“Edgar signed the offer letter himself.” Ashley’s voice was still coming through the receiver when Julian set the phone down.
He traced an invisible circle on the desktop with his finger, coming to a rest beside the telephone base.
In all of Vought, the people whose offer letters were personally signed by Stan Edgar could be counted on two hands.
This Serena Thorne was either a blade handed directly to him, or a mirror meant to reflect his every move.
Either way, it meant Edgar was adding new pieces to the board.
He pushed the thought down for now; he had immediate business to attend to.
The finger marks on his neck needed managing.
Not in a medical sense—in a visual one.
He pulled a thin, dark gray scarf from his drawer and wrapped it twice in front of the mirror, perfectly concealing the bruises below his Adam’s apple.
Too deliberate.
He unwrapped it and changed into a black turtleneck sweater instead.
The folded collar sat exactly three centimeters below his jawline.
When he stepped out of his office, the air in the hallway felt much cleaner.
The underlying scent of disinfectant remained, but the metallic tang of chaotic emotion had dissipated.
Over the next three days, Julian made no attempt to contact Homelander.
Homelander came to him instead.
The first day was at 4:17 PM.
The door to the evaluation room opened—no crash, no unnecessary noise.
The handle turned just enough to engage the hinges.
When Homelander walked in, Julian was sitting in his usual spot on the floor.
A Chopin nocturne played on the phonograph, the desk lamp was lit, and a blanket rested over the sofa’s armrest.
He didn’t wait for Julian to speak.
He walked straight to the sofa, sat down, and pressed his back against the cushion.
Two minutes of silence.
“We had a briefing on the fortieth floor today.” Homelander’s voice was half a pitch lower than usual, his speech slow, with uneven pauses between words.
“Ashley made me practice a new set of canned responses in front of the camera.
Something about ‘I bear an inescapable responsibility for the safety of every American citizen.'” His right hand rested on the sofa arm, index and middle fingers pressed together.
“Twenty-seven times.
She made me say it to a mirror twenty-seven times.” Julian turned a page of his book.
“And then?” “And then I wanted to burn that mirror to ashes.” “But you didn’t.” Homelander turned his head toward him, the light in his blue eyes warmed into a shade of soft gray by the lamp.
“No.” Julian closed the book and rested it beside his knee.
“Why?” Homelander’s lips moved slightly, as if searching for the right word.
“You said…
it would make me just like the people who locked me in that lab.” His gaze shifted to the lampshade.
“I don’t want to be like them.” The second day was at 11:00 AM.
Homelander brought a cup of coffee with him, the paper cup stamped with the logo of the top-floor executive café at Vought Tower.
He set the coffee on the table, right beside the scorch mark.
“Are you drinking it or not?” Julian raised his head from the floor.
“I have a sensitive stomach.
I don’t really drink coffee.” “I know.” Homelander’s tone was somewhat stiff, like a person trying to disguise their clumsiness while doing something unfamiliar.
“It’s hot cocoa.” Julian stood up and took it, twisting off the lid.
The scent of cocoa powder and milk drifted up.
“Thank you.” Homelander sat down on the sofa in the exact same posture as yesterday.
“No schedule today.” Julian sat back down on the floor, holding the paper cup in both hands.
“So you came here to sit for a while.” “You got a problem with that?” “Not at all.” Twenty minutes.
This time, Homelander brought up three things on his own: the carpet in the hallway on the fortieth floor was hideous, The Deep had been hugging the walls whenever he walked lately, and his jawline was photoshopped too sharp in the new promotional poster.
Trivial matters, none of them related to emotional trauma.
But Julian could tell he was practicing a skill.
Confiding.
The third day was at 7:30 PM.
Two light taps sounded on the evaluation room door.
“Come in,” Julian said.
Homelander pushed the door open, rainwater clinging to his cape.
It was pouring in New York.
He had likely flown straight down from some high-altitude patrol route.
His hair was wet, blonde strands plastered to his forehead, and the fabric of the Stars and Stripes had darkened a shade.
He said nothing, walking over to sit on the sofa.
The blanket had slipped halfway off the armrest.
He reached out and adjusted it back to its original position.
Julian watched the action in the warm glow of the lamp, making a mental note: *Physical environment maintenance.
Subject actively participating in the construction of spatial order, equivalent to incorporating this space into personal territory.* The record finished its side, the needle tracing empty circles in the run-out groove.
“Until next time,” Julian said, his tone and volume identical to the previous two occasions.
“I’ll be waiting here for you.” Homelander stood up and walked to the door.
Over these three days, his pauses at the doorframe had grown progressively shorter.
Four seconds the first day, two seconds the second day, and less than a second on the third.
Hesitation was decreasing.
Trust was building.
After the door closed, Julian pulled out his phone, opened the internal system, and typed a line of standard format text into the interview summary field for the week: [Subject’s mental state is stabilizing.
Preliminary foundation of trust established.
Recommend maintaining current consultation frequency.] On the morning of the fourth day, in Madelyn’s office.
“Have a seat, Dr.
Vance.” She wore an off-white blazer today, with a golden Vought pin pinned to her chest, her nails done in nude pink.
Her styling was half a notch softer than before, indicating she had no intention of exerting pressure today.
“What did you do to him?” Julian sat down in the chair, crossing his legs.
“What do you mean?” “Don’t play games with me.” Madelyn pushed a printed document across the desk.
