“Two hundred thirty-nine people on that plane last night.
Not a single survivor.” Madelyn slapped the manila folder onto the desk.
Her newly done nail polish was a deep wine red, creating an ironic contrast with the cold detachment in her tone.
Lucas Vance stared at the folder, the last sliver of wishful thinking in his mind completely shattering.
He really had transmigrated.
Fifteen minutes ago, he had woken up in this windowless basement office, hitting the back of his head on the corner of the desk, gasping from the sharp pain.
Immediately afterward, a chunk of memory that didn’t belong to him was crammed into his brain like a flash drive being slammed into a port.
The original owner of this body was also named Lucas Vance.
Twenty-eight years old, a PhD in clinical psychology from Columbia University, hired three months ago by Vought International as the chief attending physician of the Superhuman Psychological Assessment Department.
Today was his first official day on the job.
And his first patient was Homelander.
When those words popped out from his memories, Lucas’s fingers involuntarily tightened around the armrests of his chair.
In his previous life, he had binge-watched all four seasons of *The Boys*.
That blonde man wearing an American flag cape, boasting a bright, sunny smile, who could turn around and slice someone in half with laser beams from his eyes, was currently on one of the floors of this very building.
“Dr.
Vance?” Madelyn’s voice pulled him back.
She stood on the other side of the desk with her arms crossed, scrutinizing him like a piece of freshly delivered merchandise.
“Did you hear what I said?
Two hundred thirty-nine people.
He claims it was an accident—that he ran into hijackers while on patrol and was ‘forced’ to shoot down the plane.” She made air quotes with two fingers.
Lucas took a deep breath and opened the file.
The first page was Vought’s internal Superhuman Psychological Assessment Form, stamped with a blood-red *S-Class*.
The second page contained Homelander’s basic psychological profile.
Most of it was blacked out with ink, leaving only a few keywords: *paranoid personality tendencies*, *extreme narcissism*, *extremely low violence threshold*.
On the third page, his eyes froze.
At the bottom of the page was a line of small text, two font sizes smaller than the main text, as if afraid someone would notice: *Three previous psychologists have departed for various reasons.
One died.* Lucas looked up at Madelyn.
“What was the cause of death?” “You don’t need to know.” Madelyn raised an eyebrow.
“What you need to know is that I want a complete psychological assessment report on my desk within an hour.
The board needs to confirm whether his emotional state is fit for tomorrow’s press conference.” “An hour?” “Is there a problem?” Lucas looked down at the file again.
The fourth page was an internal briefing on last night’s incident, complete with a satellite screenshot of the scene.
The flames from the crash site illuminated half the block.
In the bottom right corner was a handwritten note in scribbled handwriting: *When the previous psychologist attempted to interview him, his left shoulder was pierced by laser vision.
Currently in the ICU.* He closed the folder.
The office air conditioner hummed, set to a rather low temperature—probably to keep anyone inside alert at all times.
The walls were stark white, and the ceiling was embedded with two rows of sickly pale fluorescent lights.
No windows, no decorative paintings, not even a single potted plant.
A textbook sensory-deprivation design.
Vought International.
A multinational monopoly corporation that manufactured superheroes—on the surface, the protector of America; underneath, arms dealers selling supes like commodities.
And now, he was an employee of this company.
To be precise, an employee tasked with giving a psychological checkup to the most dangerous creature on the planet.
“Ms.
Stillwell.” Lucas stood up, tucking the file under his arm.
He noticed he was wearing a sharply tailored dark grey suit, silver buttons on the cuffs, and gold-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.
The original host had good taste.
“What did the last doctor say to Homelander during the interview?” Madelyn seemed surprised that he would ask this, pausing for half a second.
“He asked Homelander if he ‘regretted his actions.'” Lucas pushed up his glasses.
Idiot.
Asking a paranoid narcissist “do you regret it” was the equivalent of asking a tyrant to his face “did you make a mistake.” That wasn’t a psychological assessment; it was suicide.
“Understood.” He smoothed the creases on his suit sleeves and walked toward the door.
“Dr.
Vance.” Madelyn called after him, her voice dropping half a pitch.
“A word of advice.
His mood is extremely unstable right now.
If you feel like you can’t control the situation, press the red button on the wall.
Security will arrive within thirty seconds.” Lucas placed his hand on the doorknob and glanced back at her.
Thirty seconds?
If Homelander wanted to kill someone, zero point three seconds was all he needed.
That red button wasn’t meant for the patient; it was a final psychological placebo for the therapist.
“Thanks for the reminder.” He felt a slight urge to laugh, but held it in.
The corridor was even more suffocating than the office.
The hallway on Basement Level 3 was barely wider than a single person.
The walls on both sides were painted matte white, with recessed downlights every five meters.
The light was pale and uniform, resembling the illumination of a morgue.
The air was thick with a faint smell of disinfectant mixed with an indefinable metallic tang.
Lucas walked unhurriedly, his leather shoes clicking against the terrazzo floor, every step producing a crisp echo.
In his mind, he quickly organized all the information about Homelander from his past-life memories.
Raised in a laboratory during childhood.
No parents, no hugs, no birthday cakes.
A machine fed him milk; scientists in hazmat suits taught him to speak.
His craving for maternal love had twisted into a pathological state.
At their core, all his atrocities were the same voice crying out to the world: *Look at me.
Validate me.
Love me.* And any signal that made him feel “rejected” or “abandoned” would trigger a destructive stress reaction.
That was his true vulnerability.
A riddle of a heart, riddled with holes, never once fulfilled.
Lucas stopped at the corner of the corridor.
Twenty meters ahead, a grey soundproof door—much thicker than the others—was tightly shut, its frame reinforced with titanium alloy strips.
A red label was slapped on the door: *S-Class Assessment Room · Unauthorized Personnel Prohibited*.
From the gap beneath the door came the faint sound of low humming.
It was the American national anthem.
The melody was dragged out slowly, bouncing back and forth in the empty corridor, sending a chill down the back of anyone listening.
Lucas stood where he was, feeling his heart rate accelerate.
It wasn’t fear.
Well, there was definitely fear.
The thing sitting behind that door could fly, shoot lasers, and twist a tank into a pretzel with his bare hands.
And Lucas didn’t even have a gun.
Yet beyond fear, a string had been plucked.
In his past life, he was an ordinary psychology graduate student who died suddenly at his computer terminal in the lab mid-thesis.
In this life, he had arrived in this insane world equipped with max-level psychological expertise and knowledge of four seasons’ worth of plot.
If he turned around and walked away right now, he’d just be trash at Vought, liable to be disposed of as an expendable at any time.
But if he could handle Homelander…
The most powerful superhuman on the planet, everyone’s worst nightmare, the nuclear bomb Vought couldn’t keep a grip on.
If he could become the only person who could make that nuclear bomb listen, he would become the most irreplaceable existence in this world.
No one kills an irreplaceable person.
Lucas looked down at his hands.
Distinct knuckles, neatly trimmed nails, faint calluses on the finger pads from years of turning book pages.
These hands couldn’t pick up a gun, much less stop a laser beam.
But they could open a file, hold a pen, and hand over a glass of water or withhold a word at just the right moment.
That was enough.
He reached out to straighten his tie, smoothed the last crease on his cuff, and raised his hand.
His knuckles knocked on the soundproof door.
Three times.
Neither heavy nor light, evenly spaced.
The humming inside stopped.
Silence reigned for about two seconds.
Lucas heard a very faint laugh coming from behind the door.
Then, that deep, broadcaster-like voice spoke: “Come in.” Lucas pushed open the door.