10:00 A.M.
"Hello! We're with the Daily Bugle! We're here to interview your boss—let us in!"
"Hey, we're still with the Daily Planet! Superman's hometown is our turf—step aside and let us through!"
"Come on, this is America! Land of the free press—we have the right to interview anyone!"
"Stop wasting time with these people—they're just media vultures!"
"Push through! They won't actually shoot!"
"Let me in! Billy, I'm your friend—I know the manager of the Academy Nightclub!"
A horde of reporters flooded the street outside the Academy Nightclub, all desperate to get a word with Heisenberg—the mysterious superhuman who had suddenly appeared in the public eye.
They practically clogged the entrance.
Fortunately, the building had once belonged to Wilson Fisk—Kingpin himself. After a shady deal involving Bullseye and more than a few bullets, ownership of the building had been transferred to Heisenberg.
Because of that, security was very motivated.
The reporters had been pushed back from the main entrance to the base of the building.
High above it all, on the rooftop, Heisenberg lay on a recliner, trying to enjoy the warmth of the sun.
He should've been savoring the silence. After all, he wasn't Superman—not really. He didn't feel obligated to listen for every mugging, every house fire, or every person in distress.
He kept his hearing set to normal—human—except for a few people he had specifically tuned into.
That was the only way to find peace.
But today?
Forget super-hearing.
Even a deaf man could've heard the chaos downstairs.
"What the hell...?"
Annoyed, Heisenberg sat up, abandoning the drink at his side. He slid into his slippers and walked to the edge of the rooftop.
As soon as he appeared, the crowd erupted.
"There he is!"
"Heisenberg, look this way!"
"We're reporters—we have the right to speak with you!"
"Are you Superman?"
"Your strength exceeds Iron Man's armor. You fly unaided—you must be Superman!"
"Are you and Captain America together? Like in the alternate universe comics?!"
Huh?
Where the hell did that come from? What kind of fever dream of a comic did that guy read?
Even in the chaos, the crowd hesitated—briefly stunned by that comment.
But only for a moment.
"There was a plane crash in Mumbai last night—why didn't you help? Are you not America's Superman?"
"You didn't show up during the Japan earthquake—guess you only save people in the States?"
"How long have you been hiding this power?"
"Heisenberg, say something to your fans!"
Heisenberg's brow furrowed, the lines on his face sharp with irritation.
"I'm only gonna say this once—disperse!
If you've got questions, come inside at night, order a drink, and we'll chat at the bar!"
His voice boomed, enhanced just enough to cut through the crowd.
But of course, nobody listened.
"Five minutes! Just five questions!"
"C'mon, Heisenberg—just think of the kids waiting to hear about you!"
The shouting only got worse.
Heisenberg exhaled sharply.
"Mother f—"
Grumbling, he turned back toward the pool.
With a frosty breath, the entire surface of the swimming pool froze solid. He dug his fingers into the ice and, leveraging his strength, lifted the entire frozen slab.
Without hesitation, he hurled it toward the street below.
He didn't aim to kill—just to scatter.
Twin beams of heat flared from his eyes, striking the airborne mass. The blast shattered the ice midair into a hailstorm of sharp, heavy fragments.
A moment later, the screaming began.
"What the hell?!"
"It's ice! It's falling ice!"
"Run!!"
This wasn't a comic book anymore. No one just stood around as debris fell from the sky. They bolted—screaming, stumbling over each other.
Twenty tons of shattered ice rained down.
Some reporters found shelter—ducking into the building or crawling under nearby cars.
Most weren't so lucky.
Cuts, bruises, minor fractures—nothing fatal, but it wasn't a pleasant experience either.
And their misery was just beginning.
On the roof, Heisenberg casually picked up the phone from the table beside his chair.
"Bullseye," he said, coolly. "Round up your crew. Go check on the paparazzi downstairs. Get the seriously injured to a hospital—I'll cover the medical bills."
"And the rest, boss?" Bullseye's voice crackled through the receiver. "Minor injuries?"
"File them as hospitalized. Make it official. Make it a lesson."
"Copy that. Uh... what about the female reporters?"
Heisenberg paused.
Female reporters.
Lois Lane came to mind—Superman's forever Achilles heel.
He shuddered.
"Fine. Just don't hit the face. Use your judgment."
