Behind the iron door wasn’t a bar.
At least, not the kind of bar meant for regular patrons.
As soon as he pushed the door open, low music spilled out first, hitting Lynn in the face like a thick, booze-laced fog.
The space inside was compact.
The ceiling hung low, crossed by exposed pipes, and the dark red walls were dingy with old smoke stains.
A few dim yellow lamps were set into the corners, their light too weak to illuminate faces—just enough to make everyone’s shadow look even less trustworthy than the person casting it.
The air was a mix of whiskey, cigarettes, cheap cologne, and damp brickwork.
The bar counter was on the left.
A few men sat there drinking, their voices kept low.
On the right was a row of booths separated by waist-high wooden dividers, showing only the shoulders and hands of those inside.
The place didn’t look like somewhere you came to do business.
It looked more like somewhere you went when you didn’t want anyone to remember what you’d discussed.
Lynn paused at the doorway for half a second.
A burly man in a black T-shirt stood nearby, watching him with arms crossed.
“Who’re you looking for?” “Daniel.” The big man sized him up.
It wasn’t a look reserved for a customer.
It was a look reserved for merchandise.
After a few seconds, he gestured with his chin toward the back.
“All the way in.” Lynn nodded.
He didn’t ask questions.
He walked down the narrow aisle.
His soles stuck slightly to the floor, leaving him uncertain whether it was spilled beer, syrup, or something best left unthought.
The innermost booth rested against the wall.
Daniel Reid sat there.
He had changed into a dark shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled up, half a glass of liquor sitting near his hand.
The dim light catching his face made his smile look even warmer than it had on the street corner—and far more fake.
There were two other men in the booth.
One was the tall, thin man from before, a tattoo snaking up from his collar like a grayish-black vine.
The other was a heavy-set man in a baseball cap with wide palms and thick knuckles, slowly twirling a lighter in his fingers.
On the table rested a folder.
Black.
Unmarked.
Seeing Lynn, Daniel stood up immediately, spreading his hands.
“Lynn!
You made it.” He spoke as if greeting an old friend.
Lynn glanced at the other two men.
“You said it would just be friends.” Daniel’s smile didn’t waver.
“They are.” The man in the baseball cap offered a wide grin.
“Yeah, we’re real friendly.” The tall, thin man didn’t smile; he merely flicked his eyes up at Lynn.
It was a brief glance.
Like the tip of a blade lightly brushing against skin.
Lynn took a seat.
He didn’t slide all the way in, taking the seat on the outside instead.
It was a subtle choice.
Subtle enough that no one found it strange.
But at least it kept him from getting pinned into a corner.
Daniel noticed, but said nothing.
He slid the glass over.
“Want a drink?” “No, thanks.” “Still as cautious as ever.” “I have to head home later.” Daniel gave a light chuckle and leaned back into his seat.
“See?
That’s always your problem.
Overthinking everything.” Lynn didn’t respond.
His gaze shifted to the folder on the table.
Daniel followed his look, as though finally remembering the night’s main business.
“Alright, let’s get straight to it.” He opened the folder.
Inside were a few pages of a contract.
Crisply printed.
Clean font.
Dense with clauses.
Lynn scanned it for a split second and picked out a few key terms.
Debt restructuring.
Credit guarantee.
Temporary authorization.
Asset disposal.
Yield buyback.
Wonderful.
Every word wore a tailored suit.
Yet put together, they formed a noose around his neck.
Daniel slid the documents toward him.
“This is the solution.” Lynn made no move for a pen.
“Whose solution?” “Ours.” Daniel leaned forward slightly, his tone softening.
“I know you’re under a ton of pressure right now.
The collection agency is breathing down your neck, and the bank isn’t gonna give you much breathing room either.
But if we restructure the debt and shift part of the guarantee into a new project, we can suppress your short-term default risk.” He delivered it smoothly.
There was even a hint of the enthusiasm he used to have during their old startup pitches.
If the original owner of this body were sitting here, he might have been pulled back into the nostalgia by that tone.
Lynn flipped to the first page.
The clauses were lengthy.
But the core was simple.
He needed to sign a new authorization document.
Authorizing Daniel and his so-called partners to use his credit profile and personal information to run a “bridge financing operation.” Uncertain returns.
All the risk fell on him.
To put it plainly.
It was digging a basement at the bottom of a pit.
Lynn turned the pages slowly.
Daniel watched him the whole time.
“What do you think?” “It’s very thorough.” Daniel’s eyes brightened a bit.
“Right?
We brought in professionals this time.” Lynn looked up.
“Thorough in shifting all the liability onto me.” The air in the booth froze for a moment.
The lighter in the heavy-set man’s hand stopped moving.
The smile on Daniel’s face faded slightly.
“Lynn, don’t talk like that.
What you need right now is a solution, not pointing fingers at the past.” “The past isn’t settled yet.” “That’s why I asked you here.” Daniel sighed, acting like a long-suffering friend dealing with an unreasonable child.
“You have to understand, what’s done is done.
You signed, the contract is legal.
Holding out against me isn’t going to do you any good.” Lynn closed the folder.
“Does it do you any good?” Daniel stared at him.
This time, he didn’t smile right away.
