The lingering notes of the national anthem at the end of the corridor were cut off as the door hinges turned, replaced by a deathly quiet inside the assessment room.
The moment Lucas crossed the threshold, his peripheral vision caught something on the wall.
Three claw marks.
Deep enough to expose the underlying concrete, extending all the way from the wall to the ceiling.
Not made by metal tools—the curved trajectory indicated human fingers.
Human fingers couldn’t do something like that.
Lucas drew his gaze back and looked toward the center of the room.
A man sat there.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, an American flag cape draped over both sides of the chair back.
His sitting posture was so casual it bordered on languid, right leg crossed over his left, resting his chin on one hand like a CEO waiting to interview someone.
The corner of his mouth wore that signature smile.
Bright, sunny, and completely devoid of warmth.
There was a small dark stain on the corner of his cape.
Unless one looked closely, it might be mistaken for dirt.
But Lucas recognized it.
It was blood.
Not yet fully dry.
“Another one.” Homelander didn’t turn his head, his gaze casually fixed on a spot on the ceiling, his tone nonchalant.
The assessment room wasn’t large, roughly twenty square meters.
A desk and two chairs sat facing each other—a standard layout for psychological consultation.
In the corner sat a set of grey fabric sofas, clearly never used by anyone.
Lucas surveyed the room.
On the tabletop was a scorched black burn mark extending from the center all the way to the edge, where the wood had carbonized and curled up.
When the previous psychologist sat opposite that desk, what he saw was likely two red beams shooting right at him.
Lucas didn’t walk toward the empty chair opposite.
Instead, he took a turn, walking straight toward the sofa in the corner.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket in a slow, measured manner and sat down.
This action caused the air in the room to shift subtly.
Homelander’s eyes shifted away from the ceiling and landed on him.
A tiny trace of confusion flared in his blue eyes.
This wasn’t right.
Everyone who came before had sat opposite the desk, holding notebooks, asking him questions with expressions they thought looked professional.
This man was different.
Lucas set the folder on the armrest of the sofa without opening it, then took off his gold-rimmed glasses and wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt.
He was waiting.
This was the most basic yet most easily overlooked technique in clinical psychology: in a conversation with an unequal power dynamic, the person who speaks first is naturally at a disadvantage.
Homelander was used to everyone being nervous, flattering, and eager to report in front of him.
Any action breaking this pattern would create a crack in his cognitive framework.
Three seconds passed.
Five seconds.
Homelander’s signature smile stiffened for a split second.
“Are you deaf, or just scared stupid?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an interrogative edge.
Lucas put his glasses back on and raised his head.
“Neither.
I was waiting for you to be ready.” “Waiting for me to be ready?” Homelander’s smile widened an inch, revealing a row of neat white teeth.
“Do you know who I am?” “I do.” Lucas leaned back into the sofa, crossing his hands naturally over his knees.
“The superhero with the highest approval rating in America.
Leader of The Seven.
The face and flag of Vought International.” He paused for a beat.
“And after last night’s plane incident, probably the person in the worst mood right now.” The temperature in the room dropped instantly.
The smile remained on Homelander’s face, but his pupils contracted.
The change was extremely subtle; if Lucas hadn’t been intentionally observing, he wouldn’t have caught it.
Lucas noted it internally: *Pupils contracting.
Not anger—vigilance.
He’s assessing whether I’m a threat.* “Worst mood?” Homelander tilted his head slightly.
“Who told you that?
Madelyn?” “Nobody told me.” Lucas pointed to the scorched burn mark on the desk.
“Your last visitor sat in front of that desk for less than three minutes.
The burn mark on the surface extends from directly in front of the opposite seat to the edge of the table, angled down and to the right by about fifteen degrees.
You didn’t shoot at his face; you intentionally veered off.” He paused, noticing Homelander’s right index finger curl slightly once.
An involuntary movement—muscle tension.
“You could have killed him, but you only shot through his shoulder,” Lucas said.
“That means you still had reason operating at the time.
You didn’t want to kill him; you just wanted him to shut up.” A full four seconds of silence followed.
Then Homelander moved.
He stood up from his chair at a speed that didn’t seem human.
The air compressed with a dull thud, and within a single second, he was standing right in front of Lucas.
The distance between the two was less than half a meter.
Homelander looked down at Lucas sitting on the sofa, a faint layer of red light emerging in his blue eyes.
The precursor to laser vision.
The acrid smell of ionized ozone filled the air.
“You think you’re smart?” His voice was pressed very low.
Lucas’s heart was racing.
His bodily instincts were sounding alarms, adrenaline surging, every cell screaming at him to run.
Yet he didn’t move.
He didn’t even flinch or avert his gaze.
“I don’t think I’m smart,” he said, his voice steady.
“I’m just observing.” Homelander leaned down, bracing both hands on the armrests on either side of the sofa, trapping Lucas entirely in his shadow.
His face came extremely close—close enough for Lucas to see the faint ring of red luminescence around the edge of his irises.
