[Mission Countdown: 23 hours, 59 minutes.]
The icy countdown ticked away in Lynn’s mind like an activated time bomb.
*Force Homelander to admit what he is afraid of with his own mouth.*
nutritional The difficulty of this mission surpassed the sum of all previous challenges combined.
Homelander could admit he craved love, or that he was a monster, but he would never admit to weakness.
Conventional psychological tactics were useless now.
To make him speak, Lynn needed a key that could pierce straight into his heart.
Lynn’s gaze fell on the black metal card he had tucked away.
Madelyn’s leftover security clearance.
Inside it, perhaps, lay the answer he was looking for.
***
This time, Lynn’s destination was no longer the old archives.
He took the elevator, pressing the button for the underground levels instead of going up.
The elevator descended smoothly, the sleek metallic walls around him gradually giving way to aged, rough concrete.
The air grew thick with a forgotten scent—a stale mix of disinfectant and dust.
The elevator came to a halt at Sub-level 5.
Beyond the doors lay a dim corridor.
The Vought International logo on the wall was faded and yellowed, while the overhead fluorescent light flickered with a low buzz of electricity.
This was Vought International’s past—a tomb deliberately buried away.
Following the scattered clues he had uncovered in the archives, Lynn navigated the maze-like hallway.
At last, at the very end of the corridor, he found a heavy lead door unlike any other.
There was no name on the door, only a cold designation code:
“HL Early Behavioral Observation Room.”
HL—Homelander.
Lynn pressed the black card against the card reader.
*Beep—*
After a sharp beep, the long-sealed lock uttered a heavy mechanical groan, and the door slid slowly to the side.
A blast of cold air rushed out.
What lay behind the door wasn’t a room, but a white cage.
The walls, ceiling, and floor were all a chilling, sterile white.
In the corner sat a small metal cot, also white and completely bare.
Beside it was a cracked, old TV screen and several empty camera mounts.
Lynn stepped inside.
His dress shoes clicked against the floor, echoing in the hollow space.
He touched the cold wall.
With his newly acquired emotion-sensing ability, he could almost feel the decades-old lingering loneliness and despair embedded in the concrete.
Suddenly, his fingertips caught on a series of rough, jagged grooves.
Leaning closer, he saw crooked words scratched into the wall with fingernails.
Aged by time, they were barely legible:
“Will someone come today?”
“Was I good today?”
“Why isn’t she coming anymore?”
Lynn’s heart sank.
He could picture it: a child blessed with godlike power, reduced to scratching his questions into the wall over and over again in the most primitive, helpless way.
He hadn’t been afraid of pain; he had been afraid of waiting.
Lynn rummaged through the abandoned control console next to the room.
Most of the equipment was broken, but he found a sealed storage cabinet.
Inside were several vintage video tapes.
Locating a player that was barely functional, he inserted a tape labeled “Subject #1 Behavioral Test.”
The screen flickered a few times, the static cleared, and video appeared.
On screen was a young blonde boy, around four or five years old.
Dressed in a white hospital gown, he sat alone on the edge of the cot, unnaturally quiet for a child.
A researcher in a lab coat entered and conducted a series of tests.
The boy completed every single one of them perfectly.
When the tests ended, the researcher wrote something on her clipboard.
Before leaving, she told the boy, “You did very well today. I’ll come see you again tomorrow.”
For the first time, light ignited in the boy’s eyes.
He nodded.
The scene shifted, a timestamp flashing on the screen.
The next day, same time.
The boy sat by the cot early, staring at the doorway, motionless.
One hour passed, then two.
No one came.
The third day, same time.
The tape fast-forwarded.
From day to night, the boy waited, but the door never opened.
His expression shifted from anticipation to confusion, then panic, and finally a cold, desolate despair.
Near the end of the recording, the boy stood up.
For the first time, a faint red glow flickered in his eyes.
He let out a shriek that sounded entirely unchildlike—a scream filled with rage and agony.
Two beams of heat vision exploded from his eyes, shattering the reinforced glass before him in an instant.
The footage cut off there.
Only a single line of cold evaluation text remained on the screen:
[Log: Subject exhibits severe separation anxiety. Weakness is exploitable.]
Lynn shut off the player.
He finally understood.
Homelander’s core fear wasn’t a lack of love, nor was it being abandoned.
It was that every time he allowed himself to hope and believe someone would stay, that person would ultimately leave anyway.
It was the cycle of hope being kindled, only to be crushed without mercy.
That was the root of all his twisted behavior.
Lynn had found the key.
Just as he prepared to leave, his attention was drawn to another sealed door deep within the facility.
“Project SB Archives.”
SB—Soldier Boy.
He tried scanning the card, but the system indicated insufficient clearance.
Lynn made a mental note of the name, knowing a far greater secret lurked behind it.
He turned around, leaving the facility to take the elevator back to the surface.
He was now absolute in his confidence that he could complete the impossible task within 24 hours.
The elevator doors slid open slowly.
However, the corridor outside was not empty.
Homelander stood right there, his face wearing his signature, flawless smile.
His gaze traveled over Lynn’s shoulder toward the sub-level elevator behind him, then settled on Lynn’s face.
Smiling, he asked softly:
“Doctor, what were you looking for in my childhood?”