“Leave him be.”
Maeve’s voice carried a weariness that seemed to penetrate her very bones.
“No one is clean here.”
Leaning against the cold wall with her arms crossed, she looked like an exquisite but lifeless wax figure.
Her gaze drifted past Lynn, landing on the end of the corridor where A-Train had disappeared, her lips curled in an undisguised sneer.
Lynn stopped, turned around, and looked at her calmly.
This woman, Queen Maeve, was the second-in-command of The Seven, second only to Homelander, and the most clear-headed bystander of the group.
“He’s just trying to survive in his own way,” Lynn said.
“Survive?” Maeve scoffed, her laugh filled with disdain.
“Doctor, you call *that* surviving?”
She withdrew her gaze and fixed it on Lynn.
Those eyes, which had once shone with resolute strength on countless posters, now held nothing but a numbing, hollow disillusionment.
“Let me tell you how they all ‘survive.'”
“A-Train doesn’t run with his legs; he’s propped up by a syringe. Without Compound V, he couldn’t even outrun a high school track runner.”
“The Deep doesn’t maintain his position by talking to fish; he does it by cracking jokes in front of the camera and wagging his tail for Homelander. Every word he says about the ocean is a lie.”
Maeve’s tone was flat, yet it sliced through everyone’s disguise like a scalpel.
“That new blonde girl, Starlight…” She paused, a complex emotion flickering in her eyes.
“She’s still getting by on those ridiculous hero fantasies she brought from her hometown. But that stuff is useless. It’ll shatter soon enough.”
“As for Homelander…” A deeper sneer curled the corner of Maeve’s lips.
“He feeds on the world’s applause. Without the screams and the flashing cameras, he’s emptier and has less than any of us.”
Like an actor weary of the script, she laid bare all the filth and ugliness behind the scenes.
Lynn listened quietly, making no attempt to interrupt.
Only when she finished did he speak.
“And what about you? What keeps you going?”
The question froze the mockery on Maeve’s face.
She was silent for a long time—long enough for Lynn to clearly hear her slightly irregular heartbeat, a consequence of chronic drinking.
Finally, she squeezed a single word through her teeth.
“Booze.”
After a pause, she added, as if trying to convince herself:
Lynn looked at her and shook his head.
“You’re not indifferent.”
Maeve’s brow furrowed.
Lynn’s voice wasn’t loud, yet it carried an undeniable, piercing weight.
“You’ve just grown accustomed to forgiving yourself for your helplessness before you even choose to back down.”
These words, like an invisible icicle, instantly pierced the heavy defenses Maeve had built from alcohol and apathy.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care.
It was precisely because she cared too much, yet chose to stand by and compromise time and time again, that she punished herself in this self-destructive manner.
The one she hated most wasn’t Homelander, nor was it Vought.
It was herself.
[Target “Queen Maeve” detected experiencing mild emotional fluctuation!]
[Defense-Break Points +10!]
[Reward: Strike Resistance Fragment × 1]
A faint yet resilient sensation of strength rippled across the surface of Lynn’s skin.
He felt as though his body had been coated with an invisible film, allowing him to better withstand and disperse external impacts.
Maeve’s body visibly stiffened.
She snapped upright, casting off her lazy posture.
She stared intently at Lynn, emotion appearing in her eyes for the first time—an irritation at being seen right through.
“You’re a smooth talker, Doctor,” her voice turned cold.
“I hope you’re just as silver-tongued the next time Homelander has you by the throat.”
It was a naked warning, a retaliation born of being stung.
However, Lynn’s response was entirely unexpected.
“He already tried.”
Maeve froze.
Lynn calmly added, “And I’m still alive.”
This sentence caused all expression to vanish from Maeve’s face, replaced by a deep, incredulous scrutiny.
She reevaluated the man before her.
He wore no superhero costume, possessed no exaggerated musculature, and barely showed any expression.
Maeve realized for the first time that this man was not just another idealist thrown into the meat grinder.
He was someone who truly knew how to survive in this hell.
The hostility and mockery in her eyes slowly faded, leaving only a complex weariness.
“Fine,” she said, in a sort of concession.
“I’ll give you credit. You’ve got balls.”
She turned to leave, but after two steps, she stopped.
Without turning back, she merely profiled her face, leaving Lynn with a cold silhouette.
“That blonde girl… she’s too clean.”
Her voice was very soft, like a sigh.
“Clean things here either get stained black or get smashed to pieces. There is no third option.”
“If you really think you can do something…” Maeve’s gaze drifted toward the distance, as if piercing through the walls to see the struggling girl.
“Keep an eye on her.”
“Don’t let her become the next me.”
With that, she strode away on her long legs, the click of her high heels echoing down the empty corridor, growing fainter until it vanished completely.
Lynn stood where he was, Maeve’s final words echoing in his mind.
“Don’t let her become the next me.”
He could feel that it was the last spark of conscience, not yet entirely dead, deep within Queen Maeve.
He returned to his office.
The room was as quiet as ever.
The upgraded security level Vought International had provided for him had turned this place into a more exquisite cage.
He sat in his chair, preparing to organize the valuable intel he had just gathered from A-Train and Maeve.
Suddenly, the private phone in his pocket vibrated slightly.
It wasn’t a call, but a text.
Lynn pulled out his phone.
An unknown number was displayed on the screen.
He opened the message.
It was an encrypted text.
No greeting, no signature—just a single line of brief, urgent words:
“I need help.”
“Don’t tell Vought.”