The dim yellow light flickered in his eyes, revealing a glint of impatience.
“I didn’t have to bother helping you,” he said, dropping his voice.
“The collectors are after you, not me.
Legally, you’re the one holding joint liability.
If you don’t cooperate, they’ll go straight to Vought.
You know what that means.” Of course Lynn knew.
Vought hated risk.
Hated trouble.
And hated even more when a Records Department employee was tangled up in shady debt.
Even if he hadn’t done anything wrong, the company would classify him as a “potential leak risk.” Daniel knew this inside out.
Which was why he pushed the blade right up to his throat while expecting him to say thank you.
Lynn looked at him.
“You looked into my employer?” “We’re friends.” Daniel spread his hands.
“Of course I care about you.” The tall, thin man beside him suddenly spoke up.
“Just sign it.” His voice was raspy.
Like sandpaper scraping across glass.
“Once it’s signed, everyone can relax.” Lynn looked at him.
“Who are you?” The tall, thin man gave a dry smirk.
He didn’t answer.
Daniel chimed in, “A partner.” “Does he have a name?” The man in the baseball cap leaned back against his seat and snorted.
“You ask a lot of questions.” Lynn ignored him.
He looked down at the documents.
The paper edges were clean.
No creases.
Which meant this had been prepared well in advance.
And wasn’t an impulse thought.
Daniel hadn’t just come up with screwing him over again today.
This was merely a scheduled step in his plan.
If he signed, the next step would likely be even higher debt, more convoluted liabilities, and contracts he could never escape from.
And if he didn’t sign?
Lynn glanced outside the booth.
The bouncer in the black T-shirt was still standing by the door.
A few people at the bar seemed to be keeping to themselves, but two of them occasionally darted looks in this direction.
A back door.
Low lighting.
A contract.
Three men surrounding him.
A classic soft-coercion setup.
No need to get physical immediately.
Just enough to let you know that they *could*.
Daniel laid a pen onto the contract.
“Lynn, take my advice.
You don’t have any other options right now.” Lynn looked at the pen.
Black barrel.
Silver clip.
Entirely ordinary.
A subtle smile flickered across his face.
Daniel frowned slightly.
“What are you laughing at?” “I was thinking…
you said the exact same thing back then.” Daniel stayed silent.
Lynn’s tone was calm.
“Back then, you said everyone has to gamble at least once in life.” Daniel’s expression darkened.
“Don’t drag up the past.” “You also said it wasn’t a gamble—it was an opportunity.” “Lynn.” “You said you’d never screw me over.” *Clank.* The man in the baseball cap slammed his lighter onto the table.
“Enough.” The music kept playing in the background.
Someone laughed in the distance.
Glasses clinked at the bar with a crisp ring.
Yet the atmosphere inside the booth had turned ice-cold.
Daniel closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly suppressing his temper.
When he opened them again, the last trace of old-buddy warmth had peeled away completely.
Leaving behind a raw, unfiltered annoyance.
“What the hell do you actually want?” Lynn looked at him.
“I want you to take responsibility for your own debt.” Daniel looked as if he had just heard something utterly absurd.
He laughed.
Not the polite, forced smile from before, but a genuine laugh of amusement at the absurdity.
“Did sitting behind a desk at Vought turn your brain to mush?” He leaned in, dropping his voice.
“The world isn’t a school, Lynn.
People don’t just step up and apologize when they mess up.
You signed the paper, so you own it.
If you don’t have the power to protect yourself, don’t blame others for using you.” When those words fell, Lynn went silent instead.
Daniel assumed he had finally broken his spirit.
His tone softened once more.
“I’m not trying to ruin you.
Everyone’s just trying to survive.” Lynn gave a slight nod.
“That much is true.” Everyone’s trying to survive.
Vought needed to survive, so they wrote off tragic accidents as public loss.
Daniel needed to survive, so he wrote his friend’s name into a guarantee agreement.
Supes needed to survive, so they trampled normal people’s lives into a few seconds of news footage.
Everyone had their reasons.
Everyone could find an excuse for themselves.
Looking at Daniel, Lynn suddenly realized something.
The darkness of this world didn’t start with Homelander.
Homelander was merely the brightest, biggest, most impossible-to-ignore piece of it.
But beneath his feet, petty predators like this were everywhere.
They didn’t have heat vision.
No super speed.
No capes.
Yet they would just as easily destroy an ordinary person’s life and say: “It was your choice.” Lynn picked up the pen.
Daniel’s eyes brightened slightly.
The man in the baseball cap relaxed a fraction.
The tall, thin man leaned back in his seat.
Lynn flipped to the last page.
The signature line was blank.
He stared at it for a few seconds, then asked, “If I sign, how long until the collectors back off?” Daniel replied immediately: “Right away.
We’ll handle it.” “How?” “It’s capital turnover—it takes a little time.” “Who pays?” Daniel’s smile faded again.
“You don’t need to worry about the details.” Lynn set the pen back down.
“I do worry.” Daniel glared at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means you’re not offering a solution.
You’re giving me another empty promise.” Lynn pushed the documents back across the table.
“I’m not signing.” Those three words weren’t loud.
Yet they fell like a coin tossed into still water.
Every face in the booth changed instantly.