At 7:26 PM, by the time Lynn Vance walked out of the Manhattan subway station, night had fallen.
New York at night didn’t quiet down just because the workday was over.
On the contrary, it felt as though it had simply put on a different face.
The daytime belonged to suits, coffee, conference rooms, and glass curtain walls; the nighttime belonged to neon, bars, delivery riders, sirens, and the exhaustion and desires suppressed during the day.
The skyscrapers of Manhattan gleamed with cold light behind him.
The Vought HQ building stood out as particularly conspicuous.
Even from several streets away, the massive electronic screen on the building’s exterior wall was clearly visible.
On the screen, Homelander was smiling at the camera.
Blonde hair.
Blue eyes.
A cape.
Perfect teeth.
Like a divine miracle meticulously refined by capital.
Beside him rolled today’s news headlines: “The Seven to Welcome New Member.” “Vought International Releases Annual Superhero Charity Plan.” “Homelander: We Always Stand with the American People.” Lynn stood by the curb, waiting for the light to change.
A black SUV drove past him, its tires crushing a puddle left behind by recent rain and splashing a spray of fine water droplets.
The cold drops hit his pant legs.
Chilly.
He glanced down without expression.
He had spent a full nine hours in Vought’s Archives Department today.
He had processed three incident files, two internal public opinion archives, one set of draft revisions returned by PR, and conveniently cleaned up half of Kevin’s mess.
If his first day after transmigrating had given him one profound realization, it was this: Even the world of superheroes couldn’t escape office politics.
Gods were responsible for flying around and saving or smashing things.
Working stiffs were responsible for compiling the compensation files left behind in their wake.
Fair enough.
At least from a capitalist perspective, it was remarkably fair.
The light turned green.
The crowd began to move.
Lynn followed the flow of people across the street and descended into the subway entrance.
The train heading toward Queens was as crowded as ever.
Some people leaned against handrails to sleep; others frowned at their phones; a couple argued softly over who would pick up dinner tonight.
A teenage boy wearing A-Train branded sneakers stretched his legs out long, the blue lightning logo on the upper gleaming vividly under the car’s fluorescent light.
Beside him, a little girl clutched a Homelander plush doll.
The doll’s smile was even more radiant than the real man’s.
Lynn stared at the doll for two seconds before quietly averting his eyes.
The most ironic part about this world was that monsters didn’t need to hide under the bed.
They stood on billboards.
They were stocked in toy stores.
They were printed on children’s backpacks and lunchboxes.
The subway train jolted along the tracks.
The wheels ground against the rails, emitting a rhythmic, piercing screech.
Lynn closed his eyes and began sorting through the information he had gathered today.
Vought HQ was located in the core of Manhattan.
The public area was polished like a museum.
The employee area was cold like an operating room.
Archives didn’t have high security clearance, but it gave him access to a massive amount of “packaged truth.” Those files might not point directly to core secrets, but they were like dust scattered on the floor.
A single speck of dust couldn’t prove anything.
But if an entire house was covered in dust, it meant the place had never been clean.
Especially that file on the Queen’s Elevated Bridge incident today.
“Unintended Contact.” “Public Loss.” “Settlement Cost Optimization.” Lynn repeated those terms silently in his head, a faint sneer touching his lips.
Language was a marvelous thing.
If someone was smart enough, they could use it to bury bodies.
Half an hour later, the subway arrived in Queens.
Lynn stepped out of the station.
This place was an entirely different world from Manhattan.
No glass skyscrapers.
No giant screens endlessly flashing overhead.
Along the streets were convenience stores, pizzerias, laundromats, pharmacies, and 24-hour fast-food joints.
The air was thick with the scent of fried food, the damp moldiness of old brick walls, and the hot exhaust of passing cars.
*This* was the New York where most ordinary people lived.
Not a postcard.
Not a promotional video.
And certainly not the “beautiful city protected by heroes” captured in Vought’s camera lenses.
Lynn paused for a few seconds outside a convenience store down the street.
Warm yellow light glowed through the display window.
Next to the register sat a row of donuts with frosting so thick it could make a dentist retire early.
Inside the heated display cabinet were pizza slices and hot dogs, while the coffee machine beside it brewed java that looked like it had been reheated so many times it had lost its dignity.
He checked his mobile banking balance.
Then he pushed the door open and walked in.
Five minutes later, he walked back out carrying a bag of discounted bread, a box of microwaveable pasta, and a cup of the cheapest black coffee.
The total cost for dinner came to six dollars and seventy-nine cents.
Extremely healthy.
So healthy it was enough to make his financial status weep.
The apartment building was somewhat dilapidated.
One of the hallway lights was burnt out, and when the elevator doors slid open, they uttered a low, metallic groan, sounding like a middle-aged man sighing under the weight of life.
Lynn stepped into the elevator and pressed his floor button.
The elevator slowly ascended.
His face was reflected in the mirrored wall.
