“You’re not in the evaluation room.” Looking at the text in the elevator, Julian pressed the button for Basement Level 3.
He typed back a few words: *There in ten.* When the elevator doors opened, one of the light tubes in the hallway was flickering erratically.
The alternating light and shadow cast a floating gray haze across the white paint of the walls.
He walked to the evaluation room, retrieved the phonograph remote from his briefcase, and pressed play through the door.
The opening notes of Chopin’s nocturne flowed through the gap beneath the door.
He waited five seconds before pushing his way in.
Homelander was already sitting on the sofa.
The blanket was draped over his knees—not positioned where Julian usually left it, but shifted by Homelander himself.
The desk lamp was on, its warm glow splitting his profile in two.
Julian sat down in his usual spot, leaning back against the wall with his book resting on his knees.
“I went to the archive room to fetch some files.” “What files?” “Yours.” Homelander’s right index finger pressed lightly against the edge of the blanket.
The woolen fibers sank slightly before springing back.
“You people love digging through that garbage.” “I’m your doctor.
Reviewing medical history is standard procedure.” “I’m not sick.” Julian opened his book to the blank page before the title page, jotting down the time in the corner with his pen.
“Right.
You’re not.” Chopin passed the opening ascending scale, transitioning into the first iteration of the main melody.
Two minutes of silence.
“Which part did you look at?” Julian didn’t look up.
“Which part do you care about?” Homelander’s breathing pattern fluctuated—short inhales, lengthened exhales, the contraction rhythm of his abdominal muscles deviating from normal.
“None of it.
That stuff has nothing to do with me.
Other people wrote it.” “Mhm.” “What’s ‘mhm’ supposed to mean?” “‘Mhm’ means ‘mhm.’ If you say it has nothing to do with you, then it doesn’t.” Homelander stared at him for a long time, his gaze shifting from the pages of Julian’s book to his fingers, and finally to the bruise on his neck, now faded to a pale yellow.
“Your neck.” “Almost healed.” “Does it hurt?” “It hurt the day before yesterday.
Doesn’t hurt much today.” Homelander pressed his lips into a tight line.
His jaw muscles clenched briefly, then relaxed.
The record entered a key-changing rondo section.
The notes suspended at the high register for a beat before dropping down with a lingering, velvety finish.
Julian closed the book.
“Today’s session is over.” He struck that exact, consistent tone and volume.
“Until next time.
I’ll be waiting here for you.” Homelander stood up and walked to the door a step faster than previous times.
He pulled open the door, letting the cold white light of the hallway spill inside.
“Next Wednesday.” He left as soon as he spoke, the door closing behind him.
Julian looked down and wrote a line on the blank page: *Ritual anchoring fifth reinforcement.
Subject’s heart rate fluctuation narrowed before and after hearing the closing statement, indicating the phrase has entered automated cognitive processing, bypassing prefrontal rational screening.* He capped his pen, put away the book, and switched off the phonograph.
At noon the next day, while Julian was eating a sandwich in the staff cafeteria, his phone screen lit up.
Vought internal news alert: *Vought International announces small-town girl Annie January officially joins The Seven under the hero moniker Starlight.
Induction press conference scheduled for Friday at 10:00 AM.* He set his sandwich on the edge of the plate and scrolled down two pages.
The press conference scheme formulated jointly by PR and Operations was attached at the bottom of the notification, detailed down to camera angles and pre-scripted lines.
In the positioning chart, Starlight’s spot was arranged forty-five degrees behind Homelander’s right.
This angle meant that whenever the camera shot a close-up of Homelander’s face, Starlight’s face would appear soft-focused on the edge of the frame.
Young, blonde, with a clean smile.
Placed in the same frame as Homelander, the contrast would be incredibly subtle—the more genuine she looked, the more he would look like meticulously engineered commercial packaging.
Julian closed the alert and picked up his sandwich to keep eating.
Thursday, 8:12 PM.
Julian was organizing the session schedule for next week in his office when two taps sounded on the soundproof door from outside.
