“How long?” Logan asked back.
Serena tucked the folder under her arm, walked over, and stopped about two meters away from him.
She stood facing away from the window as she looked at the organizational chart, the light casting from behind her and cleanly tracing her outline.
“You don’t need to give me the real answer,” she said.
“I just want to confirm that you have one.” “Why do you need to confirm that?” “Because at Wednesday’s general meeting, Madelyn will ask about the post-incident plan for The Deep, and she’ll ask you,” Serena’s gaze fell on the end of the corridor behind his shoulder.
“If you haven’t thought it through, that’s a liability.” Logan slipped his right hand into his trousers pocket, his index finger tracing the edge of the magnetic keycard inside.
“You’ve been watching for my liabilities.” “And you’ve been watching for mine.” There was no one else in the corridor; the rolling hum of the file cart had already vanished around the far corner.
Serena turned her head slightly, glancing at the now-empty curb down outside the window.
“After The Deep’s incident, Homelander’s approval rating is still five points short of baseline,” she said.
“Madelyn wants to suppress it; you want to capitalize on it.” “How did you figure I want to capitalize on it?” “Because you submitted that proposal last night.
The nominal premise was Homelander’s emotional management, but what you gained was clearance for the seventy-second floor.” Her eyes met his again.
“Hiding an offensive line inside defensive phrasing—that’s your habit.” Logan looked at her without speaking.
Serena pulled the folder out from under her arm, flipped to the third page, and held it out in front of him.
It was an analysis sheet for Asian market IP licensing.
The percentage of Asian region copyright revenue for HL-001 was highlighted in red, with a handwritten note beside it: *Mental stability is a core prerequisite for licensing.* “I added that condition,” she said.
“I’m using the evaluation report you gave me to secure our bargaining chip for this deal.
We’re useful to each other.” “What do you want?” “I want to know how you plan to get those five percentage points back.” The airflow from the corridor air conditioner shifted, blowing sideways and causing the hem of Serena’s coat to sway in a soft arc.
Logan took the document from her hand, glanced at it for three seconds, and handed it back.
“After Wednesday’s meeting,” he said, “come find me yourself.” Serena took the folder and tucked it back under her arm.
“I will.” She turned and walked toward the other end of the corridor.
The sound of her heels hitting the floor possessed a steady, rhythmic cadence—unhurried, every step landing precisely on the symmetrical seams of the floor tiles.
Logan stood in the corridor, waiting until her silhouette disappeared around the corner before pulling his right hand out of his pocket.
A faint indentation from the keycard’s edge remained on his thumb pad.
He lowered his hand and walked toward the evaluation room.
Homelander had been waiting inside for seven minutes, according to his wristwatch.
When he pushed open the door, the record player was already spinning.
Homelander sat on the sofa with the blanket pulled up just above his knees, his head resting against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded.
His expression was looser than usual, lacking the habitual, vigilant tension at the corners of his eyes.
Logan sat down on the floor, picked up a book, and remained silent.
Chopin was moving past the opening ascending scale.
“The Deep left,” Homelander said without opening his eyes, his voice emerging from deep in his throat with a lazy undertone.
“Mhm.” “He came to see you.” “He did.” Homelander lifted his head off the couch back and turned to look at Logan.
“Did you speak up for him?” “No.” “Whatever happens to him over that matter, he deserves it.” Homelander’s fingertips pressed lightly against the surface of the blanket.
“But after all these years…
whatever.” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Logan turned a page of his book, not pressing the matter.
Two minutes later, Homelander spoke up again.
“About the approval rating…
do you have a way?” “What kind of way?” “To bring it back up.” Logan closed the book and set it vertically beside his knee.
“Madelyn has a plan: suppress The Deep’s scandal and keep Homelander silent.” “And then?” “Then once the news cycle passes, the approval rating will naturally stabilize, but it won’t grow.” Homelander listened, his chin tilting up slightly by a fraction of a degree.
“Is there another plan?” “Yes.” Logan placed his hands on his knees.
“Don’t suppress it—take the initiative.
