7:42 AM.
Lynn Lin stood inside a subway car, his right hand gripping a freezing metal handrail and his left holding a convenience store coffee.
The coffee cost three dollars and ninety-nine cents.
It tasted like cardboard that had been insulted by hot water.
Given his current financial situation, however, this qualified as a luxury.
The subway car was packed with commuters.
Some were scrolling through news on headphones, some leaned against the doors napping, and a middle-aged man in a suit was quietly cursing into his phone—keeping his voice tightly restrained, clearly trying to cling to the last shreds of his dignity.
Lynn glanced up at the ad screen inside the car.
A Vought International promotional video was playing.
Bright blue skies.
Spotless streets.
Smiling children.
A costumed superhero carried a golden retriever out of a blazing fire.
The camera cut, and Homelander hovered in midair, his cape billowing in the wind as sunlight spilled over his shoulders, looking as though God Himself had personally lit the scene for the PR department.
The accompanying slogan faded slowly onto the screen.
*Vought International: Protecting Tomorrow.* Lynn watched for two seconds and took a quiet sip of coffee.
Hot.
Bitter.
Carrying a faint hint of plastic from the lid.
He thought expressionlessly: *Protecting tomorrow is debatable.* *Protecting stock prices, on the other hand, is sheer perfection.* The subway pulled into the station.
The crowd surged outward like contents squeezed from a pressurized can.
Lynn followed the tide out of the station, met by a blast of chilly air laced with post-rain moisture.
Mornings in New York were far from romantic; the pavement was wet and slick, and the air carried a heavy mix of exhaust fumes, coffee aroma, sewer gas, and a faint, indefinable smell of burning.
A hot dog vendor on the corner was already open for business.
The griddle sizzled loudly, onions frying to a deep golden brown while steam curled into the cold air.
Lynn instinctively checked the price sign.
Then he pulled his gaze back.
Very good.
Today’s breakfast did not include the right to own a hot dog.
He raised his head.
Vought International Headquarters stood directly ahead.
The building soared like a silver-gray broadsword plunged straight into New York’s overcast sky.
Its glass curtain wall gleamed bright in the morning light, every pane so immaculate it looked as though it had just passed a public relations audit.
A massive poster of The Seven hung across the front of the tower.
Homelander occupied the center, his smile flawless.
Queen Maeve stood slightly behind him, her expression cold and noble.
A-Train leaned forward in a runner’s stance, looking ready to burst out of the frame at any second.
The Deep crossed his arms, working hard to project gravity, though for some reason he still looked like he was about to start pitching seafood.
Translucent stood near the edge.
Strictly speaking, he didn’t stand out much.
Black Noir was clad in full dark armor, silent as the only person in the ad who knew he was actually at work.
At the bottom of the poster ran Vought’s corporate motto: *Heroes don’t just exist.
They belong to us.* Lynn’s steps paused for a fraction of a second.
The line was beautifully written.
And brutally honest.
He walked across the plaza in front of the building.
The area was already thronged with tourists.
Some held up phones taking selfies, while children clad in Homelander-style mini capes sprinted around the fountain, their mothers chasing after them telling them to slow down.
The souvenir shop windows nearby displayed a full row of superhero merchandise.
Homelander action figures.
Queen Maeve limited-edition daggers.
A-Train branded running shoes.
The Deep eco-friendly water bottles.
Translucent-themed bath towels.
When Lynn saw the last item, his stride hitched for half a beat.
Translucent.
A bath towel.
Vought’s product development department truly possessed a level of courage that ordinary minds could barely fathom.
He turned toward the employee entrance.
Unlike the bright, bustling tourist zone, the employee corridor was quiet, stark white, and built entirely for efficiency.
The security guards at the door wore dark blue uniforms, comm earpieces clipped to their ears, their facial expressions suggesting they had already given up on humanity as a whole earlier that morning.
Lynn tapped his ID badge against the scanner.
*Beep.* The light turned green.
He exhaled quietly.
Good.
The badge was still active.
Considerably healthier than his bank account.
As he stepped through the security gate, the machine emitted a low hum.
Lynn caught the faint scent of disinfectant mingling with the dry, chilly draft of the central air conditioning system.
The main lobby was absurdly high-ceilinged.
Looking up, one could see a massive electronic screen suspended in midair, looping promotional shorts of The Seven.
The marble floor was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting every figure, while the front desk staff maintained standardized smiles, immaculate teeth, and dead, exhausted eyes.
This place didn’t feel like a corporation.
It felt like a temple charging admission for tours.
Except the temple’s back office housed accounting, legal, and human resources.
Lynn took the staff elevator down.