Not an ordinary knock.
The sound of knuckles striking the door panel was sharp and brief, but the contact area was smaller than normal—using only the second knuckles of the index and middle fingers.
This was Homelander’s knock.
But it wasn’t session time.
“Come in.” The door swung open.
Homelander stood at the doorway in full uniform, the cape straps taut across both shoulders, his posture immaculate.
But his eyes were wrong.
His pupils were dilated, his glance shifting at a high frequency.
After scanning the office once, his gaze finally settled on Julian.
The scan pattern wasn’t a standard left-to-right sweep; he looked at the ceiling corners first, then the desktop, and finally made eye contact.
A behavioral pattern searching for a safe zone.
He was searching for an outlet for some underlying anxiety.
“Tomorrow’s press conference,” Homelander said as he walked in.
He didn’t sit on the sofa, remaining standing beside the desk with his fingers resting on the edge.
“You know about Starlight?” “I do.” “Will she steal the spotlight?” The tone of the question was flat, without inflection.
His lips barely moved, the airflow pushed straight through his teeth.
He was controlling his volume and suppressing emotional leakage.
Julian put down the schedule in his hands.
“What do you think?” “I’m asking you.” “I’ve seen the press conference design plan.
On the positioning chart, she’s forty-five degrees behind your right, and the main subject of the lens is always you.
Ashley and her team aren’t stupid enough to let a newcomer overshadow your position.” Homelander’s finger slid along the desk’s edge.
His fingernail scraped across the wood surface, leaving a faint white scratch.
“It’s not about the positioning.” “Then what is it about?” “The way she smiles.” His voice suddenly turned soft.
“It looks real.” Julian leaned back in his chair, fingers folded over his knee.
“Do you feel your smile doesn’t look real?” Homelander didn’t answer.
His gaze drifted away from Julian’s face, landing on the scorch mark mostly hidden behind the phonograph.
Six seconds.
“I’ll be backstage tomorrow,” Julian spoke up, his tempo and tone identical to the line he used at the end of their sessions.
“If you feel uncomfortable on stage, just look toward backstage.” Homelander’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
He turned and walked toward the door, his pace slowing half a beat as he passed Julian.
No physical contact, no extra gestures.
But he slowed down.
After the door closed, Julian opened his phone’s memo app and typed a line: *Starlight’s arrival triggers HL-001’s territorial anxiety and self-authenticity anxiety.
The latter is more destructive than the former; monitor closely.* He locked his phone and pulled down the simulated skylight blind panel.
A dark blue artificial daylight reflected across his desk.
He turned the schedule sheet over and wrote another line on the blank back: *Butcher’s most recent CIA line-of-sight location: Queens, 14 km direct distance from Vought Tower.* After writing this line, he stared at it for three seconds before drawing a single horizontal stroke with his pen cap to obscure it.
Too early.
It wasn’t time to place Butcher’s piece yet.
His phone screen flashed with a news pop-up: *Local channel broadcasting late-night special live stream: Vought CEO Stan Edgar gives exclusive interview on Seven expansion.* On screen, Edgar sat on the studio sofa, the water glass at his side positioned in the exact same spot as in his private office.
He replicated the same spatial order across every controllable environment.
Julian dismissed the pop-up.
Tomorrow.
The press conference.
A new variable was officially entering his field of observation.
Before turning off the desk lamp, he stole one last glance at the desktop—the white scratch Homelander had left on the desk edge glowed faintly fluorescent in the dark blue ambient light.
A low-frequency vibration resonated through the adjacent ventilation duct, as if something was running at high speed on another floor.
His phone buzzed once more.
An internal email from Ashley.
Subject line: *Backstage Personnel List Confirmation for Tomorrow’s Press Conference.* He tapped the attachment and scrolled down to the very last line.
*Psychological Support Consultant: Julian Vance.* Right below his name, a newly added entry appeared.
*Asian Market Strategy Consultant: Serena Thorne.*