Friday morning.
Vought Headquarters, Manhattan.
Lynn bought a cup of black coffee at the subway exit.
It tasted terrible as usual, like someone had reheated yesterday’s anxiety and poured it into a paper cup.
He stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the Vought Building.
Today, the building was even livelier than usual.
Temporary barricades had already been set up outside the main entrance.
Press vans lined the curb.
Several television crew members carried cameras, adjusting their shots right in front of the headquarters’ main entrance.
Fans held signs reading “Welcome Starlight,” posing for pictures outside the barricades.
A few little girls wore replica white-and-gold costumes, their capes fluttering wildly in the morning breeze.
On the electronic screens along the outer wall of Vought HQ, Starlight’s promotional video played on loop.
Annie January stood under the spotlights, raising her hands slightly as golden light flared in her palms.
In the footage, she looked clean, bright, and full of hope.
Captions slowly floated up across the screen.
“Starlight.” “Hero of a New Era.” “Today, she joins us.” Lynn watched for a few seconds.
Then he walked toward the employee entrance.
He hadn’t forgotten that he still had to meet Daniel tonight.
The debt crisis, the A-Train storyline, Starlight’s onboarding, Vought’s internal moves—several threads were pressing forward at once.
Not one could be ignored.
Nor could they be mixed up.
Chaos got people killed.
Especially someone like him, who didn’t yet have the luxury of making mistakes.
Before stepping into the employee corridor, Lynn pulled out his phone, casually swiping open his notes app.
The screen held nothing more than a shopping list: Eggs.
Coffee.
Laundry detergent.
Toothpaste.
And at the very bottom, a single line: “Don’t buy expensive pizza.” No Daniel.
No Vought.
No Homelander.
Not a single sensitive name.
This was a habit he had changed last night.
A few days ago, he had indeed compiled some notes on his computer.
But he quickly realized how dangerous that was.
Vought was no ordinary company.
Even as a low-level employee in the Archives Department, his company devices, internal networks, login logs, and file access patterns could all be audited.
If he ever truly had to stand against Vought later on, any electronic trace left behind could turn into a noose.
So starting last night, he dismantled every truly sensitive file.
Some parts he memorized.
Some parts he converted into mundane, everyday code words only he could understand.
Some parts were stored offline, completely disconnected from Vought equipment.
For the most critical information, he created only “indexes” without storing actual content.
For instance: “Buy eggs” represented the Daniel line.
“Laundry detergent” stood for clearing debt risks.
“Don’t buy expensive pizza” meant not getting greedy during tonight’s operation and not raising the stakes on an impulse.
It sounded absurd.
But absurdity itself was the best disguise.
If anyone ever flipped through his notes, the most they would think was that this guy was consistently poor.
They would never suspect he was building a risk-archiving system targeted at a superhero megacorporation.
Lynn put his phone away.
He swiped his badge at the gate.
*Beep.* A green light flashed.
He walked into Vought HQ.
The lobby looked as if the PR Department had just completely remodeled it.
The collective poster of The Seven hanging on the center screen had been replaced by a Starlight special feature.
White-and-gold LED strips ran up the pillars on both sides.
A new display table had been set up outside the souvenir shop.
Starlight badges, Starlight keychains, Starlight energy drinks, Starlight children’s pajamas, and limited-edition Starlight prayer candles.
When Lynn’s eyes landed on the last item, his steps paused for half a second.
Prayer candles.
Vought truly never failed to strike the perfect balance between sacrilege and profitability.
Not far away, Marketing employees were adjusting positions for a group of temp models.
One man held a tablet, speaking rapidly.
“Remember, today’s keywords are purity, strength, faith, and female empowerment.
Don’t say ‘rookie,’ say ‘new generation.’ Don’t say ‘commercial deal,’ say ‘alignment of values.’ Don’t say ‘signed,’ say ‘joined the family.'” A nearby employee asked, “What if reporters ask her what she thinks of senior members like The Deep or A-Train?” The man answered without hesitation, “Respect, learning, honored.” “What if reporters ask if there’s internal pressure within The Seven?” “Growth, challenge, gratitude.” “What if reporters ask if she has a boyfriend?” The man paused for a beat.
“Keep it vague.
Leave room for fantasy.” Lynn walked past them, thinking to himself: Vought wasn’t creating gods.
Vought was doing product packaging.
Gods were simply a fast-selling SKU.
When he entered Archives, the office was noticeably more restless than usual.
Everyone was talking about Starlight.
Even Kevin, who usually loved pretending to be busy, had switched his screen to the news livestream.
“She’s sharing the frame with Homelander today,” Kevin said.
Beside him, their female colleague Amy scrolled through her phone.
“Marketing is betting huge on her.
I heard Starlight’s first batch of merch pre-orders already surpassed The Deep’s entire eco-friendly line from last quarter.” Kevin clicked his tongue.
“The Deep’s gonna cry if he hears that.” Amy said, “He can always go vent to a dolphin.” Another colleague chimed in, “The dolphin might demand overtime pay.” Laughter erupted across the office.
Lynn sat down at his workstation and logged into the system.
His inbox contained several internal notices regarding Starlight.
