She was asking for his report.
Luke Vance closed the email without replying.
At ten o’clock the following morning, there were three knocks on his office door.
The pressure was hesitant, the intervals uneven, with a full two-second pause between the second and third tap.
“Come in.” The way The Deep pushed the door open was completely different from last time.
During his previous visit, he had sat with legs spread wide, arms draped over the back of the chair, choked the whole room with the scent of his aftershave.
This time, he stood at the doorway without sitting down immediately.
His hands were tucked into his uniform pockets, his shoulders an inch lower than before—a height difference of about twelve centimeters, clearly caused by his slightly bent knees.
The smell of aftershave was extremely faint, almost completely smothered by the disinfectant from the hallway.
“Dr.
Vance.” “The Deep.
Please, take a seat.” He walked over to the chair and pulled it out very slowly.
When he sat, his legs were no longer sprawled; his knees were pressed together, and his hands were folded over his thighs.
Vance leaned back in his chair, his fingers resting on the edge of the desk.
“We don’t have a scheduled consultation today.” “I know.” The Deep’s voice was a octave lower than last time, the resonance shifting down from his nasal cavity to the bottom of his throat.
“I came on my own.” “Is something the matter?” The Deep licked his lips, left side first, then right—an oral self-soothing behavior triggered by anxiety.
“You’re close with Homelander.” Vance didn’t take the bait.
“The whole building is talking,” The Deep leaned forward slightly, his fingers interlacing over his knees.
“They say he comes to your office every other day now.
They say he specifically named you to wait backstage at the press conference.” “What are you trying to say?” The Deep’s Adam’s apple bobbed once.
“Do you know about that anonymous letter?” “I do.” “Madelyn is handling it, but I don’t know *how* she plans to handle it.” The Deep’s speech accelerated, the gaps between words shrinking.
“She made me sign a supplemental non-disclosure agreement.
The wording was way harsher than the last one.
One clause says if the public relations damage exceeds a certain threshold, the company has the right to unilaterally terminate my contract with The Seven.” His fingernails dug into his palms.
“I can’t get kicked out.” Vance looked at him.
“Why come to me?” “Because you can actually talk to him.” The Deep’s gaze finally met Vance’s eyes.
His pupils were dilated, and the capillaries in his sclera were distinctly bloodshot.
“If Homelander speaks up to protect me, Madelyn won’t touch me.
No one will.” Vance pulled his hands back from the desk’s edge and rested his crossed fingers on his lap.
“You want me to intercede with Homelander on your behalf.” “You can do it, right?” Vance didn’t answer immediately.
He let the silence stretch for seven seconds.
To someone waiting for a life-saving answer, seven seconds was an agonizingly long time.
On the fifth second, The Deep’s torso leaned forward three centimeters.
On the sixth second, his lips began to tremble.
On the seventh second— “There is one condition.” The Deep’s entire upper body slumped, a heavy breath leaking from his chest.
“What condition?
Name it.” “Cooperater with me on a few psychological counseling sessions.” Vance spoke at a measured pace, giving equal weight to every word.
“Off the record.
Not in the system.
Just between you and me.” “Counseling?” “You can think of it as a chat.” The Deep hesitated for two seconds, then nodded.
“Starting right now?” “We can start right now.” Vance picked up a pen from the desk.
He didn’t open any forms, merely twirled the pen halfway around his fingers.
“Last time, we talked about rankings.” The Deep’s expression tightened.
“Have you thought about it since?” “I have.” “And what did you realize?” “The things you said…
some of it wasn’t entirely right.” “Which parts?” The Deep opened his mouth and closed it again.
His fingers bunched up the fabric of his trousers over his knees.
“I didn’t…
I didn’t do it because of rankings.
I’m not that kind of person.” “Of course you aren’t.” The warmth of Vance’s voice remained unchanged, but the stress fell squarely on the first and third words.
*Of course you aren’t.* The Deep stared at him, something wavering deep in his eyes.
“But do you believe that yourself?” Vance laid the pen down on the desk and returned his hands to his lap.
“Believe what?” “Believe that you aren’t that kind of person.” The room fell dead quiet.
The hum of the air conditioner vent was everywhere, filling the silence into a heavy, pressurized solid.
“I don’t know.” The Deep’s voice squeezed out of his throat, every syllable sounding as if it had been crushed and glued back together.
“Sometimes I look in the mirror…
and the face I see isn’t the same face on the posters.” “Which one is real?” “The one on the poster.” He paused.
“It’s supposed to be the one on the poster.” “Supposed to be.” Vance repeated the words softly, adding nothing else.
The Deep’s right hand slipped off his knee and hung by his side.
His five fingers loosened, then clenched again in an irregular rhythm.
“The reason you feel the need to take something from others,” Vance began, keeping his voice at a low frequency that swept across the desk, “isn’t because you’re evil.
It’s because, deep down, you feel you’ve never been enough.” The muscles in The Deep’s jaw tightened.
“Not good enough, not strong enough, not cared about enough.
So you need to prove it.
You need someone to look at you with eyes that see only you—regardless of whether that person is willing or not.” “Stop talking.” “The fish in the sea obey you, don’t they?” “I said stop talking!” “They don’t reject you.” The Deep stood up violently from the chair, his knees slamming into the edge of the desk and causing his water cup to rattle.
Yet he didn’t slam the door.
He stood there, his lips quivering, the rise and fall of his chest gradually slowing.
Three seconds later, his voice leaked through the crack of his lips, fainter than a whisper.
“Maybe…
maybe I really don’t deserve it.” He turned and walked toward the door.
His footsteps were light, but the stride of each step was a third shorter than when he came in.
The gait of a man who was actively shrinking his own presence.
The door closed.
Vance sat in his chair, fingers touching the desk, index finger tapping once against the spot where The Deep’s knee had just struck.
The first peripheral pawn.
For Homelander, the strategy was enclosure and retention; every interaction told him he was worthy of love.
For The Deep, the strategy was stripping and replacement; every dialogue dragged his self-perception down into darker, deeper depths.
Two opposite tools with the exact same objective: making them both need him.
The difference was that Homelander needed his warmth, while The Deep needed his verdict.
Vance pulled out a piece of plain paper from a hidden pocket and wrote a line at the very bottom: *TD-003 domestication progress: 40%.
Core inferiority structure fully exposed.
Two to three consolidation sessions needed to enter the command obedience phase.* He folded the paper and tucked it back away.
His phone screen lit up.
A message from Madelyn: *Failed to negotiate with the third media outlet for the anonymous letter.
It hits the press tomorrow.* Vance looked at the text, his finger pausing on the edge of the screen for three seconds.
He replied with a few words: *How big is the spread?* Madelyn’s reply arrived almost instantly: *Front page.*