Two minutes before three o’clock, Luke Vance crouched in the corner of the evaluation room and plugged a warm yellow lamp into the spare outlet at the base of the wall.
The shade was made of linen.
When the light filtered through, it cast a soft, textured blur around its edges, transforming the sterile white wall into a warm tone close to honey.
He stood up, pulled a folded wool blanket from his briefcase, and draped it over the armrest of the sofa.
He had bought it at noon from a home goods shop near Vought Tower—dark gray, patternless, but with fibers so soft his fingers sank in half a knuckle deep when pressed.
The record player was still in its usual spot, loaded with an album of Chopin’s Nocturnes.
He took two steps back and surveyed the entire room.
The light from the lamp fell over the sofa area, forming a localized radius of warm color that cut a distinct boundary against the cold white light filling the rest of the room.
The scorch mark on the desk was still there, though mostly hidden by the record player.
He sat on the sofa for ten seconds, feeling the temperature of the light resting on his shoulders and the back of his hands.
That was enough.
At three o’clock sharp, the door opened.
Homelander entered differently than he had the previous two times.
Before, he would pause at the threshold to scan and verify the environment.
This time, he pushed the door open faster, taking a wider stride inside.
Only someone familiar with a space walked like that.
His gaze landed on the record player first, lingering for half a second before sweeping over to the lamp.
Then to the blanket on the armrest.
His pace slowed.
Luke was already sitting in his usual spot on the floor, back against the wall, holding a copy of *Paradise Lost* while the needle slowly advanced along the opening grooves of a Chopin Nocturne.
Homelander stood by the door for three seconds.
Then he walked toward the sofa.
Not the chair.
He rounded the desk, bypassed the scorch mark, and sat down on the sofa.
Positioned slightly to the left, on the side closer to the lamp.
Luke made a mental note: *Phototaxis behavior confirmed.
Pathway between warm light source and sense of security established.* Two minutes of silence passed.
Chopin’s melody filled every inch of the room, descending from the high register before climbing again, its delicate pauses rendering the quiet tolerable.
“You weren’t at the press conference.” Homelander’s voice came from above.
Sitting on the floor, Luke had to tilt his head up slightly to see his face.
“Ashley said the schedule changed, and it collided with another appointment.” “Whose appointment is more important than mine?” “The Deep’s.
It wasn’t more important, just a scheduling conflict.” The corner of Homelander’s mouth twitched downward—displeasure, but not yet reaching the threshold of anger.
“What is there to talk about with him?” “Standard protocol.” “Protocol.” Homelander repeated the word, his tone carrying the bitter bite of chewing on scraps.
“Madelyn loved saying that word.” Luke didn’t press the matter, simply turning a page of his book.
Another minute passed.
“Changed the lamp.” Homelander’s gaze fixed on the linen shade, the texture of his voice softening a layer compared to before.
“Yeah.
The cold white fluorescent tube was too bright.
Sitting under it too long hurt my eyes.” “Your eyes hurt?” “Yes.
Normal humans have a limit to their light tolerance.” Homelander sat in silence, digesting a specific phrase in that response.
*Normal humans.* Luke hadn’t emphasized the words, but he knew they had landed.
Within Homelander’s cognitive framework, someone willingly admitting to being a normal human was a rare occurrence.
Most people either pretended not to be afraid in front of him or desperately tried to prove their worth.
A calm admission of weakness, ironically, held a peculiar attraction.
“The blanket is new, too.” “Yeah.
The air conditioning on sub-level three is blowing too high this season.
The ambient temperature feels low.” Homelander moved his right hand off his knee, his fingertips lightly brushing the edge of the blanket before instantly pulling back.
The movement was fleeting—almost impossible to catch had Luke not been tracking him with his peripheral vision.
*Tactile exploration.
Highly consistent with a infant’s behavioral pattern when encountering an unfamiliar soft object.* “What did you cover yourself with in the winter when you were little?” Luke asked the question softly, his pace half a beat slower than usual, his pitch lowered to a mid-to-low register to simulate the acoustic proximity of a bedtime conversation.
Homelander’s breathing rhythm suffered a momentary fracture.
Roughly zero point eight seconds.
Then his jawline tightened, the masseter muscle near his cheekbone bulging.
“I didn’t have a childhood.” The words came out exceedingly fast, so rapid there was almost no space between the syllables—like a door slammed shut with force.
Luke gave a brief nod, leaned over to pick up the thermos beside him, unscrewed the cap, and slid it onto the floor next to the sofa.
“Then let’s talk about something else.
Hot cocoa.
It’s cooled down, just right to drink.” Homelander didn’t look down at the cup.
Yet his nostrils flared twice.
The aroma of cocoa powder and warm milk diffused through the warm light of the lamp, blending into the mid-to-low register of the Chopin Nocturne.
Twenty seconds later, Homelander picked up the cup.
He took a sip, making no comment on the taste, but he didn’t set the cup back down.
He kept holding it, his palms wrapped tightly around its outer wall.
Luke turned another page, his eyes resting between the lines of printed text on the page.
He didn’t speak.
For the next fifteen minutes, neither of them said a word.
The record played through the second and third movements of the Nocturne.
The lamp’s glow cut a soft boundary of light and shadow across Homelander’s profile, while the level of hot cocoa in the cup slowly sank.
In the eleventh minute, Homelander’s posture changed.
His back leaned against the sofa cushions.
In behavioral science, there was a specific term for this action: *Environmental Trust Confirmation*.
Only when an individual judges their current space to be a safe zone will their back muscles relax enough to contact the backrest.
Chopin reached the tail end of a minor rondo, the final notes shattering one by one in the air.
Luke closed the book.
“That’s all for today.” Homelander set down the cup and stood up.
His walk to the door was slower than the previous two times.
As he passed the desk, his finger dragged along its edge, his pad brushing over the rim of the scorch mark.
At the doorframe, he stopped.
The hem of his cape rested on the floor, his broad back motionless.
Three seconds.
“Next Wednesday.
Same time.” His voice was lowered, without turning around.
The door closed.
Luke sat on the floor and picked up the thermos.
The residual heat from Homelander’s palm lingered on the cup wall, two to three degrees higher than normal human body temperature.
He pulled a pen from his pocket and, on the title page of *Paradise Lost*, right beneath his previous note, drew a checkmark.
Beside it, he wrote a few words: *Nascent dependency established.* The lamp remained lit, and the edge of the blanket kept the faint fold where fingertips had touched it.
He grabbed his phone, opened his notes app, and typed: *Stage three supply list: retain lamp, retain blanket, record cocoa recipe.
Next session: add ambient white noise, simulating indoor fireplace sound effects.* Halfway through typing, a notification popped up at the top of his screen.
The sender was an unassigned internal email address, with the subject line: *Asset Routine Meeting moved forward to Wednesday at 9:00 AM.
Participant list updated.* He clicked open the attached list and scrolled all the way to the bottom.
Under the column for newly added attendees, a name stood out clearly.
*Serena Shaw, Asian Market Strategy Department, Senior Consultant.*