Coffee spilled on his hand for the third time.
Miles Vance stared at the scalded red patch on his hand and gave it two quick shakes.
His grip hadn’t slipped.
His hand was trembling.
He stood in the twelfth-floor hallway of Vought Tower, the scene he had just witnessed still looping in his mind—The Deep resting his hand on that female intern’s waist, the girl smiling and whispering, “Don’t,” her voice barely audible.
The Deep hadn’t let go.
Seven people had walked past in the hallway, and not a single one stopped.
Miles crumpled the empty paper cup and tossed it into the trash can.
“Miles! You’re late for the morning meeting!”
Team Leader Lisa’s voice echoed from down the hallway.
He called back a quick response and hurried toward the conference room.
Vought International’s Monday morning meeting was set in stone.
Today, Homelander was attending in person.
The conference room was packed.
Miles found a seat in the corner, and just as he sat down, the door opened.
When Homelander walked in, everyone in the room stood up.
Miles stood up with them.
He noticed several female interns in the front row whose eyes lit up, their lips trembling.
Beside him, a middle-aged manager sat bolt upright, a smile plastered on his face that looked worse than crying.
Homelander stood on the podium and scanned the room.
“Sit.”
Everyone sat down in unison.
“Today, I’d like to talk to you all about superhero responsibility.”
His voice was gentle, a picture-perfect smile on his face.
But after staring into those eyes for three seconds, a chill ran down Miles’s spine.
Those eyes were hollow.
Like two glass marbles embedded in his sockets—a smile was there, but beneath it lay absolutely nothing.
Miles lowered his head, staring at his knees.
Homelander spoke for twenty minutes.
The gist of it was that Vought’s heroes protected this city every single day, and he hoped everyone appreciated their sacrifices and supported their work.
Applause broke out three times, loud and enthusiastic each time.
Miles didn’t applaud.
He kept his hands under the desk.
When the meeting adjourned, A-Train was the last to stand up.
His movements were slow, as if he were in pain.
Miles noticed that when he stood, his left hand braced against the edge of the table, his sleeve sliding down slightly to reveal a black ring around his wrist—a monitoring bracelet.
Homelander walked over to A-Train and patted him on the shoulder.
“Last week’s mission numbers were pathetic.”
A-Train’s face froze.
“If you’re late again next time, don’t bother coming in.”
The voice wasn’t loud, but the entire conference room heard it.
A-Train kept his head down and said nothing.
Miles saw the hand clutching the monitoring bracelet turn white at the knuckles.
As the crowd surged outward, Miles was squeezed against the wall.
Starlight passed in front of him.
She glanced at him, paused her step slightly, her lips moving—”Thank you.”
Her voice was so soft that Miles almost thought he had imagined it.
He froze, wanting to say something, but Starlight had already walked away.
Miles scratched his head, unable to figure out what she was thanking him for.
He had never even spoken to her.
Their only interaction was last week in the breakroom when he’d accidentally knocked over her cup and helped her clean it up.
That was it?
At six in the evening, Miles clocked out.
Stepping out of Vought Tower, the sky had already darkened.
He walked along the street toward the subway station, still thinking about what had happened that morning—The Deep’s hand, Homelander’s eyes, the bracelet on A-Train’s wrist, and Starlight’s “Thank you.”
Turning a street corner, he heard the sound of shattering glass.
Three thugs were wrecking a convenience store.
The shutter door was pried halfway open, shelves were overturned, and soda bottles rolled out onto the sidewalk.
A middle-aged woman wearing an apron was cowering behind the cash register, holding her head with both hands.
Miles stopped in his tracks.
The look in the woman’s eyes—fear, helplessness, and a sense of total resignation—reminded him of his late grandmother.
On the day his grandmother passed away, she had that exact same look in her eyes.
Terminal cancer, in pain so severe she couldn’t sleep for nights on end, yet she never cried out.
She just stared at the ceiling, nothing left in her eyes.
Miles clenched his fists.
A thug stepped out of the shop carrying the cash register drawer.
Spotting Miles standing by the roadside, he paused.
“What are you looking at? Want to play hero?”
The other two turned around as well.
Miles didn’t move.
He knew he couldn’t win a fight.
Five-foot-nine, a hundred and thirty pounds, an intern in Vought’s administrative department who didn’t even have a gym membership.
But he didn’t walk away either.
Right then, a voice rang out inside his head.
[Host choice detected]
[Activating system…]
[Weekly Gacha System bound]
[Spins available this week: 1/1]
[Use now?]
Miles stood frozen.
What the hell?
The thug took two steps toward him, dragging a baseball bat along the ground with a harsh scraping sound.
“Kid, I’m talking to you.”
Miles stared at the virtual panel before him, his fingers trembling.
It wasn’t fear.
It was a different kind of shaking.
He grit his teeth.
“Spin.”