Miles Vance stood up from behind the sofa.
Homelander sat in the study’s leather chair, legs crossed, holding a glass of red wine.
The dark red liquid slowly ran down the side of the glass, looking like congealed blood under the lamplight.
He was smiling.
Not the kind of smile he wore for the cameras.
Not the kind he wore during morning briefings.
It was a smile where the corners of his mouth curled upward, but his eyes remained completely still—colder than still, even.
It wasn’t a smile of appreciation.
It was an “I’ve already decided how you’re going to die” kind of smile.
Miles stood in the middle of the study, still clutching the trash can lid.
He knew he looked ridiculous—an intern in a rented suit, holding a kitchen trash can lid, standing in the private study of the most dangerous man in the world.
But he didn’t put it down.
Homelander took a sip of the red wine and set the glass on the desk.
His movements were slow and deliberate, like a host entertaining an uninvited guest in his own home.
“I knew it,” he said.
Miles looked at him.
“A background that clean is bound to have issues.” Homelander leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced over his stomach.
“An orphan background, average grades, no criminal record, zero social media accounts. A resume so clean it looks bleached. I thought right then—there’s something off about this guy.”
Miles said nothing.
“But I didn’t expect you to be this brave.” Homelander stood up, walking over to him with his wine glass in hand.
He was close enough for Miles to smell his cologne.
A woody scent mixed with the aroma of red wine.
Miles could see every crease on his shirt collar, the faint bluish shadow of a fresh shave on his jawline.
“I just took a wrong turn,” Miles said.
Homelander arched an eyebrow.
“Took a wrong turn to my sixty-eighth-floor study?”
Miles didn’t reply.
“You have a very unique sense of direction,” Homelander said.
“Taking a wrong turn from the first-floor reception to the penthouse private residence, bypassing three security gates on the way. With a sense of direction like that, I suggest you apply to Vought Security.”
Miles stared into his eyes.
Those blue eyes shone brilliantly under the lamplight, unnaturally bright—as if light itself were flowing within them.
The abilities of Captain America operated silently within his body.
Miles could hear Homelander’s heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—much slower than a normal person’s.
About forty beats per minute.
Not from nervousness, but from absolute confidence.
The man standing before him had a heart rate more stable than someone who had just finished yoga.
“Do you know why I don’t kill you?”
Miles’s breath hitched for a second.
“Because I’m curious.” Homelander tilted his head, like a cat sizing up a mouse.
“Where did your abilities come from?”
Miles’s heart skipped a beat, then hammered against his ribs.
He felt it—a heavy thud in his chest, like he’d been struck by a mallet.
But his face remained expressionless.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Homelander smiled.
“Your heart rate spiked,” he said.
“Your pupils dilated. You’re lying.”
The distance between them was less than half a meter.
He could feel the heat radiating off Homelander—not metaphorical heat, but real, physical warmth.
It was as if a furnace burned inside him, palpable even through the air.
“Anyone would have a spike in heart rate if they were caught hiding behind Homelander’s sofa,” Miles said.
Homelander stared at him for five seconds.
During those five seconds, Miles felt as if he were under a microscope.
That gaze swept across his face—forehead, eyes, nose, mouth, jaw—like scanning a map, not missing a single inch.
Then Homelander stepped back.
Not out of weakness, but relaxation.
Like a hunter who, having confirmed his prey cannot escape, decides to play with it first.
“You’re right.” Homelander turned, walked back to the desk, and took another sip of his wine.
“Anyone would experience a spike in heart rate if they were caught hiding behind Homelander’s sofa. That is a reasonable explanation.”
Miles didn’t let his guard down.
He knew this was only the opening act.
“But those photos you took—” Homelander kept his back turned, looking out at the night cityscape.
“I don’t care.”
Miles’s fingers tightened around the edge of the trash can lid.
“You can go ahead and show them to Butcher.” Homelander turned around, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, wine glass in hand.
“Not that he’d believe you. An intern, holding a stack of photos, claiming Vought’s CEO is secretly supplying Compound V to Homelander—do you really think he’d buy that?”
Miles remained silent.
“Oh right, you absolutely will show him. Because you’ve already met.” Homelander let out a soft scoff.
“That bar, the basement, the Nokia phone. You think I didn’t know?”
Miles’s blood ran cold for a second.
“I know everything about you,” Homelander said in a casual, breezy tone, as if discussing the weather.
“What your name is, where you come from, what time you wake up every day, what you eat for breakfast, who you’ve met, what’s in your pockets. I know.”
He set down his wine glass and slowly walked over.
“But I don’t care.”
He stopped right in front of Miles, even closer this time.
Close enough for Miles to see his own reflection in Homelander’s pupils.
“Because in this world, knowing the truth doesn’t matter. What matters is—who has the power to make the truth disappear.”
He reached out and patted Miles on the shoulder.
His hand was heavy, pressing down on the shoulder like a block of iron.
“Those photos you took will vanish from your phone by tomorrow. Those files you saw tonight will be replaced with a new batch tomorrow. Everything you tell Butcher, I will know. Every single thing you do is on my chessboard.”
Miles stood rooted to the spot, his palms slick with sweat.
He felt his muscles tightening slightly—the strength of Captain America surged within him, ready to explode at any second.
But he suppressed it.
Now was not the time.
Homelander released his shoulder and turned toward the liquor cabinet, his back to Miles once more.
“But remember this—”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
It was so soft it barely sounded like speaking, more like chanting a curse.
“I can make The Deep have an ‘accidental death,’ and I can do the same to Mrs. Park. With every step you take, you’d better think carefully about who you’re going to get killed.”
Miles stood frozen in place.
The edge of the trash can lid bit into his palm.
The metal was freezing, but he felt no pain.
He was angry.
That rage welled up from his stomach, climbing up his spine until it burned in his throat.
He thought of Mrs.
Park—the cafeteria lady who always gave him an extra scoop of braised pork.
He remembered the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and how she’d say, “Eat up, young man.”
Homelander knew her name.
That was enough!
Miles took a deep breath.
Captain America’s abilities helped him regulate his breathing—inhaling for four seconds, holding for two, exhaling for four.
The anger was pushed down.
Not dissipated, but hidden.
Like slipping a blade up his sleeve, waiting for the right moment to draw it.
“Thanks for the hospitality,” he said.
“The wine was good.”
Homelander turned his head and shot him a glance.
There was a trace of surprise in his eyes—as if he hadn’t expected this intern to talk back like this after being threatened.
“You really are interesting,” Homelander said.
“I’m starting to understand why Starlight likes you.”
Miles’s brow twitched.
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Homelander smirked.
“The way she looks at you is different from how she looks at everyone else. I’ve known her for years; I can tell the difference.”
Miles didn’t reply.
He turned and headed for the door.
“Intern.”
He stopped but didn’t look back.
“Call before you visit next time. I’ll make sure to have some better wine ready.”
Miles walked out of the study, through the living room, opened the white door, and stepped into the corridor.
The moment the elevator doors slid shut, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
His hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From rage.
He set the trash can lid on the floor and pulled his phone from his pocket—the photos were still there.
Homelander said they would disappear tomorrow.
That meant he still had tonight.
The elevator descended, the numbers ticking down floor by floor.
He opened his eyes, staring at his distorted reflection in the elevator’s metallic wall.
Stan Edgar.
Compound V.
The White House.
Homelander knew everything, but he didn’t care.
Because he believed he was in control of everything.
Miles slipped the phone back into his pocket and bent down to pick up the trash can lid.
In control of everything?
The corner of his mouth twitched into a cold smirk.
You don’t even know what my actual abilities are!