“Help me find this person.” When Homelander said this, the backup lights in the hallway cast his shadow long and static across the floor.
Luke Cross looked at the shadow and didn’t answer right away.
From the end of the hallway came the low-frequency vibration of a distant elevator running—the staff member in the gray uniform escaping to whichever floor he could reach.
“Go back to your floor first.” When Luke spoke, there was no extra warmth in his voice, his tone that of someone stating a line item on a task list.
“You’re standing in the corridor.
The cameras on Floor 72 are all burned out, but the ones on the other floors aren’t.
Someone could be watching at any moment.” Homelander’s shoulders flinched slightly—an instinctive urge to argue checked by logic.
“That number,” he didn’t move.
“Minus three point two.” “I know.” “They’re going to use this to replace me?” “No one can replace you.” Luke’s voice was completely flat, lacking any comforting assurances, merely stating an engineering fact.
“Your commercial value isn’t defined by those three percentage points, as all of you well know.” Homelander looked at him.
The fluorescent green emergency light washed over his eyes, turning them a pale, frost-white color.
“Then why are you helping me find him?” “Because you asked for my help.” Having said that, Luke turned and walked toward the elevator.
He didn’t check to see if Homelander was following; his footsteps sounded steady amidst the lingering reverberations of the hallway.
At the corner, he pressed the elevator button.
Behind him came the sound of a cape sweeping across the floor.
Homelander had caught up.
They stood side-by-side in front of the elevator doors, their reflections stretched into distorted lines against the stainless steel panels.
The doors opened.
Neither of them stepped inside.
They stopped at the exact same moment.
The lights inside the elevator were still on.
On the interior wall were three fresh claw marks running from waist level down to ankle height, the shredded metal edges frayed with burrs.
It wasn’t the elevator from before.
It was a different one.
Homelander had lashed out in this elevator as well.
Luke pressed the close-door button and turned to look at the fire stairwell on the other side of the corridor.
“We take the stairs.” Homelander followed him into the stairwell without a word.
The two of them walked down three flights through the quiet stairwell, their footsteps alternating—one light, one heavy.
The door on Floor 70 was open.
Luke stepped out and walked into the side corridor connecting to the private level, stopping beside an empty folding chair.
“Sit.” Homelander sat down on the chair, his back not fully resting against it.
His center of gravity leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
Luke didn’t sit; he leaned against the opposite wall.
“Speak.” “What?” “Whatever you want to say, say it.” Homelander stared at the seams between the terrazzo floor tiles, silent for a moment.
“That staff member was just passing by.
He didn’t do anything.” Luke didn’t interrupt or respond.
“I saw that data, and then I got into the elevator.
He just happened to be inside, so I…” He didn’t finish.
“You almost blew it again.” Luke finished the sentence for him, his tone no different from reading a weather forecast.
Homelander’s elbows tightened against his knees.
“But you didn’t.” When Luke spoke those words, his volume was identical to before.
“That’s the difference.” Homelander looked up, his blue eyes meeting Luke’s gaze and locking there for three seconds.
“Because you said what you said.” “I might not be there next time.” “Then what do I do next time?” Luke shifted his gaze to the fire extinguisher cabinet at the end of the hall.
Its sheet-metal casing was divided into uneven rectangles by weld lines.
“Do you remember what you were thinking?
What was on your mind before you stepped into that elevator?” “I was thinking about those three percentage points.” “Before that.” Homelander frowned slightly.
“I was thinking about that anonymous letter.
Thinking about The Deep’s incident hitting the front page.
Thinking whether I’d be next if the media kept digging.” “Before that.” Silence lingered in the corridor for a while.
The ventilation duct in the side hallway began to hum softly, vibrated for a bit, and then quieted down.
“Thinking…
that they all think I’m a monster.” Luke looked back at him.
“And so you acted like a monster to prove them right.” Homelander’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.
“Remember where that thought stopped,” Luke said, his voice remaining level.
“Next time it pops up, you’ll know what it really is.” Homelander sat on the folding chair for a long time.
The ventilation duct vibrated again, this time lasting slightly longer.
“The consultation room.” He stood up.
“Wait for me to change.” He headed upstairs.
Luke waited in the corridor for twenty minutes before heading down to Sub-Level 3.
He lowered the stylus onto the record, turned on the desk lamp, and straightened the blanket over the armchair armrest.
He sat in his usual spot on the floor, opened *Paradise Lost*, and turned to where he had previously left off.
Two hours later, the door pushed open.
Homelander had changed into a capeless black shirt.
His hair was dry, and his footsteps as he entered were lighter than usual.
He went straight to the sofa and sat down, leaning his back against the cushions and resting his hands on his knees.
Chopin’s melody glided down from the upper register, settling into a familiar descending rondo.
“Luke.” “Mm.” “I came really close today.” “Mm.” “But you said I didn’t blow it.” Luke turned a page of the book and didn’t reply immediately, letting the statement hang in the air for a moment.
“You pulled yourself back.” “You stopped me.” “I only said a single sentence.” Homelander turned his head, his gaze shifting from the lampshade to the profile of Luke’s face.
“One sentence was enough?” “For you, it was enough.” The warm light of the desk lamp drew a soft boundary between the two of them, while Chopin played out its final sustained note before reaching the end groove.
Luke closed the book.
“That’s all for today.
See you next time.
I’ll be waiting here.” Homelander paused at the doorway for half a second, his fingers resting against the doorframe.
“That clearance—have Madelyn give it to you.” He didn’t turn around.
“It’ll come in handy later.” The door closed.
Luke wrote three lines in the blank margin of the title page: *Acute stress intervention successful.
Subject able to voluntarily return to consultation space after emotional overload; self-awareness intervention emerging.* *Key milestone: Subject no longer relies on passive soothing and has begun actively establishing behavioral boundaries.* At 11:20 PM that evening, he sent a two-page proposal to Madelyn.
The core point was singular: Assign 24/7 emotional response personnel to HL-001, requiring direct access clearance to his private floor to manage acute stress events and prevent facility damage and public safety risks.
Madelyn’s reply arrived at 11:47 PM.
Just a single word: *Approved.* Attached was a photo of a new keycard, with the note reading: *Floor 72, Unlimited.*