Rain trickled down the windowpane.
A draft seeped through a crack in the frame, carrying in cold, damp air.
Street neon blurred into a smear of red and blue against the dirty glass.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren flashed once before sinking beneath the steady hum of rain.
When Lynn opened his eyes, the back of his head throbbed with a sharp, pounding ache.
He was lying on the floor.
Not a bed.
The floorboards were freezing, and his body was covered only by a crumpled jacket.
Beside him lay a flattened beer can with a trace of flat foam still clinging to the mouth.
On the table sat a half-eaten container of cold Chinese takeout, the rice congealed into a hard block, a single chopstick fallen to the floor.
He stared up at the ceiling for several seconds.
The corners were mottled with mold.
An off-white stain.
Like an unwashed bandage.
A phone vibrated on the coffee table.
*Buzz.* Stop.
*Buzz.* Lynn pushed himself up, his stomach churning violently.
He grabbed the edge of the sofa nearby and waited for the wave of nausea to pass.
As his fingers brushed the armrest, they picked up a fine layer of dust.
An unfamiliar room.
An unfamiliar body.
Yet the name wasn’t unfamiliar.
Lynn.
Twenty-eight years old.
Vought International, Archives Department, converted from temporary to full-time staff less than six months ago.
Low salary, long hours, credit cards pushed to their limits.
Living in a run-down Queens apartment where the pipes clanked in the middle of the night and grease smoke from the Indian restaurant downstairs drifted up through the window cracks.
These memories didn’t surface gradually.
They were slammed into his brain all at once.
Chunk by chunk, laden with another man’s headaches, exhaustion, cheap coffee, and the dull numbness of relentless overtime.
Lynn sat on the floor and closed his eyes for a moment.
Opened them again.
An employee ID card lay face-down on the coffee table, its blue lanyard tangled in a heap.
He reached out, picked it up, and flipped it over.
The photo showed a face identical to the one he had now.
Black hair, faint shadows beneath the eyes, expression stiff.
Below it ran two lines of text: **LYNN LIN** **Vought International Archives** Vought.
Lynn’s fingers froze.
The phone vibrated again.
He pulled it over; a thin crack stretched across the screen.
Displayed on it were over a dozen missed calls and three email notifications.
One sender read: **NorthStar Recovery Services** A debt collection agency.
Lynn’s thumb paused over the screen for two seconds before tapping it open.
The email was phrased politely.
So politely it made his skin crawl.
> Dear Mr.
Lin, > > Due to the default on the debt incurred by Blue Harbor Logistics LLC under the name of Daniel Pierce, and pursuant to the personal guarantee agreement executed by you, you are held jointly liable for full repayment.
> > Current Balance: $217,634.92.
> > Please contact our office within three business days to arrange payment.
Failure to do so will result in the immediate initiation of legal proceedings.
Lynn stared at the string of numbers.
Over two hundred seventeen thousand.
He didn’t move.
The sound of the rain outside seemed to swell suddenly.
His throat went dry.
He read it a second time.
He hadn’t misread it.
Personal guarantee agreement.
Daniel Pierce.
Daniel.
The moment the name crossed his mind, a series of images flashed in his head.
A friend from college.
The kind who clapped you on the shoulder, laughed, and said, “Bro, partner with me on this, it’s a sure thing.” Later, he had broken into the startup scene—swapping for better suits, better watches, better girlfriends.
Two months ago, he had brought over a stack of documents, claiming it was just bridge financing and that signing a guarantee was a mere formality for the paperwork—thirty days at most.
The original owner had signed it.
He had hesitated before signing.
Daniel had laughed and said, “Lynn, would I ever screw you over?” Lynn looked down at his hand.
His fingertips were pale.
He stood up, walked into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on his face.
The face in the mirror looked awful.
Water dripped from his chin, dampening his collar.
Gripping the sides of the sink, his stomach lurched again, but nothing came up except a sour metallic taste.
The phone rang again.
Not the collection agency this time.
Daniel.
Lynn stared at the caller ID for three seconds, then rejected the call.
Moments later, a text popped up.
> Bro, don’t answer the collectors.
> I’m handling it.
> I’ll explain tomorrow.
Two minutes later, another message came through.
> Trust me this once.
Don’t do anything rash.
> We can smooth this out.
Lynn stared at the words *Trust me this once*, his fingertip lightly tapping the edge of the screen.