Vought’s tourist floors were up above, as were the offices for Superhero Management, Public Relations, and Marketing—all located in brighter, grander spaces designed for photo ops.
The Archives Department was different.
Archives sat on the lower basement levels.
No floor-to-ceiling windows.
No flowers.
No camera lenses.
Only endless rows of cubicles, printers that rattled without pause, server racks radiating heat, and a coffee machine that looked like a relic from a bygone era.
The elevator doors slid open.
A familiar yet alien office scent rushed over him.
Paper.
Toner.
Coffee.
Recirculated air.
And the distinct fatigue of working adults slowly pickled in labor over time.
Lynn walked into the Archives Department.
A frosted glass partition bore the section title: *Risk Archives and Incident Historical Documentation.* It sounded respectable.
The actual work content could roughly be translated as: *After superheroes throw a tantrum, clean up the mess and box the filth.* The cubicle area was already busy.
Keyboards clattered furiously.
Telephones rang in staggered rhythm.
A heavy printer groaned in the corner like an old ox that desperately wanted to retire every single day but was denied permission by corporate.
“Lynn!” Just as he hung his coat on the back of his chair, a voice called out from the adjacent cubicle.
Lynn turned.
The speaker was Kevin Brown.
Early thirties, hair receding in a rhythmic pattern, shirt collar permanently wrinkled, wearing an expression that declared, “I’m extremely busy, but I actually just finished slacking off.” In the original owner’s memory, this was the man in Archives who possessed the absolute mastery of shifting blame.
Not evil.
Just insufferable.
Like a mosquito in an office.
He wouldn’t bite you to death, but he could make you want to smack him all day long.
Kevin dropped a thick stack of files onto Lynn’s desk.
The pages hit with a sharp *thwack*, fanning out slightly.
“Organize these for me.
They need to be uploaded before ten.” Lynn glanced down.
The file cover read: *Queens Overpass Incident Follow-Up Public Sentiment Management File.* Below it was a line of smaller text: *Involves Class-A Hero Action Deviation.
File under Non-Primary Responsibility Incident.* Lynn’s brow twitched subtly.
*Action Deviation.* *Non-Primary Responsibility Incident.* What exquisite phrasing.
Translated into plain English, it meant: a certain superhero had completely screwed up, but the company refused to admit it was his fault.
He flipped open the first page.
Inside were newspaper clippings, compensation statistics, public opinion risk assessments, and a blurry photo of the accident scene.
Near the edge of the photograph, a crushed taxi was visible.
Beside it lay a shoe.
A child’s sneaker.
Blue.
Lynn’s hand froze on the page for a fraction of a second.
Just a moment.
Quickly, he closed the file and looked up at Kevin.
“Is this your assignment?” Kevin was already back in his seat, powering up his monitor, his voice as natural as breathing.
“It was, but Martha wants me to handle something more urgent.
You’re fast—give me a hand.” Lynn looked at him.
Kevin looked back at him.
The air fell briefly quiet.
Had it been the original owner, he probably would have ducked his head and nodded *okay*.
Then he would have worked straight through the evening, inadvertently taking the blame for two incorrect file serial numbers in the process.
Lynn’s mind swiftly recalled Kevin’s work habits, the management style of their supervisor Martha, and the internal task routing rules of the department.
He smiled faintly.
Subtle.
Warm.
“Sure.” Kevin gave a satisfied nod.
“Thanks, man.” Putting on his headphones, Kevin deftly switched his monitor to a sports news site.
Lynn glanced at the glare on the man’s screen.
In his head, he rendered a quiet evaluation: *Very good.* *Vought Archives.* *The trash sorting center of a corporate pantheon.* *And he himself appeared to be the most popular recyclable bin in the room.* He didn’t start processing the stack immediately.
Instead, he opened his email inbox first.
Dozens of unread emails crowded the list.
Department notifications.
System alerts.
Risk template updates.
PR revision requests.
Legal wording amendments.
And one email from his supervisor, Martha Green.
Subject line: *Reminder Regarding Recent Archiving Efficiency and Accountability.* Lynn clicked it open.
The text wasn’t long, but every sentence reeked of a familiar corporate odor.
The gist of it: Workloads had been heavy recently; everyone was expected to step up, show initiative, and expand beyond their basic job boundaries—especially junior staff, who needed to learn more, contribute more, and prove their value.
CC’d to the entire group.
Lynn finished reading it and sat in silence for two seconds.
Translation: More work.
Less pay.
Don’t ask questions.
Endure it.
He closed the email and took a sip of coffee.
It had gone cold.
The taste had downgraded from hot cardboard to cold cardboard.
On the far side of the office, two female colleagues were whispering together in hushed tones…