Luke arrived ten minutes early.
Edgar’s secretary asked him to wait on the leather bench in the corridor, handing him a cup of black coffee that was just hot enough to scald his tongue.
He didn’t drink it.
The corridor walls were lined with promotional posters of The Seven, each precisely color-graded and meticulously composed.
Homelander occupied center stage, his heroic smile dominating the entire wall.
At ten sharp, the office door slid open automatically.
Edgar didn’t step out to greet him; only a voice called from inside.
“Come in and sit down, Dr.
Reed.” The office was simpler than expected.
A dark walnut desk, entirely devoid of personal belongings—not even a pen rested on its surface.
Leather-bound hardcovers were neatly aligned on the bookshelves, all of them reference works on law and finance, none showing any sign of having been opened.
Edgar sat behind the desk, wearing a dark blue cashmere cardigan.
A file and a glass of plain water rested beside his hand.
He looked like a retired university president.
But Luke noted his posture.
His back didn’t touch the chair’s backrest at all; his center of gravity was leaned forward, hands clasped together on the desk.
It was a spatial dominance habit characteristic of controlling personalities: leaning forward signaled dominance, while placing hands on the desk signaled that everything you did was within his line of sight.
“Sit.” Luke pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Not drinking the coffee?” Edgar glanced at the paper cup in his hand.
“Just ate breakfast.
Trying to avoid acid reflux.” “Trouble with your stomach?” “Not great.” Edgar nodded.
These brief pleasantries weren’t small talk.
Luke knew full well that Edgar was using banter to set the tempo, conditioning the listener to his speaking cadence and pauses so that when the real questions dropped, his target would already be tuned to his frequency.
Classic interrogation technique.
“I read your evaluation report.” Edgar opened the file on his desk.
“‘Grade B: Fluctuating.
Continuous observation recommended.’ Beautiful phrasing.” “Thank you.” “That wasn’t a compliment.” Edgar looked up.
“I’m saying you’re cautious.
Cautious to a fault.” Luke said nothing.
“Over the past twenty years, Vought International has hired eleven psychiatrists to handle mental evaluations for our Supes.” Edgar spoke unhurriedly, enunciating every word clearly.
“Four resigned before their contracts ended.
Two were hospitalized due to psychiatric stress.
One died.
The remaining four had an average tenure of eight months.” He closed the folder.
“Do you know what all eleven had in common?” “Enlighten me.” “They all believed they were treating patients.” Luke rested his hands together lightly on his knees.
“Dr.
Reed, I need you to understand one thing very clearly.” Edgar stood up, walked around the desk, and approached the bookshelf to Luke’s right, pulling out a blue binder.
“Vought International is not a hospital.
Supes are not patients.
The psychiatric evaluation department does not exist to cure anyone.” He handed over the binder.
Luke took it and opened to the first page.
The title read: *Vought International Supe Asset Management Manual, Internal Edition, Revision 17.* The words “Asset Management” were printed two font sizes larger than the rest of the title.
“Every Supe in Vought’s system has an identification code,” Edgar’s voice came from beside him.
“Homelander is HL-001.
The Deep is TD-003.
Queen Maeve is QM-002.
They are not people; they are asset codes.
Your job is to manage the psychological stability of these assets to keep them operational.” He walked back and sat down.
“Do you understand?” “Understood.” Luke closed the binder.
“You want a veterinarian, not a psychiatrist.” Edgar’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze lingered on Luke’s face for an extra second.
“You could put it that way.” “In that case, I need to clarify one question.” Luke rested the binder on his lap.
“For Asset HL-001, what is the current management objective?
Maintaining stability, or achieving control?” The moment those words left his mouth, the atmospheric pressure in the room shifted.
Edgar didn’t answer right away, tapping his index finger twice against the desk.
“You think there’s a distinction?” “Of course,” Luke said.
“Maintaining stability means merely ensuring he doesn’t lose control in public.
You could achieve that by replacing his PR team with more effective sycophants—you wouldn’t need me.
Achieving control means establishing a long-term psychological influence mechanism that compels him to make the choices Vought needs him to make when it counts.
That can only be accomplished through my expertise.” He paused.
