“Then you’d better be careful.
Sometimes, people who want to collaborate are much harder to handle than people who want to fight.” Madelyn’s words were still echoing in his mind as Logan stepped into the corridor on Basement Level 3.
The door to the evaluation room was cracked open, revealing the warm glow of the desk lamp and the opening ascending scale of Chopin’s Nocturne.
He hadn’t turned on the lights or started the record in advance.
Logan pushed the door open.
Homelander was sitting on the sofa, his fingers resting on the edge of the record player’s knob—a posture that indicated he had set the needle down himself two minutes ago.
The blanket lay draped over the armrest, unpulled.
“You’re earlier than me.” Homelander’s eyes shifted from the turntable to Logan’s shirt collar and cufflinks, lingering for an extra half-second.
“You just came from Madelyn’s.” “Mhm.” “What did you talk about?” Logan sat down in his usual spot on the floor, his back resting against the wall, his book resting beside his knee.
“Approval ratings.” Homelander tapped his right index finger against the frame of the record player, the metal emitting a short, sharp vibration.
“Five point one.” “You saw the data.” “Ashley sent it to me three times.” Homelander’s speech rate was a quarter-beat slower than usual, dragging the tail end of each word out longer.
The corners of his mouth hovered in a preparatory smile, but it never fully bloomed.
He was waiting for Logan to praise him.
Logan didn’t.
He opened his book, turning to the page he had dog-eared last time.
Fifteen seconds of silence.
Chopin finished the tail end of the ascending scale, and the main melody swept in.
“That business with the anonymous letter.” Homelander spoke up, the warmth in his voice dropping a notch.
“Have they found who sent it?” “Still investigating.” “They sure are inefficient.” Homelander withdrew his hand from the frame of the record player, his fingers expanding and clenching over his knee in an irregular rhythm.
“Five point one percentage points.
Sounds great.” Logan flipped a page, remaining silent.
“But that’s climbing back up from negative three point two.” The pitch of Homelander’s voice rose half an octave at the end of the sentence.
“Which means if that letter had never existed, my approval rating would be eight points higher than it is now.” Logan’s finger paused at the edge of the page.
“You calculated it.” “I calculate it every day.” Homelander leaned his body forward by three centimeters, resting both elbows on his knees.
He had never used this posture during an evaluation session before—it was the stance he used when berating Starlight at debrief meetings.
An offensive lean.
Except the target of his attack wasn’t in the room.
“After that story about The Deep broke, four sponsors suspended contract renewal negotiations.” His voice turned crisp, every number enunciated sharply.
“A sports drink, an insurance company, and two military hardware manufacturers.
Those two military contracts were ones I flew out to sign personally last year.
I circled three times above their factory, stamping my logo right onto the solar panels on their roof.” Logan closed his book.
“What bothers you isn’t what The Deep did.” Homelander snapped his head up, his blue eyes locking onto Logan.
“What the hell does what The Deep did have to do with me?” “Nothing.” “Of course it has nothing to do with me!” The volume of Homelander’s voice expanded, the resonance in his chest beginning to overpower his vocal control.
“But he dragged my name through the mud!
The Seven is *my* team.
He does that shit in *my* team, and when it blows up, my numbers drop, my ads get canceled!
Those sponsors don’t give a damn who The Deep is—they know me!
When they canceled the contracts, they cited ‘The Seven brand risk.’ Whose face is standing right in front of those words?” He jabbed a finger at the star-spangled banner emblem on his chest.
“*Mine!*” Logan rested his hands on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced.
“So the reason for your anger isn’t the incident itself.” “Why the hell would I care about the incident itself?” “You’re angry because your assets took a hit.” Homelander’s lips pressed together for a second before opening again.
“You think I should be angry about something else?” “I don’t think you should be angry about anything in particular.
I’m helping you see clearly *why* you are angry.” Chopin reached the entrance of the minor rondo transition, the notes sliding lower.
Homelander leaned back against the sofa, his eyes tracking up to the tiny hairline crack in the ceiling paint.
“I want to find the person who sent that anonymous letter.” “You said that already.” “Once I find them, I’ll make them disappear.” When Homelander said this, there was no extra vibration in his vocal cords.
The airflow was even, exiting in the exact same manner as if he were casually remarking on good weather.
Logan’s fingers didn’t move on his knees.
“What does ‘disappear’ mean?” “You know what it means.” “I need you to say it yourself.” Homelander turned his head from the couch back, his profile catching the warm lamp light, highlighting his sharp cheekbone.
“Burn them.
Burn them until not even ashes are left.
Then let the whole world know what happens when someone touches my stuff.” Logan didn’t deny him, didn’t dissuade him, and showed no sign of judgment.
He simply asked one question.
“Before doing that, think about what this will gain you, and what it will cost you.” Homelander’s breath hitched.
“Gain me?” He repeated the words, slowing his speech down.
“A person disappears.
The source of the anonymous letter is cut off.
No one will dare send another one.” “Go on.” “The media will report it.
If it’s done cleanly, they won’t know it was me.” “And if it’s not done cleanly?” Homelander’s fingers pinched the fabric at the edge of the blanket.
Silence stretched for eight seconds.
“My approval rating will drop again.” “By how much?” “I don’t know.
Depends on how it’s discovered.” Logan kept his voice at the same measured tone he used when reading instrument values.
“The last time something similar was exposed, you lost three point two.
Last time wasn’t even your doing—you were just collateral damage.
If this time it’s done by your own hands, how much do you think you’ll drop?” Homelander didn’t answer.
He pulled his hands back from the blanket and placed them flat beside his knees, palms pressing down.
The record finished the last set of notes in the minor rondo, returning to the second main theme.
“They’re not worth it.” When Homelander spoke those words, the tension in his vocal cords was entirely different from five minutes ago.
Earlier it had been an even, calm delivery; now it carried a layer of rough burrs left behind after being suppressed by logic.
He had stifled the impulse himself.
Not because the impulse was morally wrong.
But because it was bad business.
Logan reopened his book and flipped to the next page.
“That’s all for today.
Until next time—I’ll be waiting for you here.” Homelander stood up, walking toward the door at the same speed as previous sessions.
He pulled the door open, allowing the cold white light of the corridor to flood into the evaluation room.
“Logan.” “Mhm.” “Those four sponsors…
can we get them back?” “Yes.” “Help me negotiate.” “I don’t handle business affairs.
But I can make you far more effective than any advertisement the next time you face a camera.” Homelander paused at the doorway for a second, and the curve of his lips finally formed—neither distant nor overly familiar, precisely seventy percent of his standard public smile.
Carrying the slight clumsiness of learning a new skill.
The door clicked shut.
Logan raised his head from the book pages and sat leaning against the wall for a moment.
He reached into an inner pocket lining, pulled out the slip of white paper, and added a paragraph beneath the final line: *Behavioral intervention effective.
Subject voluntarily abandoned violent intent under evaluator’s guidance, basing decision on cost-benefit analysis.
This does not represent the establishment of a moral framework, but rather the preliminary results of operant conditioning; subject is learning to insert a cost-benefit calculation prior to impulsive behavior.
The trigger for this calculation currently still relies on the evaluator’s presence and prompting, and has not yet achieved autonomous operation.* He paused, adding a few words at the end.
*But it is enough.*