[Archival Requirements for New Member Press Conference.] [Verification of Starlight-Related Public Resumes.] [Old Religious Group Speech Materials to Be Handed Over to Marketing for Screening.] [Note: All employees are strictly prohibited from unauthorized contact with members of The Seven.] The last line was in bold.
Lynn stared at the text, tapping his fingers lightly against the desk.
Vought’s packaging of Starlight was already tightening.
She was no longer just Annie January.
She was becoming “Starlight.” A name.
A brand.
An image asset maintained jointly by multiple departments.
He opened the work system and began processing the resume verification tasks assigned to him.
These were all public records.
Talent show records.
Church event photos.
Local rescue clippings.
Charity speech summaries.
Evaluations from youth hero training camps.
Lynn paged through them one by one.
The Annie depicted in these files was clean.
Clean to a point that was almost blinding.
She really had saved people.
She really believed she could help others.
She really spoke earnestly about responsibility, faith, and courage in her speeches.
Throwing someone like her into Vought was like pouring a glass of clear water into a bucket of paint.
The paint wouldn’t turn clear.
The water would only be stained.
At 10:30 AM, Archives received a temporary notification.
A few employees were needed to assist with document flow for the press conference, ensuring that on-site Q&A cards, background files, and historical highlight reels were correct.
Martha came out of her office and singled out a few people.
“Amy, Kevin, Lynn—go up to the thirty-sixth-floor temporary coordination zone.
You’re only responsible for handing over documents.
Do not talk to the media, do not enter the hero lounge area, and do not take photos.” Her eyes lingered on Kevin for a second.
“Especially you.” Kevin threw up his hands.
“I never take photos randomly.” Amy sneered.
“Last time, you posted Queen Maeve’s profile in the group chat with the caption ‘She looks like she’s about to murder someone.'” Kevin muttered in defense, “That was an objective description.” Martha remained expressionless.
“Get up there.” The three grabbed their files and stepped into the employee elevator.
The elevator climbed, the floor numbers jumping continuously.
The higher they went, the less the environment resembled Archives.
The walls were brighter.
The lighting was softer.
There was even a faint fragrance in the air.
Kevin took a deep breath.
“Smell that?
That’s the scent of the top floor.” Amy asked, “Fragrance?” Kevin shook his head.
“Budget.” The elevator doors slid open.
The temporary coordination zone on the thirty-sixth floor was a hive of chaotic activity.
Staff members hurried back and forth carrying folders.
Makeup artists pushed mobile cases.
PR consultants talked into earpieces.
In the distance, media personnel were setting up lighting equipment.
Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan lay spread out beneath their feet, streets resembling thin threads, vehicles crawling like slow metallic bugs.
It was much higher than Archives.
And much brighter.
Lynn handed his files to a Marketing assistant, who didn’t even look at him, merely scanning his badge quickly.
“Put them over here, organized by color.
Red for the news team, blue for the host, white for Hero Management.” Kevin whispered, “We’re Archives, not a rainbow sorting crew.” The Marketing assistant looked up.
“What?” Kevin immediately flashed a smile.
“I said the color-coding system is remarkably intuitive.” Lynn didn’t join in.
He placed his documents down and checked the reference numbers.
Just as he was organizing the white folders, a set of footsteps sounded from the nearby hallway.
Several Hero Management staff members were escorting a young woman down the corridor.
Starlight.
She wore her official costume today.
The white-and-gold fabric gleamed under the lights, her shoulder lines sharp, her cape draping behind her.
Her makeup was more refined than on television, but her eyes still held a hint of nervousness she hadn’t quite managed to hide.
As she walked, she listened to the staff member beside her.
“In a moment, all you need to do is keep smiling.
Homelander will speak first, then Maeve will stand to your left.
The Deep and A-Train might not stay for the full interview, but they’ll be there for the group photos.” Starlight nodded.
“I understand.” She tried her best to appear composed.
Yet Lynn noticed her fingers gently pinching the edge of her cape.
It was very subtle.
Like someone in an unfamiliar environment instinctively reaching for something to hold on to.
The hallway wasn’t wide.
As Starlight passed the document table, a staff member nearby suddenly turned around, his folder nearly colliding with her.
Starlight stepped back reflexively.
A few sheets of paper slid off the edge of the table.
Lynn reached out and pressed them down.
The pages stopped right at the edge, unscattered.
Starlight glanced at him.
“Thank you.” Her voice was slightly lower than in the promos, and a bit more real.
Lynn looked up.
They were very close.
Close enough for him to catch a faint trace of exhaustion around her eyes that her makeup hadn’t fully concealed.
He didn’t act as if he knew her.
Nor did he linger his gaze.
He simply nodded like any ordinary employee.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” Starlight seemed momentarily taken aback.
Probably because most people in this building called her “Starlight,” or “Annie,” or simply “our new asset.” The title “ma’am” was overly formal, yet it preserved an unexpected distance.
A faint smile touched her lips.
“You can just call me Annie.” The staff member beside her immediately cut in: “Official protocol on-site is Starlight.” The smile on Annie’s face faded slightly.
Lynn glanced at the staff member, then quickly withdrew his gaze.
He neatened the documents he had held down, speaking in a completely natural tone.
“My apologies.
Starlight.” His voice carried no emotion.