“Are you giving me a grade?” “No.” “Are you checking if I’m crazy for them?” “Not that either.” The red glow intensified.
Lucas felt a subtle creak of twisting metal from the sofa armrests.
Homelander’s fingers were sinking in.
“Then what are you here for?” Lucas looked into those close-up blue eyes and captured many things within them.
Anger, of course.
Arrogance, ever-present.
But beneath those two layers lay something deeper.
Fear.
Not fear of any external threat.
It was the kind of fear a child raised in a laboratory would feel after every instance of losing emotional control: *Will they completely give up on me?* Lucas spoke.
“I’m here to listen to you.” His speaking rate was slow, his tone neither loud nor quiet.
“That’s all.” The red light didn’t continue to intensify.
Nor did it dim.
Time seemed to have been paused.
Lucas could hear his own heartbeat, as well as the hum of the ventilation duct overhead.
His fingers remained steadily clasped over his knees, completely still.
On the outside, he displayed flawless composure.
Inside, his brain was spinning at high speed.
Homelander was currently in a classic “probing threat” phase.
He didn’t truly want to kill; he was waiting for the other party’s reaction to judge whether this person was worth keeping around.
If Lucas showed fear, he would be no different from the ones before—classified as a “weakling” to be discarded at any moment.
If Lucas showed defiance, he would be viewed as a “threat” and dealt with on the spot.
The only correct response was: neither back down nor push forward, maintaining a firm neutrality.
Like a calm lake.
You throw a stone in, it ripples, but it doesn’t break.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
Homelander’s eye sockets turned slightly red.
This change had nothing to do with heat vision.
Lucas could tell it was another physiological response.
Involuntary contraction of the muscles around the eye sockets, tear glands becoming active.
He had come within a hair’s breadth of crying.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, all emotion on Homelander’s face was swept clean in an instant.
The smile returned to his lips.
“Interesting.” He straightened up and released the sofa armrests.
Five deep finger indentations remained on the metal armrests.
Homelander took two steps back and elegantly adjusted his cape.
“What’s your name?” “Lucas Vance.” “Dr.
Vance…” Homelander savored the title, his mouth arching slightly.
“You’re the first one who didn’t shake.” He turned and walked toward the door.
The cape swept past Lucas, bringing a gust of air.
When he reached the door, Homelander paused.
He tilted his head as if wanting to say something, but ultimately didn’t speak.
Then he made a movement.
As he passed by Lucas’s side, his hand reached out and touched Lucas’s shoulder.
Very lightly.
So light it was almost unconscious.
Then he pushed open the soundproof door and walked out with steady strides.
The door slowly swung shut behind him, completely shutting out the lingering echoes of the national anthem.
The assessment room returned to silence.
Lucas sat alone on the sofa.
Half of the desk in front of him was scorched black, and the air still held the lingering smell of ozone.
Five finger indentations sagged in the sofa armrests, like territory marks left by some wild beast.
He looked down at his hands.
They were trembling slightly.
He clenched his fists, then loosened them.
Then he pulled out the file, turned to a blank page, and began writing quickly.
*Initial contact evaluation log.
Subject: Homelander.
Assessment duration: Four minutes and twenty seconds.* *Pupil dilation frequency spiked significantly when mentioning the ‘plane incident,’ indicating the event indeed caused emotional trauma, though the subject refuses to admit it.* *Fist clenching frequency: Left hand three times, right hand zero.
Right hand is the dominant hand, yet remained unclasped throughout, indicating aggressive impulses were deliberately suppressed.* *Respiratory frequency variation: Exhibited a distinct breath hold lasting approximately 1.5 seconds when I stated ‘worst mood.’ Classic emotional trigger response.* The tip of the pen moved rapidly across the paper, finally stopping before a line of text.
Lucas stared at that line for three seconds, the corners of his mouth curving up very faintly.
He wrote: *Upon departure, subject unconsciously touched evaluator’s shoulder.
This behavior falls under ‘contact seeking’ in attachment theory, commonly seen in individuals subjected to early emotional deprivation.
Preliminary assessment: Subject is seeking a new emotional anchor.* He closed the file, leaned back against the sofa, took off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
The whole world was trying to figure out how to use weapons, conspiracies, or Compound V to fight this monster.
But they were all looking in the wrong direction.
Homelander didn’t need an enemy.
He needed someone to tell him: *You’re not wrong, and I won’t leave.* Lucas put his glasses back on, the lenses reflecting the pale fluorescent light from the ceiling.
“First contact.
Enough information gathered,” he whispered to himself.
The phone in his pocket buzzed.
It was a text from Madelyn.
Just one line: *Where’s the assessment report?
Also, Mr.
Edgar wants to see you.
He says he’s very interested in your performance today.* Lucas looked at the name “Edgar,” slowly withdrawing the faint smile from his lips.
The true mastermind behind Vought International.
A man ten times harder to deal with than Homelander.
His game was only just beginning.