Victoria Stone’s name was pinned to the screen, separated from his own by a single line break.
Lucas locked his phone and turned it face down on the desk.
Friday, 9:40 AM.
The press conference venue on the thirty-eighth floor of Vought Tower.
The backstage corridor had been partitioned into six individual green rooms.
A security guard in a grey uniform stood outside each door, the muted crackle of low-volume walkie-talkies echoing back and forth down the hall.
Lucas was assigned to a waiting room at the end of the right-hand passage.
It wasn’t large—just a folding table, two chairs, and a live broadcast feed mounted on the wall, showing the main stage lights undergoing final adjustments.
By the time he arrived, Starlight was already in the dressing room next door.
The door wasn’t fully shut.
Through the crack came the hum of a hair dryer and Ashley’s crisp, commanding voice.
“Keep your smile natural.
Don’t look so stiff—you’re not appearing in court.” Starlight’s response was drowned out by the hair dryer, leaving only a few unintelligible trailing syllables.
At 9:55 AM, the fire door at the end of the corridor was pushed open from the outside, letting in a gust of cold air.
Homelander’s suit showed not a single crease in the chill breeze.
He walked down the corridor without glancing at any of the security guards, yet every single guard straightened their spine a bit firmer the moment he passed.
He stopped at the door of Lucas’s waiting room.
“You made it.” “I did.” Lucas stood up from the chair by the folding table.
On the return monitor, the main stage lights all flared to life.
The first three rows of the auditorium were packed with journalists, flashbulbs popping softly in the air.
Homelander glanced at the screen.
“She in the dressing room?” “Yes.” “Have you met her?” “No.” Homelander tilted his chin up slightly—a characteristic preliminary move before switching to his public-facing standard smile.
But the smile didn’t appear.
“Ashley says I need to shake her hand at the press conference.” “Mm.” “When we shake hands, the camera will shoot upward from a low angle.” Lucas leaned against the edge of the table, hands in his trouser pockets.
“What are you worried about?” “I’m not worried.” “Good.” At ten o’clock sharp, Ashley’s voice rang down the corridor.
“Thirty seconds!
Everyone in position!” Homelander adjusted the clasp of his cape, turned, and headed toward the stage entrance.
As he passed Lucas, his peripheral vision swept over where Lucas stood, confirming his presence before he continued forward.
Lucas remained at the doorway, watching the live feed on the monitor.
The moment Homelander stepped onto the stage, every flashbulb in the venue lit up simultaneously.
The sheer density of light was enough to make an ordinary person’s pupils undergo a brief spasmodic contraction.
His smile was perfectly fixed on his face.
Three minutes later, Starlight walked onto the stage from the opposite side.
Blonde hair, white costume, the star emblem on her arm shimmering under the spotlights.
She took her place at a forty-five-degree angle behind Homelander’s right shoulder—exactly as dictated by the staging diagram.
The camera gave her a three-second close-up.
Lucas studied her face on the monitor.
Very young.
There was an untrained, subtle asymmetry to her smile.
The left corner of her mouth was about two millimeters higher than the right—a natural muscular pull, not something rehearsed in front of a mirror.
When Homelander shook her hand, his grip was noticeably heavy, lasting a second and a half longer than standard PR etiquette required.
That wasn’t warmth.
It was a claim of ownership.
The press conference lasted forty minutes.
Lucas stood at the doorway of the waiting room the entire time without sitting down.
When it ended, traffic in the backstage corridor surged with hair stylists, lighting technicians, security guards, and Ashley, a blur of grey uniforms and black earpieces crisscrossing through the hall.
Homelander didn’t linger after stepping off stage.
The distant rustle of a cape sweeping across the floor was followed by the chime of elevator doors opening and closing.
He was gone.
Lucas waited five minutes.
Once the corridor quieted down, Starlight emerged last.
She walked briskly from the direction of the dressing room.
Her makeup was intact, but her eyes were reddish, and a patch of uneven concealer was visible under her lower eyelids in the bright light.
She had cried, then touched up her makeup.
As she passed Lucas’s doorway, her shoulder bumped against the frame.
It wasn’t the stumble of someone not looking where they were going.
