Miles Vance stood outside the sixty-eighth-floor office, holding Homelander’s coffee.
Steam rose from the cup.
The edges of the tray had been wiped spotless.
His shirt cuffs were buttoned all the way to the top, and his tie had been re-tied into a crisp, neat knot.
The listening device was hidden under his fingernail.
It was the size of a grain of rice, black, and secured to the inner side of his right thumbnail with medical tape.
Butcher had taught him that—”The most dangerous place is the safest.
No one checks a coffee-serving intern.”
Miles Vance took a deep breath.
The corridor was dead quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioning.
He could hear his own heart beating, a steady *thump, thump, thump* against his eardrums.
He adjusted his breathing, forcing his pulse to slow down.
Batman’s abilities were at work—controlling his heart rate, controlling his facial expression, controlling every subtle muscular twitch.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The office was larger than he had imagined.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline.
The spire of the Empire State Building rose directly ahead, and sunlight filtered through the glass curtain wall, carpeting the floor in gold.
A massive mahogany desk stood in the center, neatly arranged with a stack of files, a laptop, and a framed picture.
Homelander wasn’t there.
Miles Vance’s pupils contracted slightly.
Batman’s analytical skill kicked in automatically—scanning the room.
Three.
Within three seconds, he spotted three hidden cameras.
One in the ceiling corner, pointed directly at the doorway.
One behind the bookshelf, aimed at the desk.
And a third—a pinhole camera in the base of the desk lamp, virtually invisible.
In an instant, he mapped out the angles of all three cameras in his mind.
The first covered the entrance, the second covered the desktop, and the third captured the room from the side.
Between the three, there were two blind spots—directly underneath the desk, and the inner corner to the right of the floor-to-ceiling window.
The underside of the desk was a blind spot.
Holding the tray, Miles Vance maintained a completely blank expression.
He walked over to the desk and set the coffee cup down.
His movement was slow and steady.
The bottom of the cup tapped the wooden surface with a soft *clink*.
Then, he “accidentally” knocked over the photo frame.
The frame clattered onto the desk with a sharp *snap*.
Miles Vance hurriedly set down the tray and bent over to fix it—pressing his right thumb lightly against the underside of the desk.
The bug was attached.
The medical tape released from his thumb, and the rice-sized black listening device stuck firmly to the bottom of the mahogany desk.
The placement was perfect—right in the blind spot, invisible to any casual look and completely out of view for all three cameras.
It had taken less than ten seconds.
He straightened up and set the picture frame upright.
It was a photo of Homelander and a blonde woman, with the White House in the background.
The blonde woman smiled radiantly, holding Homelander’s arm.
Homelander was smiling too, but it was the exact same smile he’d worn at the morning briefing—corners of his mouth pulled up, eyes completely cold.
Just as he set the frame down, the door opened. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Homelander walked in.
Miles Vance’s hand hovered in midair.
He turned around and bowed his head slightly.
His heart thudded hard in his chest, but his face remained entirely composed.
“My coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
Homelander walked behind the desk, sat down, picked up the coffee cup, and took a sip.
His gaze rested on Miles Vance’s face for two full seconds.
Those two seconds felt like an eternity.
Miles Vance could feel that stare scanning across his features—from forehead to chin, from left eye to right.
As if searching for something.
“You’re new?”
“I was transferred to the Hero Relations Department. Today’s my first day.”
Homelander took another sip.
His eyes drifted away from Miles Vance’s face, turning toward the window.
The Manhattan skyline stretched out behind him like his personal backdrop.
“Not bad. Better brew than the last guy.”
Miles Vance smiled politely.
“Thank you, sir.”
He picked up the empty tray, turned, and walked out.
His pace was neither fast nor slow, his breathing even.
He could feel Homelander’s eyes returning to his back, like a needle pressing into the nape of his neck.
But he didn’t look back, didn’t speed up, and didn’t slow down.
He just kept walking.
He stepped out of the office and closed the door behind him.
Leaning against the corridor wall, his back was soaked in cold sweat.
His shirt clung to his skin, ice-cold.
He looked down at his hands—his fingertips were trembling slightly.
It wasn’t fear; it was the physical reaction of adrenaline ebbing away.
He stood there for three seconds before walking back toward the elevator as if nothing had happened.
Returning to his cubicle, Miles Vance closed the blinds and put on his headphones.
The signal from the bug was crystal clear.
Homelander’s voice came through sharply—he was on the phone.
“…I met that intern.”
Miles Vance’s breathing hitched for a fraction of a second.
“Quite interesting. Keep him around for now; he might come in handy.”
Whatever the person on the other end said was muffled, but Homelander chuckled softly.
It was a light, offhand laugh, like talking about a pet.
“Don’t worry, what kind of trouble can a coffee boy stir up?”
The person on the other end spoke again.
Homelander laughed louder this time.
“Yeah, I know. Starlight came by today too and had a little chat with him. She hasn’t been in the best shape lately—keep a closer eye on her.”
Starlight?
A chat—he meant the meal in the cafeteria.
Homelander already knew.
Someone was watching her, and someone was watching him too.
He remembered how Starlight had looked sitting across from him in the cafeteria.
She had said, “Everyone in this building is smiling.” She had said her mother cried the first time she glowed as a child.
She was just another person trapped in a cage.
Miles Vance bit the inside of his lip, suppressing the thought.
He couldn’t overthink it.
He couldn’t get distracted.
Now was not the time.
Over the headphones, Homelander hung up.
Then came the sound of typing on a keyboard.
One click, two clicks, very slow.
As if he was pondering something.
Miles Vance waited for three minutes.
Homelander didn’t speak again.
There was only the sound of the keyboard and the occasional rustle of turning pages.
He took off the headphones and leaned back against his chair.
Looking up at the ceiling, the corners of his mouth gradually curved upward.
There was a water stain on the ceiling shaped like a fish with its mouth wide open.
*Keep me around?*
A faint smirk crossed his face.
Homelander thought he was just a coffee-serving intern.
A nobody who had just transferred to Hero Relations on his first day.
A minor character not even worth a serious second glance.
But Homelander didn’t know—this coffee boy possessed the full analytical prowess of Batman.
He didn’t know there was a Nokia phone in his pocket connecting him directly to Butcher.
He didn’t know there was a flash drive in his drawer containing data on S-017 and the White Room.
And he certainly didn’t know that the rice-sized listening device under his desk was broadcasting his every word.
*You’ve kept a bomb in your room.*
Miles Vance set the headphones back on the desk, reopened his computer, and pulled up today’s schedule.
He needed to act like a normal intern—serve coffee, organize files, smile at everyone.
But the puzzle in his mind was already coming together—Homelander, Starlight, S-017, the White Room.
Every single thread was pointing in the exact same direction.
He glanced down at his right thumb.
The area under his fingernail was clean, the traces of medical tape gone.
He had used the only bug Butcher had given him, but that was fine—one was enough.
A single listening device placed under the desk of the most dangerous man on earth.
He stretched his fingers and began typing.
On the screen was an ordinary work report for the Hero Relations Department.
Proper format, polite phrasing, utterly blameless.
Just like him—utterly blameless.