The jagged crack bit into his thumb.
A faint prick of pain.
He didn’t reply.
Instead, he opened his inbox and downloaded every debt-related email.
Then he opened his cloud drive and created three folders.
**Debt.** **Daniel.** **Vought.** The folder names were unremarkable.
Unremarkable to the point of looking like ordinary work routine.
He dragged the guarantee agreement, collection emails, bank notices, and previous chat logs with Daniel into the folders one by one.
His movements were slow.
Twice his hands trembled, causing him to misclick a folder.
The second time he misclicked, he stopped and leaned back against the chair for half a minute.
His heart was beating fast.
It felt intensely real.
He wasn’t watching a TV show.
He wasn’t playing a game.
Two hundred seventeen thousand dollars wasn’t going to vanish on its own just because he knew the plot.
Downstairs, someone was shouting—it sounded like a delivery driver arguing with a drunk.
The muffled raised voices filtered up through the floor.
The refrigerator hummed continuously, pausing briefly before starting up again.
Lynn sat straight once more.
First, change the passwords.
Email, bank accounts, cloud drive, phone.
While changing the third password, a sudden thought struck him.
He reached over and turned on the television.
The electrical tape holding the back of the remote together was peeling off.
The screen lit up, blasting audio before the picture appeared.
“—Vought, protecting the tomorrow of every American—” On screen, a man in a red, white, and blue costume stood under the sun, smiling with terrifying perfection.
Blond hair, cape, eyes so blue they looked airbrushed by a PR team.
Homelander.
Lynn’s hand holding the remote went still.
On the broadcast, Homelander scooped up a little girl and smiled into the camera.
The crowd erupted into applause.
Subtitles scrolled across the bottom: **Vought Hero Foundation Annual Charity Event.** Lynn lowered the volume.
He didn’t turn it off.
He stared at the screen for a moment.
That face was far too familiar.
Familiar enough to send a chill down his spine.
This wasn’t regular New York.
This was *The Boys*.
Vought, Homelander, The Seven, Compound V, monsters packaged as gods, and a populace of ordinary people crushed beneath their boots.
On screen, Homelander leaned down and patted the little girl’s hair.
The lighting was soft.
The camera angles were perfect.
The applause hit right on cue.
Lynn felt only a cold emptiness in his stomach.
He reached out and shut off the TV.
The room fell instantly silent.
Nothing remained but the rain.
Lynn placed his employee ID back on the table, picked up his phone, and took one last look at Daniel’s message.
> I’ll explain tomorrow.
He finally typed four words in reply: > Send an email instead.
The status indicated typing for over ten seconds.
Then it disappeared.
A moment later, Daniel sent another line: > Don’t be like this, man.
How many years have we been friends?
Lynn looked at the line of text and didn’t reply.
*Friends.* The word sounded cheap on a rainy night.
He turned the phone face-down on the table, stood up, and rummaged through a drawer.
Inside was a pen running low on ink, a utility knife, a few parking tickets, and an old notebook.
Lynn flipped the notebook open; on the first page were several task items jotted down by the original owner.
*Rent.* *Credit card.* *Mom’s birthday.* *Dentist appointment.* The handwriting was messy.
Like someone who was always rushing.
Lynn stared at it for a moment, tore out a blank page from the back, and began writing fresh notes.
*1.
Verify the legal authenticity of all debt documents.* *2.
Investigate the execution process of the guarantee.* *3.
Preserve all records of communication.* *4.
Maintain employment at all costs.* *5.
Do not trust Daniel’s verbal promises.* When he reached the fifth point, the pen paused.
He added one final line.
*6.
Do not cross Vought.* Finishing it, he looked over the six lines and let out a soft chuckle.
It was brief.
Hardly felt like a laugh.
In a place like Vought, staying off their radar didn’t mean they’d leave you alone.
But at the very least, tomorrow, he still had a job to attend.
Lynn folded the paper neatly and slipped it behind the card in his employee badge.
Outside, the rain showed no signs of stopping.
He pulled the curtains shut, dimming the room further.
The phone screen flashed once more; Daniel hadn’t replied again, but the collection agency had sent another automated reminder.
Lynn didn’t open it.
He sat back down by the sofa, pulled his jacket over his shoulders, and leaned in.
Tonight, there were no heroes.
There was only a bill, an employee ID, and a turned-off smile from a screen.
He closed his eyes.
And didn’t sleep a wink.