But Starlight had caught something.
Or rather, in that moment, she realized the Risk Archives employee standing in front of her had heard that warning too.
A complex flicker crossed her face.
Embarrassment, perhaps.
Or the sudden realization that, starting today, even what people called her might not be her choice anymore.
The staffer urged her on: “We need to move.” Starlight nodded.
Before turning away, she glanced at Lynn once more.
This time, her eyes lingered on his ID badge for half a second.
Lynn Zhou.
Risk Archives.
She memorized the name.
Or maybe she just held onto that brief flash of normal.
Soon, Starlight was whisked away.
Kevin leaned in, dropping his voice.
“Bro, she talked to you.” Lynn kept sorting the files.
“She said thank you.” “That still counts as talking.” Amy shot Kevin a side-eye.
“If you stopped acting like you’d never seen a living human before, she’d say thank you to you too.” Kevin wasn’t having it.
“I’ve seen plenty of living humans.” Amy replied, “Your idea of hitting on someone sounds like an autopsy.” Lynn didn’t laugh out loud, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
He set down the last stack of documents and was about to leave when he caught two Marketing employees muttering nearby.
“The Deep confirmed he’ll be in the group photo, but don’t let him do solo interviews.” “Why?” “The aquarium incident isn’t fully suppressed yet.
He loses it whenever he talks about marine life.” “Isn’t he in The Seven?” “Yeah, but not every member of The Seven has the right to speak freely.” Lynn’s footsteps slowed slightly.
Good line.
Not every member of The Seven has the right to speak freely.
He didn’t turn around, just logged it away in his mind.
It would serve as material to drop to Starlight later.
Not a prophecy.
Not a secret.
Just office gossip overheard by a Vought employee.
Natural enough.
Safe enough.
Noon.
The press brief officially began.
Risk Archives didn’t have clearance for live attendance, but the internal stream had a slight delay feed.
Back at their desks, almost everyone minimized the live stream into a corner of their screens.
Martha saw it and said nothing.
As long as work didn’t grind to a complete halt, she didn’t care.
On screen, Homelander stood on stage.
He wore his signature uniform, red cape draped behind him, his smile warm yet formidable.
Starlight stood beside him, like a newly displayed beam of light on a pedestal.
Homelander spoke into the cameras: “Today, we welcome not just a new member, but a new kind of hope.” Applause erupted.
He turned to Starlight and extended a hand.
“Welcome to our family.” Starlight shook it, her smile brilliant—at least on camera.
Lynn watched the screen.
He knew this “family” consisted of a control freak, a junkie, a coward, an abuser, bystanders, and a flying nuclear bomb.
Vought called it a family.
Not entirely wrong—plenty of real families were terrifying too.
The stream went on with press Q&A.
Starlight’s responses were slightly unpolished, but sincere.
She spoke of faith.
Responsibility.
Ordinary people.
The first time she saved someone as a kid.
Someone in the office whispered, “She’s great on camera.” Another replied, “She hasn’t learned how to dodge questions yet.” Kevin leaned back in his chair.
“Relax, PR will teach her.” Lynn said nothing.
He noticed The Deep make a brief appearance at the edge of the frame.
Standing next to A-Train, The Deep flashed a strained corporate smile.
But while Homelander spoke, he faded into the background.
A-Train wasn’t even listening.
He glanced down at his phone and quickly looked back up—a fast movement, and the camera cut away just as fast.
But Lynn caught it.
A-Train anxious.
The Deep sidelined.
Starlight naive.
Homelander perfect.
A single group photo already showed the cracks.
At 2:15 PM, Lynn received an internal CC email from Legal.
It wasn’t sent to him directly, just a copy-pasted format update sent to the Risk Archives shared inbox.
Subject: [Contingency Plan Update: High-Speed Supe Incidents] Lynn opened it.
Standard PR boilerplate, no specific incident named, but the template was explicit: Including: – On-site eyewitness de-escalation protocol; – Next-of-kin engagement scripts; – Initial settlement offer brackets; – Standardized press response; – Recommendation against immediate supe interviews; – Protocol for requesting surveillance footage of involved routes.
Lynn stared at the email, his fingers pausing over the keys.
Here it came.
Not the event itself, but the institutional shadow preceding it.
A corporation like Vought might not know the exact day things would go wrong, but they were always prepared for how to handle the victims after the fallout.
He didn’t download it.
He didn’t forward it.
He didn’t screenshot it.
He simply read through it quickly, memorizing a few key terms.
High-speed.
Eyewitness.
Next of kin.
Initial compensation.
Route involved.
Then he closed the email.
He picked up a pen and jotted a seemingly meaningless string of letters and numbers on a sticky note: H-M / W / K / 45 Finished, he stuck the note inside an old training manual.
