The office door was ajar.
Starlight stood in the hallway, looking at the half-open door, hesitating for seven seconds.
The warm glow of the desk lamp and Chopin’s Nocturne playing on the record player seeped through the crack.
She knocked twice on the door.
“Come in.” Lucas sat at his desk, pen in hand, a blank sheet of memo paper laid out before him.
Upon seeing her, his expression showed no surprise, as if he had known all along that she would come.
“Starlight.” She stepped inside, paused for a second before the chair, then sat down.
Hands resting on her knees, her fingers clenched tightly.
“How did you know I’d come?” “I didn’t.
But the door was open.” Starlight’s gaze swept across the office—from the lamp in the corner to the record player on the desk, finally landing on his face.
“You left the door open on purpose.” Lucas laid his pen on the desk and interlaced his fingers.
“What’s on your mind?” Starlight pressed her lips together.
She was wearing the Seven’s standard training suit, the star emblem on her chest washed so many times its edges had faded slightly.
Her hair was a bit longer than at their last meeting, tied back in a low ponytail with a few loose strands tucked behind her ears.
“I’m being sidelined.” Lucas didn’t interject, waiting for her to continue.
“For the joint patrol route assignments, they give me the most remote areas every time.
Midtown Manhattan patrols always go to Maeve and Homelander, while I get the industrial zones in the Bronx and Staten Island.
Last week, during a night patrol duty, I waited four hours for someone to notify me to set off.
When I finally went, I found out the mission had already been canceled—nobody bothered to say anything in the group chat.” Her voice was steady, without trembling, but her cadence was a quarter-beat slower than usual.
“This afternoon, I went to Maeve to ask about task allocations.
She said it was determined based on a comprehensive evaluation of each member’s abilities and public image.
I asked to see the evaluation criteria.
She said there are no public criteria—it’s an internal company decision.” Lucas tapped a finger lightly on the desk.
“Do you believe what she said?” “No.” Starlight’s gaze didn’t waver.
“But I don’t have any other choice.” Silence lingered in the room for a few seconds.
Chopin’s melody slid down from the high register into that familiar minor refrain.
“Why did you come to see me?” Lucas asked.
Starlight’s throat moved as she swallowed noticeably.
“I didn’t know who else to go to.
Ashley is Madelyn’s person.
The rest of the Seven either don’t care or don’t want to get involved.
I can’t reach out to Butcher’s side.
You’re from Psychological Evaluation—you don’t belong to any side.” “Everyone has their position.” “But you’re the only person who actually listens to me.” Lucas looked at her.
A thin sheen of moisture coated her eyes, but no tears fell.
She was holding it together.
“After what happened with the Deep,” her voice dropped half a register, “everyone’s been avoiding me.
It’s like I’m covered in something filthy.
If I try to talk to Maeve, she makes an excuse to walk away.
If I try to greet Homelander, he won’t even look at me.” “Homelander treats all newcomers that way.” “No.” Starlight shook her head.
“When he shook my hand at the press conference, he squeezed so hard it felt like he wanted to crush my bones.
That was him telling me he’s stronger than me.
Later, when he chewed me out in the debriefing meeting, the way he looked at me was like looking at a mistake.
A mistake he couldn’t even be bothered to correct.” Lucas remained silent.
Starlight’s fingers clutched the fabric of her trousers over her knees, then loosened.
“I was a hero for twelve years.
Before coming to Vought, I saved a lot of people.
I thought coming here meant doing more of the same.
But everything here is completely different from what I imagined.” “Different how?” “They don’t need heroes here.” A faint trace of bitterness tinged her voice.
“They need products.” Lucas picked up his pen again, spinning it half a turn between his fingers.
“What do you want me to help you with?” Starlight looked at him, the shine in her eyes brightening slightly.
“I don’t know.
I just want someone to tell me what I should do.” Lucas placed the pen back on the desk.
He leaned forward slightly, reducing the distance between them by half a meter.
“What you need isn’t someone telling you what to do.
What you need is to build your own position.” “What do you mean?” “Your problem right now is that you’re waiting to be accepted by the team.
You’re putting all your focus on the Seven’s internal evaluation system, hoping they’ll acknowledge you, assign you good missions, and make you one of them.” Starlight listened without interrupting.
“But that system wasn’t designed for you.
Its rules were set by Vought’s upper management to maximize profits, not fairness.
In that system, you will always be the newcomer, always at the bottom.” “Then what should I do?” “You need to build your own public image.” Starlight frowned slightly.
“Not through the Seven,” Lucas said evenly.
“Through yourself.” He pushed his chair back slightly and leaned against the backrest.
“Vought’s business model is built on individual Supe IPs.