During the day at Vought, he had maintained his predecessor’s gentle, quiet, and slightly fatigued demeanor.
He didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t stick his neck out.
He didn’t claim credit.
Even when bossed around, he only took on extra tasks within a controllable scope.
He knew that right now, establishing authority was not his priority.
Surviving was.
A low-level employee who suddenly underwent a drastic personality change might spark curiosity among colleagues.
A low-level employee who suddenly started frequently searching sensitive archives might trigger a system audit.
A low-level employee who suddenly showed abnormal interest in Starlight might draw the attention of Hero Management.
Any form of attention was bad news for him in his current state.
*Ding.* The elevator doors slid open.
Lynn stepped out, pulled out his keys, and unlocked his door.
The apartment was deathly quiet.
He switched on the light.
The living room looked the exact same as it had last night.
A gray sofa.
A pile of bills stacked on the coffee table.
He had thrown away the half-eaten sandwich this morning, leaving only the half-cup of cold coffee standing where it was.
A layer of dark, oily sheen floated on the coffee’s surface.
It resembled a tiny swamp.
Lynn looked at it for a moment.
He fell silent for two seconds.
“You’re pretty resilient yourself,” he muttered.
He set the shopping bag on the table, picked up the half-cup of cold coffee, walked into the kitchen, and poured it into the sink.
The dark fluid slid down the stainless steel basin.
The color was deep.
It looked like a miniature river of sewage.
He rinsed the mug, opened the microwave, and tossed the box of pasta inside.
*Whirrrr—* The microwave started humming.
The amber light turned on, illuminating the cheap tomato sauce inside the plastic container in a tragically heroic light.
Just then, his phone buzzed.
*Buzz.* *Buzz.* *Buzz.* The screen lit up.
An unknown number.
Lynn looked down at his phone.
He didn’t answer right away.
On the fifth ring, he tapped the screen to connect.
“Is this Mr.
Lynn Vance?” A male voice came from the receiver.
Polite.
Professional.
Cold.
It sounded like a product bred jointly by banks, insurance companies, and debt collection agencies.
Lynn leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Speaking.” “This is Hudson Debt Management.
We’ve been retained to handle the guaranteed debt under your name.
According to our records, you have missed two consecutive scheduled payments.” Lynn glanced at the pasta spinning inside the microwave.
The plastic box rotated at a slow, steady pace.
“I know.” “Mr.
Vance, we need to remind you that if the minimum payment is not completed by 5:00 PM this Friday, the default record will advance to the next phase of processing.
This may include, but is not limited to, credit rating downgrades, legal recovery proceedings, asset freeze applications, and employer background check risks.” *Employer background check.* Lynn’s eyes flickered slightly.
The caller paused for half a second before continuing: “Considering that you are currently employed at Vought International, we strongly advise you to resolve this matter proactively.
After all, premium employers generally place significant emphasis on their staff’s financial stability.” It was phrased very diplomatically.
Translated into plain English: *If you don’t pay up, we might just let Vought know you’re on the verge of bankruptcy.* For an ordinary company, this would merely be a threat.
For Vought, however, any “unstable element” had a chance of flagged by their internal risk assessment system.
A clerk in the Archives Department.
Carrying massive debt.
Vulnerable to bribery.
Vulnerable to blackmail.
Vulnerable to leaking internal files.
It was entirely logical.
And incredibly dangerous.
Lynn held the phone, his tone remaining completely unruffled.
“What’s the minimum payment?” The caller cited a figure.
Hearing it, Lynn checked his mobile banking app.
Great.
The gap was worth roughly the price of an adult’s dignity.
“I’ll figure something out.” “Mr.
Vance, we understand your situation, but you need to realize that time is extremely limited.” The caller’s voice remained polite.
As polite as a plastic knife.
Not sharp enough to kill quickly, but sharp enough to slice away slowly.
“Additionally, we noticed that the co-guarantor named in the contract, Mr.
Daniel Reed, is currently unreachable.
If you can provide his current valid contact information, it may assist in our subsequent recovery efforts.” Lynn went silent for a second.
Daniel Reed.
His predecessor’s so-called “good friend.” The self-proclaimed startup genius who had slapped his chest and said, “Trust me.” The man who had run off with the cash and left the mountain of debt behind.
Lynn let out a faint laugh.
“If I knew where he was, do you really think I’d be answering your call right now?” The line went quiet for a short moment.
The debt collector was clearly thrown off by the response.
However, his professional training allowed him to recover quickly.
“We understand your frustration, Mr.
Vance.
However, according to the terms of the contract, until the debt is fully settled, you remain jointly and severally liable.” “Of course,” Lynn said calmly.
“It’s not like a contract is suddenly going to grow a conscience just because I put my trust in the wrong guy.” The caller went quiet again for a second.
“Mr.
Vance, we are simply fulfilling our duty to notify you.” “I know.” The microwave chimed.
*Ding.* The pasta was done.
Lynn shifted his phone to his other hand and opened the microwave door.