It wasn’t evidence.
Just a memory anchor.
H-M for High-Speed Movement.
W for witness.
K for next of kin.
45 for the probable initial settlement range.
Anyone who saw it would assume it was just a ticket number.
Lynn leaned back in his chair.
He was increasingly certain that Hughie’s incident was close.
Maybe a few days away.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe tonight.
But tonight, he had Daniel to deal with.
Fix his own problems first, then tackle the main plot.
Cold, but correct.
5:30 PM.
Quitting time.
People in the office began packing up.
Kevin shut down his computer far faster than he ever uploaded tasks.
Amy threw on her bag and said as she passed Lynn’s desk, “Nice job putting Kevin in his place today.” Lynn looked up.
“I was just following protocol.” Amy chuckled.
“Of course.
We all love protocol.” She walked out.
The office gradually emptied.
Lynn didn’t leave immediately.
He finished his log entries, cleared his browser history, and logged out of every system.
No personal files on company machines.
No sensitive data.
Nothing extra that might spark an auditor’s curiosity.
Before leaving, he checked the internal channel.
Starlight’s press meet had already been edited into a thirty-second highlight reel.
The title read: “A Light of Hope, Illuminating the Future.” Below, the comment section overflowed with official praise from employee accounts: “Inspiring.” “She represents the new generation of hero spirit.” “Welcome to the Vought family.” Lynn shut off the screen.
The monitor went dark.
In the black reflection, he caught his own face.
Ordinary.
Quiet.
Utterly unremarkable.
Perfect.
He grabbed his jacket and left Risk Archives.
On the way down, the elevator stopped midway.
The doors slid open to reveal two Hero Management staffers and Starlight.
She looked like she’d just wrapped up a long schedule, makeup still on, but her smile visibly exhausted.
They stepped inside, instantly crowding the lift.
Starlight stood just ahead and to Lynn’s side.
She recognized him.
“Risk Archives?” she asked softly.
Lynn looked at her.
“Yes.” The staffers beside her were glued to their phones, ignoring the exchange.
Starlight hesitated before adding, “Thanks for earlier.
With the documents.” “Just doing my job.” The floor numbers ticked down slowly.
Starlight stared at her reflection on the metallic doors and murmured, “It’s a lot busier here than I imagined.” Lynn kept his tone natural.
“The supes aren’t the busiest people at Vought.” Starlight turned her head toward him.
“Then who is?” Lynn thought for a second.
“The people making sure the supes look like supes.” Starlight blinked.
It wasn’t an insult—it sounded like ordinary workplace venting—but coming from him, it carried an odd weight.
The elevator reached the twenty-seventh floor.
The two staffers stepped out first.
One looked back and said, “Starlight, lounge is this way.” Starlight nodded.
Before stepping out, she paused.
“Lynn, right?” “Right.” “Annie,” she said.
Then, as if realizing something, she gave a self-deprecating smile.
“At least off-camera.” Lynn met her eyes.
“Annie, then.” No staffers stepped in to correct her this time.
Starlight’s smile softened into something genuine.
The elevator doors closed between them.
Inside, Lynn’s face returned to its usual composure.
First contact: brief, measured, without overenthusiasm, plot spoilers, or forced intimacy.
But enough to let her know he wasn’t just another standardized gear in the Vought machine.
That was sufficient.
Now wasn’t the time to push further.
He had a much more immediate problem tonight.
7:40 PM.
Brooklyn.
Lynn stood outside a back alley behind a bar.
A streetlamp was out.
Faded gig posters clung to the brick walls.
Near the dumpster, the air smelled of dampness, stale beer, and rotting fruit.
Muffled music drifted from the bar entrance down the block.
His phone vibrated.
A text from Daniel: [Are you here?
Come through the back door.] Lynn looked at the message without replying.
He looked up, staring into the depths of the alley.
At the end stood a black steel door, a faint sliver of amber light seeping through the gap.
Lynn muted his phone.
In his pocket, his fingers brushed against a plain metal keychain.
It wasn’t a weapon—just something to press against to confirm his hands weren’t shaking.
He was afraid.
Any ordinary person walking into an obviously shady meetup would be.
But fear didn’t mean backing down.
After tonight, the debt issue had to be resolved.
Otherwise, when the A-Train incident went down, he would still be an unstable employee—hounded by collectors, threatened, and ripe for red-flagging by Vought’s risk algorithms.
Positioned like that, he wouldn’t even have a ticket to the game.
Lynn took a deep breath and walked toward the steel door.
Behind him, traffic rolled on.
The city hadn’t paused for him—and it wouldn’t stop for anyone.