“However, the time and authorization required for those two goals are entirely different.” Edgar stared at him, the warmth in his eyes dropping to a temperature Luke couldn’t quite measure.
“Are you negotiating terms with me?” “I’m helping you clarify your requirements.” Silence.
Light streamed through the window, slicing a sharp boundary between shadow and light across Edgar’s desk.
Luke sat in the shadow; Edgar sat in the light.
“You are an interesting man, Dr.
Reed.” Edgar picked up his glass and took a sip of water.
“When your predecessors walked into this office, their palms were soaked in sweat.” “Sweat doesn’t solve problems.” Edgar set the glass down, the base striking the desktop with a sharp, dull thud.
“Starting tomorrow, you will attend the weekly asset meetings.
All Supe behavioral logs and public sentiment data will be presented there.
Your duty will be to provide a psychological status briefing and behavioral forecasts during those sessions.” He drew a keycard from a stack of files on his desk and slid it across.
It was a plain white card without a name, bearing only a numeric code and a magnetic strip.
“Temporary clearance for the Sub-level 2 archives.
Valid for two weeks.
Inside, you will find every experimental log and behavioral file on HL-001 from birth to the present.” Luke picked up the card.
The plastic felt smooth and cool.
“Two weeks.” Edgar repeated the number—the exact timeframe Madelyn had set.
“At the asset meeting two weeks from now, I want to hear your first behavioral forecast report on HL-001.
If your prediction strays beyond a reasonable margin of error, this card expires—and so does your contract.” He stood up and walked toward the door, signaling an unmistakable end to the audience.
Luke stood up as well.
As he passed the bookshelf, his peripheral vision caught a row of binders on the bottom shelf near the wall, their spines labeled.
One label read: *Compound V Task Force: Psychiatric Interdiction Project, Progress Archive.* Without breaking stride, he walked out of the office.
In the corridor, a stack of printed meeting notices sat on the secretary’s desk.
The top document read: *The Seven Quarterly Asset Operational Review.* Time: Friday, 9:00 AM.
Luke tucked the keycard into his inner suit pocket, placing it beside his folded profiling notes.
An unexpected harvest.
He had originally just wanted to secure the chance to stay and maintain contact with Homelander.
Instead, Edgar had granted him direct clearance to the core archives.
Not because of trust.
It was a test.
Edgar wanted to see whether he was a quack or a usable blade.
Luke pulled out his phone and typed a line into his memo app: *Compound V Psychiatric Interdiction Project archived on bottom shelf of Sub-level 2.* A low-level employee in a gray uniform rushed past carrying a tall stack of files, nearly colliding with his shoulder.
The man looked up, recognized the Psychiatric Evaluation badge on Luke’s chest, and his expression shifted.
“You’re the new guy?” “Yes.” The staffer glanced left and right, lowering his voice.
“Take a word of advice, pal.
Don’t take it too seriously.” “What do you mean?” “The higher-ups don’t need you to actually fix him.” The man gestured toward the ceiling with his chin.
“They couldn’t manage it in thirty years—you think a rookie like you can?
They just need a pen-pusher to sign off on reports every so often to prove the company’s handling it, so when shit hits the fan, Vought isn’t on the hook.” Luke looked at him.
“Which department are you with?” “Hero Management, Floor 5.” The man offered a bitter smile.
“Don’t look up my name; it won’t do either of us any good.
I’m off.” The gray uniform disappeared down the hall.
Luke stowed his phone and headed toward the elevator.
As the elevator doors closed, his outline reflected in the stainless steel surface.
He straightened his tie against the reflection, the curve of his lips impossibly faint, lighter than a breath.
A pen-pusher.
Fascinating.
They were looking for a pen to write with, oblivious to the fact that this pen moves on its own.
The elevator reached Sub-level 2.
The doors parted, revealing a cold white indicator light glowing at the end of the corridor, where the archive door waited in silence.
Luke tapped the keycard against the reader, and the electronic lock clicked open.
A wave of chilly air drifted out from behind the heavy metal door, smelling faintly acrid with the odor of aging paper.
The moment he stepped inside, his phone buzzed.
Caller ID: *Transferred Line – Evaluation Room S.* He answered.
A voice with that signature broadcast cadence rasped softly through the receiver: “Dr.
Reed, when are you coming to see me?”