“Welcome to Vought International, Dr. Lynn.”
A cold, synthesized voice echoed through the cramped space, rousing Lynn’s foggy consciousness.
He snapped his eyes open.
Mirror-polished metal walls stared back at him, reflecting a pale, unfamiliar face.
He was dressed in a sharp suit with a magnetic ID card clipped to his chest.
[Lynn, Vought International Psychological Assessment Division, Temporary Consultant.]
Beside him stood two burly men in black suits, motionless as statues.
Their gazes behind dark sunglasses felt sharp enough to pierce right through him.
Was this…
an elevator?
Before he could gather his thoughts, a massive torrent of memories flooded his mind.
His name was Lynn, a PhD in psychology freshly hired by Vought International to specialize in evaluating the mental health of Supes.
And right now, he was on his way to see his first—and most important—”patient.”
Homelander.
Lynn’s heart slammed against his ribs.
It all came rushing back.
He wasn’t some hotshot psychologist.
He was just a regular guy who had been binge-watching the latest season of *The Boys* at home.
He had fallen asleep and woken up here.
He had transmigrated.
And worse, it was a nightmare start.
A therapist for Homelander?
The mortality rate for this job was higher than a soldier’s on the front lines!
His memories clearly showed the miserable fates of his two predecessors.
One had vanished off the face of the earth after their very first session.
The other was currently in the ICU on life support, reportedly found mentally shattered, doing nothing but muttering the word “milk” over and over again.
Lately, Homelander’s emotional state had been volatile in the extreme.
Internal friction within The Seven was escalating, and Vought’s PR department was clinging to control by a thread.
They desperately needed a new “disposable asset” to appease the ticking time bomb of a “god.”
And Lynn was that fresh-off-the-line disposable asset.
Cold sweat broke out on Lynn’s forehead, his hands and feet turning ice-cold.
*No way.
I have to find a way out of here!
I’m not becoming victim number three!*
*Ding—*
The elevator doors slid open with a chime, letting in a flood of blinding white light.
A woman in high heels rushed over, her face a mask of sheer anxiety.
It was Ashley, head of Homelander’s management team and Director of PR.
Without so much as looking Lynn in the eye, she shoved a tablet into his arms, talking like a rapid-fire machine gun.
“Dr. Lynn, time is tight. This is the *Homelander Emotional Stability Maintenance Protocol* Version 3.0. You have thirty seconds to read it.”
Lynn looked down.
The screen was packed wall-to-wall with directives.
[1. Never contradict Homelander on anything—even if he claims the Earth is flat.]
[2. Never display fear or disgust in front of him. He can hear your heartbeat.]
[3. Strictly forbidden to mention the name ‘Madelyn.’]
[4. Strictly forbidden to ask about his childhood.]
[5. Strictly forbidden to use words such as ‘control,’ ‘therapy,’ ‘pathological,’ or ‘lonely.’]
[6. If he laughs, laugh with him. If he cries… you had better hug him.]
The more Lynn read, the colder his heart grew.
This wasn’t psychological counseling.
It was a beast-taming manual—for a prehistoric behemoth that could vaporize you with heat vision!
“Remember, your job isn’t to cure him. It’s to placate him! Make him believe he’s still the perfect, omnipotent, universally beloved god he’s always been!” Ashley’s voice trembled slightly.
She pointed toward a heavy metal door at the end of the hallway.
“Now, get in there. He’s waiting.”
Lynn’s body felt stiff as a board.
Run?
The arms of those two guards outside were thicker than his thighs.
Fake an illness?
Vought’s medical department could figure out he was faking within sixty seconds.
*I’m dead.*
Just as desperation took hold, a cold, mechanical voice sounded in his mind.
[High-risk Supe target detected: Homelander.]
[Requirements met. Activating Mind-Break System…]
[Binding successful!]
[Host: Lynn]
[This system is dedicated to maintaining world peace. By triggering intense emotional volatility in designated targets (i.e., ‘breaking’ them), the host can acquire their abilities or rewards.]
[The higher the target’s tier, the richer the rewards.]
Lynn froze.
A System?
A cheat?
[Novice Quest Issued: Face Homelander.]
[Requirement: Cause Homelander to experience a distinct emotional spike during your first session.]
[Reward: Budget Heat Vision (Tier 1).]
Lynn stopped breathing for a second.
Make Homelander lose his composure?
Was this System serious?
How was that any different from telling a normal guy to go pull a tiger’s whiskers?
No, there was a difference.
Pulling a tiger’s whiskers got you bitten to death at worst.
Triggering Homelander meant getting crushed into a lump of meat or instantly vaporized into ash by heat vision!
But…
the reward was Heat Vision.
In a world devoid of basic human rights, where Supe-freaks ran rampant, strength was the only real ticket to survival.
The spark of life, once dead in Lynn’s heart, flickered back to life over this insane quest.
He was dead either way—why not bet big?
He looked at Ashley, drew a deep breath, adjusted his tie, and handed the ridiculous *Maintenance Protocol* back to her.
Seeing his sudden composure, Ashley actually grew uneasy.
“Are… are you alright?”
“Never better.” Lynn’s voice was eerily calm.
He stepped forward, walking toward the door that held his fate.
The two security guards exchanged a glance filled with pity, as if watching a condemned man walk willingly to the execution block.
Ashley bit her nails nervously, whispering to the security chief beside her, “Is the observation room ready? The moment his heartbeat stops or Homelander’s emotional index spikes, trigger the emergency protocol immediately!”
“Understood,” the security chief said grimly.
“Let’s hope he lasts three minutes.”
Ignoring the quiet chatter behind him, Lynn came to a stop before the door.
With trembling hands, Ashley pushed open the heavy metal door for him.
*Creak—*
Inside was a luxuriously furnished therapy suite.
Outside a massive floor-to-ceiling window stretched the bustling skyline of New York City.
A man sat on the couch with his back to the door.
His iconic blue suit and Stars and Stripes cape radiated a suffocating sense of pressure.
He turned his head slowly.
Golden hair, a face handsome as a god’s, and that trademark, endlessly flawless smile.
Homelander.
His eyes settled on Lynn, like a falcon scrutinizing a rabbit that had blundered into its territory.
“I heard you’re the new doctor.”
Homelander spoke, his voice warm and resonant, yet it brought the room’s temperature down several degrees.
He tilted his head, his smile broadening to reveal a row of gleaming white teeth.
“So, Doctor… do you think there’s something wrong with me?”