Show the public the internal discipline of The Seven.
Stand up and declare that Vought tolerates no form of misconduct.” “Isn’t that just endorsing Vought?
Helping them?” “You are the captain of The Seven.
When you say those words, the public hears you, not Vought.” Homelander stared at him, something shifting in his eyes.
“So how do you think I should act?” Once those words were uttered, a different atmosphere settled in the evaluation room.
Chopin reached the entrance to the second minor rondo, notes falling one by one.
Logan noted it mentally.
*Actively asking for help.
The first time it appeared as a direct question.* “You don’t need to act like anything.” His tone remained flat.
“You only need to make the public believe that the person standing on the stage is real.” “What does ‘real’ look like?” “Someone with a bottom line.” Logan paused briefly.
“Not perfect, but possessing a line they won’t cross.
People don’t trust perfection, but they need to believe someone has a bottom line.” Homelander leaned back against the sofa, his gaze shifting up to the ceiling, where a hairline crack in the paint extended from the light fixture, taking a sharp, subtle turn at one point.
“Do you know how many times I’ve rehearsed speeches?” His voice dropped lower.
“Ashley made me talk to the mirror until I couldn’t recognize the face looking back at me.” “I know.” “It feels terrible.” “Mhm.” “The method you teach me is different from Ashley’s.” “It is.” “How is it different?” Logan turned his head and looked at him.
“Ashley teaches you what to say.
I help you understand why you’re saying it.” Homelander pulled his eyes away from the ceiling and let them rest on Logan’s face, lingering there twice as long as usual.
In the silence, Chopin’s final melody expanded to fill the air before the needle entered the run-out groove, a soft, staticky hiss spreading through the room.
The press conference was held three days later.
When Homelander stood on the podium, Logan was backstage in front of the return monitor, standing two steps closer than last time.
On screen, Homelander walked up to the podium without looking at the teleprompter.
He spoke four sentences.
He said The Seven were responsible to every American citizen.
He said that for any behavior straying from this duty, he would personally spearhead the corrective action.
He said public trust was the prerequisite for the existence of The Seven, not an added condition.
On the final sentence, he paused for two seconds before speaking: “We are not perfect, but we know where the line is.” *Where the line is.* The shutter clicks below the stage intensified into a frenzy, like heavy rain hammering against a sheet of tin.
Logan pulled his gaze away from the screen and looked at the data monitoring sheet beside his hand.
As his eyes landed on it, the live ticker for the approval rating ticked up a notch.
Plus two point seven.
Three days later, Madelyn slid a glass of red wine in front of Logan.
She stood before the north wall of her office, the lights of New York glinting softly in the darkness outside the window.
“Five point one,” she said.
“Three days.
Five point one percentage points.” Logan didn’t pick up the glass, keeping his hands in his pockets.
“Ms.
Stillwell, this is only the beginning.” Madelyn looked at him, her lips curved in an expression Logan had seen many times—the look of a chess player realizing her opponent had seen two moves further ahead.
“You’re more useful than I thought,” she said.
“He’s more resilient than you thought.” Logan didn’t accept the compliment, turning his gaze away slightly.
Madelyn picked up the glass and took a sip herself, turning her head toward the window.
“Edgar saw the numbers.
He asked me who trained this psychologist.” Logan didn’t move.
“I told him I discovered you,” she said evenly.
“So for now, you’re still my person.” Logan withdrew his right hand from his pocket and rested his fingers lightly on the back of the chair.
“Thank you.” Madelyn didn’t turn around, offering a faint smile toward her reflection in the glass.
“At Wednesday’s meeting, Serena will propose an expansion plan for the Asian market using the IP rights for HL-001.
Your evaluation report is the key variable in that proposal.” Her fingernail tapped against the rim of her wine glass.
“Have you talked to her?” “We spoke.” “And?” “She wants to collaborate.” Madelyn was silent for two seconds before setting down her glass.
“Then you’d better be careful,” she said.
“Sometimes, people who want to collaborate are much harder to handle than people who want to fight.”