“In three days, HL-001’s abnormal behavior logs dropped to zero.
Zero.
Do you understand the significance of that number?
Over the past six months, he averaged three to four facility damage incidents a week.” Julian glanced at the file without reaching for it.
“I simply didn’t run away.” Madelyn’s fingers paused on the desktop for a beat.
“He choked you by the throat.
I watched the security footage three times.
You sat there completely still, waited for him to let go, and then knelt down in front of him.” Her gaze shifted to just above his collar, where the bruise had faded from dark purple to a yellowish green, mostly hidden by the folded neck of his sweater.
“That wasn’t ‘not running away.’ That was having no fear of death—or wanting something else more than life.” Julian placed his hands on his knees.
“I wanted his cooperation, Ms.
Stillwell.
The first step of psychological intervention is building a therapeutic alliance, and the prerequisite for that alliance is the subject believing you won’t abandon him.
Getting choked wasn’t pleasant, but if the price guarantees that HL-001 maintains a cooperative attitude in future evaluations, I consider it a worthwhile trade.” Madelyn leaned back into her chair, tapping her chin twice with her finger.
“Starting today, your security clearance is upgraded from Class C to Class B.
Your temporary keycard for the B2 archive room will be replaced with a permanent one, tied to your contract duration.
Additionally, all public opinion briefings regarding HL-001 will be copied to you simultaneously.” Julian displayed no unnecessary emotion.
“Thank you.” “Don’t thank me.” Madelyn opened a drawer and pulled out a new magnetic card.
“Edgar approved it.
His exact words were, ‘Give him the proper tools.'” Julian took the card.
It felt a layer thicker than the previous one, with a slight bump from a microchip next to the magnetic strip.
Class B clearance.
This meant full access to the B2 archive room—including those three rows of locked metal cabinets.
He slipped the card into his pocket and left Madelyn’s office.
At 2:00 PM, B2 Archive Room.
When he tapped the new keycard, the electronic lock issued a different prompt sound—a short, additional chime confirming decryption.
The iron door opened.
The cold air inside still bore the same old smell: sour paper mixed with the rust of metal shelves.
He bypassed the first three rows of cabinets he had already flipped through and walked to the very back.
An electromagnetic lock was mounted on the face of the fourth metal cabinet.
Previously, his temporary card would only make the red light flash.
Now, a green light lit up.
The sound of the lock snapping open resonated briefly in the cavernous room.
He pulled open the first drawer.
The folder cover bore typewriter print: *Vought International Superhuman Development Department, Subject 001 Full-Cycle Record, Clearance Level: B.* The first page was a birth record.
Weight, length, birth time precise to the second.
Mother: N/A.
Father: Compound V Batch #CF-001.
His father was a vial of serum.
Starting on the second page were isolation logs.
Transferred to an independent incubation chamber within 72 hours of birth.
Constant temperature of 36.5°C.
Nutrient solution administered intravenously.
Zero human physical contact.
*Day 14: Subject exhibited continuous crying lasting 4 hours and 17 minutes.
Action taken: Increased white noise frequency.* *Day 28: Subject crying frequency decreased by 87%.
Researcher note: Excellent adaptability.* Julian’s fingers paused above this line for two seconds.
*Excellent adaptability.* An infant had learned one thing within twenty-eight days of birth—crying was useless.
He flipped further back.
*Month 3: Introduced phased caretakers, designated N-01 through N-07.
Maximum contact period per caretaker set to 21 days; rotated immediately upon completion.
Emotional bonding with subject strictly prohibited.* *Note column for N-03 contained a handwritten entry: Subject exhibited high-intensity stress reaction upon N-02’s departure, destroying all equipment in the incubation chamber.
Recommend shortening transition period to 3 days.* *Note column for N-05: Subject refused food during transition period for 72 consecutive hours.
Action taken: Forced feeding.* *Note column for N-07 contained only one sentence: Thereafter, subject exhibited no further observable emotional response to caretaker rotations.* Julian closed the page.
The ventilation pipes above the archive room hummed steadily, blowing cool air onto the back of his neck.
He flipped to the project director’s signature page.
The signature box was entirely covered by a thick, even block of black ink—a standardized information redaction process approved by procedure.
However, the tail end of a single stroke protruded beneath the ink, resembling the opening stroke of a capital letter.
He made no attempt to decipher it, committing the page’s position to memory instead.
He spent the next hour and a half skimming through the remaining files.
When he closed the metal cabinet, the snap of the lock re-engaging sounded exceptionally crisp in the quiet room.
Julian leaned against the cabinet door for a moment.
From birth to adulthood, this creature known as Homelander had been designed as a machine that needed no emotion.
But the machine had glitched.
It craved to be loved.
He walked toward the exit, his leather shoes clicking against the terrazzo floor, the echo trailing behind him step by step.
The phone in his pocket vibrated.
A text from Homelander’s number.
Just a few words: *Where are you.* Julian put the phone back in his pocket without replying.
He stood at the archive doorway, resting his right hand on the metal doorframe, feeling the cold texture against his fingertips.
The recessed light at the end of the hallway illuminated a small patch of light on the floor.
On the wall beside it, someone had written a tiny number with a marker.
*17.* The seventeenth revision version of the Asset Management Manual.
Julian closed the door and headed toward the elevator.
His phone vibrated again.
Still Homelander.
*You’re not in the evaluation room.*