The Seven is a bundled product, but consumers pay for the individual.
Sixty percent of Homelander’s approval rating comes from his personal fans, not the Seven as a whole.” Starlight’s eyes lit up.
“You mean I should build a personal brand like he did?” “You should let the public know the real you, not the version the Seven wants them to see.” Starlight looked down at her hands, her fingers gently rubbing against her knees.
“But would Vought ever allow that?” “What Vought doesn’t allow is an uncontrolled personal brand.
But if your approach is controllable, they’ll accept it.” “What counts as controllable?” “Doing what you want to do within their framework.” Lucas rested his fingers on the edge of the desk.
“For instance, you can interact directly with fans on social media, sharing your real daily life as a hero.
Not the packaged corporate version, but something warm, filled with real details.
Let the public see that you’re a real person.” Starlight fell silent for a moment.
“That’ll only make my relationships with the others worse.” “It will.” “Is it the only way?” “It’s the lowest-cost way.” Starlight raised her head, looking him in the eye.
“Why are you helping me?” Lucas’s expression didn’t change.
“Because you need help.” “But aren’t you in Psychological Evaluation?
Shouldn’t you remain neutral?” “I am neutral,” Lucas said.
“Neutrality means I won’t take sides.
But it also means I won’t watch someone keep walking down the wrong path.” Starlight watched him for a long time.
Then her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned back into her seat.
“You’re the only normal person here.” When she said those words, there was a light layer of relief in her voice—like someone who had walked in darkness for a long time and finally caught sight of a ray of light.
Lucas didn’t say anything.
He gave a tiny nod.
Starlight stood up, the sound of her chair sliding back faint against the floor.
“I’ll try what you said.” “Okay.” “Thank you.” She reached the doorway, paused briefly, but didn’t look back.
The shadow of the doorframe cut her face half into light and half into darkness.
“If I do something wrong, will you tell me?” “I will.” “Really?” “I’ll be here waiting for you.” Starlight left.
The sound of her high heels echoed down the hallway, fading into the distance, her pace noticeably steadier than when she had arrived.
Lucas sat in his chair, waiting until the sound completely vanished.
He drew the blank paper from the hidden compartment in his pocket, starting a new line at the very bottom.
The tip of his pen paused for a second before pressing down.
[XG-001 Preliminary Classification: High moral sense, low political sensitivity, accumulating disillusionment with the system.
In a period of trust vacuum; communication channel can be established, but core motivation remains unexposed.
Assessment: Potential defector, but the timing is not ripe.
Current function: Observational subject and moral benchmark.] He drew a horizontal line under the final sentence, folded the paper, and tucked it back into the hidden compartment.
After the door closed, he didn’t immediately touch the record player.
He leaned back against his chair, gazing at the ceiling.
The warm glow of the desk lamp cast a soft circle of light on the wall, its edges bordering the cold white light of the ceiling fixture to create a distinct boundary of light and dark.
She had called him the only normal person here.
The subtext was that everyone else was abnormal.
Including Homelander, including Maeve, including Madelyn, including every single person in this Vought building.
She had excluded him from that set.
The corner of Lucas’s mouth twitched—a faint curve that vanished in less than half a second.
He stood up, walked over to the record player, and lifted the tone arm from the run-out groove.
The platter continued spinning under inertia.
As the needle hung in mid-air, the final notes of Chopin seeped from the speaker with a faint hiss, like turning pages.
He reset the stylus back to the starting groove.
His phone buzzed.
A text from Homelander.
“Someone came to your office today.
I heard footsteps.” Lucas looked at the line of text without replying.
Five seconds later, a second message arrived.
“It was Starlight.” Still, he didn’t reply.
He locked his phone, set it on the desk, turned, and switched off the desk lamp.
The room was immediately reclaimed by the cold white ceiling lights, stripping away every warm tone.
He needed to figure out one thing.
Homelander was using his super-hearing on the seventy-second floor to eavesdrop on his office.
This wasn’t new information.
He had known before that Homelander possessed this ability.
But Homelander had never used it to monitor him before.
Now he was using it.
The boundaries of his possessiveness were expanding.
He stepped out of the office and closed the door.
In the hallway, one of the fluorescent light tubes flickered on and off, emitting a faint electrical hum.
Without glancing up at the light, he walked straight toward the elevator.
When the elevator doors opened, he pressed the button for B3.
The doors closed.
The elevator descended.
He needed a way to turn Homelander’s eavesdropping into a tool for his control rather than a threat.
Tomorrow at four.
The evaluation room.
He would bring the record player and that copy of *Paradise Lost*.
Along with every word he had carefully planned out.