeably more tired than three months prior, but still wearing her precision-tailored poise like armor.
Markus — Glacius — entered without ceremony, a sleek folder tucked under his arm, and a tablet in his other hand. He placed a steaming cup of black coffee in front of Madelyn, who accepted it with a faint, familiar nod.
"Three months. Tell me it wasn't wasted."
"Not at all."
He tapped the tablet, syncing it to the screen. A cluster of photos appeared — charred bodies, frozen limbs, shattered glass and shattered faces. Faces twisted in agony. Notes followed each one.
"Seventeen dead Radiant Dawn agents. All juiced up on stolen Temp V. Some from the first batch, others modified with undocumented additives."
"Modifications?"
"Judging by the cell degradation and inconsistent power surges, they've been experimenting. Recklessly. We've seen electrical discharges, bone armor, temporary intangibility… One even triggered a localized anti-gravity field before his brain liquefied."
"Incompetent imitators with dangerous toys. Charming."
Markus switched the display. Government logos appeared: DoD, FDA, CDC, and a few unmarked black insignias.
"We've had pushback. Government officials who've been quietly trying to stifle our tracking efforts. I cross-referenced their campaign donors — a few are indirectly linked to shell companies propping up Radiant Dawn's logistics. Someone up high is either sympathizing or profiting."
"Names?" asked Madelyn
Markus slid the folder across to Stan.
"You'll find five senators with financial ties. One ex-CIA director now working for an independent tech contractor. Three analysts from the Department of Energy were feeding them classified R&D reports on Temp V applications."
Stan opened the folder, flipping slowly "We'll handle the political cleanup. What about cell leadership?"
"We've identified four regional cell leaders." He tapped again — four faces appeared. All average-looking. A teacher. A contractor. A mid-level tech exec. A university professor. All dead-eyed fanatics.
"Names and aliases we've verified:
Elijah Marris, former teacher, ideologue, killed by Noir during a raid.
Sonya Pell, ex-military, disappeared after a lab fire in Pennsylvania.
Derek Hoyle, biotech consultant, now presumed in hiding.
Wendell Shaw, the academic. We think he's the architect of their philosophical doctrine — their 'voice,' as they call it."
"Any trace of leadership above them?"
"Nothing direct. Whoever funds them knows how to disappear. But I did find a lead on a secure server that referenced something called 'The Winter Branch.' Could be their elite division or something else. But it's intentionally vague."
"Keep pulling. If they want war, we'll bury them under our infrastructure."
Markus gave a slow nod, then pulled up a final image — a heat map of known Radiant Dawn activity, color-coded over time. The wave had been aggressive… but now it was thinning. Sporadic. Desperate.
"They've lost momentum. We've cornered them, and they're bleeding from the mouth. Now they're trying to bite while drowning."
"I want names. Faces. Locations. And if you can't find the one giving the orders…"
"...then I'll make the rest scream loud enough to draw him out."
Stan leaned back, quiet approval flickering behind his eyes.
"Markus. Thank you," said Madelyn quietly
He turned toward her, gave her a small, knowing nod.
"I'm not done yet. But we're almost there."
"You've exceeded expectations. Keep Noir on target. We'll move to the next phase once you give me the body of this 'Wendell Shaw.' And find out what The Winter Branch is."
Markus turned to leave but paused in the doorway.
"One more thing — you may want to prepare a PR response. If this escalates… the public will find out something. I'll make sure it's the right version."
"Good man."
As Markus walked out, Stan glanced at Madelyn
"He's becoming more valuable than the rest of the Seven combined."
Madelyn said nothing. But the quiet smile on her face said it all.
---
Absolutely — here's the next dark, calculated scene featuring Glacius and Black Noir working a pressure operation on the compromised senator:
---
Location: Washington, D.C. – Georgetown Suburbs
Time: 10:42 PM
The senator's residence was wrapped in the stillness of privilege — dark hedges, a quiet lawn, and a luxury black sedan tucked neatly into the driveway. Inside, the house was silent save for the clink of ice in a crystal glass.
Senator Douglas Weller sighed as he settled into his armchair. His tie was loosened, jacket slung over the banister, and the weight of a day spent making backroom deals with smiling devils hung heavy on his shoulders. He took a slow sip of bourbon, the ice cracking in the glass.
Then... the air shifted.
A creeping cold slid into the room like a breath from winter's lungs. The condensation on the window froze in fractal patterns. Weller's glass cracked from the sudden temperature drop.
Before he could stand — snap.
His legs were flash-frozen to the floor, solid sheets of translucent ice locking him in place.
His eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to scream.
A gloved hand pressed firmly over it from behind.
The lamp next to him clicked on.
Across from him, sitting with unnerving calm and legs crossed like this was a fireside chat, was Glacius. The icy blue glow in his eyes mirrored the temperature in the room.
"You've been a very bad boy, Senator."
Weller's breath quickened in panic as Black Noir's silent form leaned closer from behind. His grip never wavered, firm and without emotion.
"Feeding domestic terrorists. Obstructing operations. Leaking internal project data. You're not just corrupt, Douglas — you're sloppy."
He tapped his finger against a tablet sitting on the coffee table — it lit up, cycling through satellite images, wire transfers, and decrypted message logs.
"Radiant Dawn cell, Philadelphia. You greenlit their location. Got them hardware. Gave them temporary ID chips under Homeland's radar. Tell me, Senator... was it ideology or just a bigger paycheck?"
The senator whimpered behind Noir's hand.
"No answer?"
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice chillingly soft.
"Then let's talk about your family."
The display shifted again. Images of his wife, daughter, and youngest son — all timestamped and geolocated — flickered onscreen.
"I know where your wife picks up wine every Friday. Your daughter's tutoring schedule. Your son's Little League team. I could freeze them all in perfect little statues, one by one. Wouldn't even leave a mess."
The room fell deathly quiet.
"Tell me who in Radiant Dawn you're working with. Names. Payment routes. Dead drops. Or I start with your wife. I'll even let you hear her last breath."
The senator shook his head violently, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
"That's the thing about classified information, Senator. It's not always as safe as you think."
After a long, soul-shattering pause, Weller nodded desperately.
Noir slowly removed his hand.
The senator gasped, then spilled everything — names, safehouses, the encrypted communication hub he'd helped maintain through an old federal comms relay, even Wendell Shaw's last known contact trail.
When he finished, breath ragged, Glacius calmly picked up a slim burner phone sitting beside him — already on speaker.
"He talked. Thoroughly. Stan, you want me to clean house, or is he... valuable?"
"You've given me a delightful leash, Markus. One I fully intend to yank. He'll stay right where he is — obedient and useful. For now."
Glacius clicked the phone off.
He turned back to Weller.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Senator," said Glacius in a pleasant voice
He stood and raised a hand — the ice around Weller's legs cracked and thawed, leaving the man slumped and shaking.
Noir released his grip and silently stepped back.
"If you ever consider treachery again... remember how cold things can get."
With that, Glacius and Black Noir left the house the way they came — silent, invisible, and unstoppable.