It was a lateral tilt caused by trembling fingers and weak knees—the loss of physical center of gravity.
Lucas pulled a pack of tissues from his pocket and offered it to her.
Starlight stopped, looking at the pack of tissues, then up at him.
“Who are you?” “Lucas Vance, Psychological Evaluation.” Her eyes lingered on his badge for two seconds, guard and hesitation alternating in the flicker of her pupils.
“I’m fine.” “I didn’t ask if you were fine.” Lucas placed the tissues on the corner of the folding table, fished an unopened bottle of mineral water out of the clutter on the desk, unscrewed the cap, and set it beside the tissues.
“Someone’s probably still packing up in your dressing room.
If you don’t want to go back there, it’s quiet here.
You can sit for a moment.” He turned and walked down the hall without looking back.
After about ten steps, he heard the drag of chair legs against the floor behind him.
She had sat down.
Lucas kept walking, rounded the fire door at the end of the corridor, and stood in the stairwell.
He pulled out his phone and opened his memo app.
*Backstage press conference: Starlight exhibits abnormal emotional state.
Secondary touch-up evident in facial concealer.
Reduced muscle control in shoulders and hands.
Overall assessment: Subjected to a severe negative event between waiting room and stage appearance.* He paused for two seconds, his finger hovering over the screen.
*Most probable source of variance: The Deep.* *Adjacent green rooms backstage.
Time window: Fifteen minutes prior to the press conference, when Ashley went to the main stage for final confirmation.
Only one security guard in the corridor; The Deep’s waiting room was located around a blind corner.* He locked the memo screen.
He didn’t have proof, nor did he need it.
What he needed was the existence of the event itself.
Returning to his office, Lucas shut the door, sat at his desk, and pulled the folded sheet of white paper from the bottom drawer.
Unfolding it, he started a new line beneath his previous notes.
*The Deep scandal: Trigger conditions met.
Timing of detonation to be determined.* *Starlight: Fresh emotional trauma, period of zero established trust.
Initial communication channel can be built.* *Assessor elects not to report.* *Event entered into standby sequence as reserve leverage.* He drew a horizontal line beneath the last entry, folded the paper, and slipped it back into the hidden compartment of his suit jacket lining.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Madelyn: *Press conference metrics are in.
Peak real-time viewership occurred during Starlight’s entrance, 14% higher than Homelander’s speech segment.* A second text followed immediately: *Has HL-001 seen this data?* Lucas replied: *Unsure.
Recommend keeping this figure away from any channel he can access for now.* Madelyn responded instantly: *Too late.
Ashley posted it in The Seven’s internal chat two minutes ago.* Lucas laid his phone flat on the desk.
His fingertip brushed against the cool metal trim of the record player.
Where was Homelander when Ashley sent that message?
He picked up the desk phone and dialed the Security Center’s extension.
“Confirm HL-001’s current floor location for me.” “Stand by.” Two seconds later, the voice returned.
“Seventy-second floor, his private floor.
Entered fifteen minutes ago.
Current status…
uh, camera shows him sitting on the sofa.” “Sitting?” “Yes, sitting, facing the window.
Looks like he has his phone in hand.” Lucas hung up.
He stared at his phone for three seconds, then opened his text thread with Homelander.
The last message was still Homelander’s text from that night: *You’re not in the evaluation room.* Without typing anything new, he closed the chat and locked the screen.
Footsteps sounded outside in the corridor—the rhythmic click of high heels, but with a shorter stride and a faster tempo than Madelyn’s.
The footsteps stopped outside his office door.
Two knocks, light and even.
“Come in.” The door opened.
A woman in a bespoke navy suit stood in the doorway.
She had sharp, shoulder-length hair, a briefcase in her right hand, and a document folder tucked under her left arm.
Her eyes swept across the office interior—from the floor lamp in the corner to the record player on the desk, then to the throw blanket on the sofa arm.
The scan was fast and methodical, lingering on no object for more than half a second.
Finally, her gaze settled on Lucas’s face.
“Dr.
Vance?” Lucas stood up.
“And you are?” She shifted the briefcase to her left hand and extended her right.
“Victoria Stone, Asian Market Strategy.”