"Understood, boss!"
Bullseye accepted the task without hesitation, a wicked grin forming as he ended the call.
His respect for Heisenberg was beyond expression—even more than he ever had for Wilson Fisk, the so-called Kingpin of Crime. Fisk may have ruled the streets of Hell's Kitchen, but even he would never have sanctioned an open assault on reporters in broad daylight.
Sure, Fisk had used Bullseye to silence some journalists before—quietly, discreetly, in the shadows. But only when absolutely necessary. Fisk was pragmatic. Calculated. He avoided unnecessary public blowback.
Heisenberg, though? He thrived on chaos. He didn't flinch in the face of public opinion—he welcomed it. If the media came knocking with accusations and cameras, he'd answer with fists and fire.
And Bullseye? He loved it.
He had always despised paparazzi and self-righteous journalists. So when Heisenberg Mansion was swarmed by vultures with mics and cameras, Bullseye was already sharpening his tools.
Within minutes, over 80 vehicles and nearly 200 people mobilized. The first wave took the critically injured reporters to the hospital—those who'd caught the brunt of the "welcome."
The rest? They were hauled into larger vans. Beaten—brutally—and then also sent to the hospital, but only after a very personal interview with Heisenberg's fists.
Ten minutes later, silence blanketed the estate.
Heisenberg didn't even blink. He pressed a service bell, and his assistant, Billy, arrived with deferential calm.
"Get both PR teams on the line. Pick the one charging the most—quality only. I want today's events spun online, fast. You know the tone to strike."
Billy smirked knowingly. "Of course, sir. You stood tall against chaos. A battle-hardened protector, just back from saving New York. A few bruised reporters? Collateral."
Heisenberg nodded, satisfied.
This was power: money, loyalty, and a narrative machine.
He scoffed at the memory of Superman—Kal-El—being dragged into court by the very people he saved.
If Clark Kent had real backing, if he'd invested in PR instead of hope, could those anti-Superman groups have cornered him in the media? Forced him to defend himself in court for saving the planet?
Ridiculous.
Heisenberg sneered.
"A Kryptonian letting mortals shackle him? That's not my style."
If he—Heisenberg, not Kal-El—had been sued for saving Earth during a Zod-level event, those plaintiffs would've vanished within days. Sued by people he saved? No. They'd be gone. Disappeared. Forgotten.
On the other hand… if he were a civilian injured by Superman's battle?
He'd milk that tragedy dry. Court appearances. Interviews. A bestselling memoir: I Survived Superman.
He could ride that wave for decades.
But for Kal-El to be summoned by the very people he fought to protect? That's betrayal. That's madness.
And Zod? Heisenberg could understand him.
He wouldn't necessarily kill Zod right away. He'd judge his goals first. If Zod wanted to rebuild Krypton but kneel to Heisenberg's leadership?
Maybe.
But if he wanted to rule?
One god per planet. No exceptions.
Heisenberg was no Kal-El. He wouldn't lose the war of public opinion. He'd spend, scheme, and manipulate the global narrative. He'd shape legislation, rig elections if needed. Build a fortress—not of solitude—but of influence.
And if people called him a hypocrite?
He'd laugh.
"Try being more hypocritical than a Fortune 500 CEO," he muttered.
Heisenberg had the strength of a Kryptonian, the system of a multiversal god, and the ambition of an emperor. If he still allowed the world to slap him around?
Then he wasn't a man. He was a fool.
So what if his methods were violent, cruel, or morally gray?
He had the power to deal with the aftermath—and the will to take responsibility.
Wasn't that the essence of adulthood?
"Great power comes with great responsibility," some heroes say.
Heisenberg spat.
"No. Better treatment comes with greater responsibility. Power? Power is personal."
He had his own code. He wouldn't harm children, elders, or pregnant women without reason. But if any of them turned out to be monsters in disguise?
Exceptions could be made.
Heisenberg expected retaliation when he broke into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s offices. He didn't flinch when they opened fire—he took the bullets. But he struck back harder.
Fisk sent someone to test him during their first meeting. He passed with blood and fury.
Heisenberg wasn't afraid to be judged, so long as he judged in return.
And if he ever died in that balance?
Then so be it. He'd die standing, not begging.
He didn't claim to be a hero. But he'd still kill the dogs that barked too loudly.