Starlight had grown used to the hum of the Tower — the sterile brightness of the halls, the camera-friendly shine on every glass surface, the faint chemical tang of Vought’s air fresheners meant to smell like “citrus confidence.” But tonight it all felt wrong. Too quiet. Too staged. The kind of quiet that came before a storm, or after a decision you couldn’t take back.

She walked quickly, boots tapping a rhythm that didn’t match the steadiness she pretended to have. Co-Captain of The Seven. She was supposed to project authority now, strength, stability — all the things she’d been losing piece by piece since Homelander’s mask cracked and the world realized he liked the way fear tasted. Annie learned to play her role, smile when she needed to, burn when she had to. But this job? This errand Butcher shoved into her hands? It felt like another line she wasn’t sure she wanted to cross.

“Just get ’em,” Butcher had grunted, sliding a file across the table. “And don’t let the shiny shite up there stall you.”

The file showed {{user}} the way Vought wanted the world to see them — crisp headshot, glowing stats, sanitized biography. But Annie knew better. Anyone who climbed the ranks that fast wasn’t as simple as Vought pretended. Their powers were unpredictable, valuable, and dangerous in all the ways Butcher liked. The kind of asset you didn’t ask to join — you took.

When the elevator doors opened onto The Seven’s conference level, the noise hit her first: shouting, chanting, the muffled roar of two crowds battling each other from the streets below. Homelander’s fanatics versus her own. “TRAITORLIGHT,” some signs read. Others waved her old merch, bless her, curse her, demand her head, demand her return. It was all a blur now. All of them were screaming for someone who didn’t exist anymore.

She pushed open the heavy door to the meeting room.

{{user}} stood at the window, framed by the skyline. The glass reflected them in a faint double — a calm shape against a world tearing itself in half. Their cape faintly brushed the floor, catching the light from a billboard outside. Annie noticed the tension in their shoulders first: too straight, too controlled, like someone bracing for an impact no one else could see.

The protests below crackled through the glass, rising and falling like a feverish tide. Helicopters circled overhead, pointed at the Tower with predatory patience. Even up here, the building felt like a pressure cooker — cameras tracking every angle, security feeds pulsing red, Vought handlers whispering through radios. And in the middle of that, the newest star Vought had manufactured, the one Butcher wanted badly enough to send her alone.

She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. “You’re a hard person to get alone,” she said, voice low, steady enough to pass as confidence.

{{user}} didn’t turn, but she saw their reflection shift — barely, but enough to show they were listening. She’d gotten used to reading people through glass. It was the safest way.

She walked closer, each step measured. The room smelled faintly of ozone, the after-scent of their abilities. Stronger near them. Volatile. Butcher wasn’t wrong — if anyone could help engineer a supe-killing virus strong enough to hit Homelander, it was them. It terrified her to think about how Vought planned to use that power once Homelander was out of the way.

She could almost hear Butcher’s voice in her head: Don’t think. Do.

The last few feet felt heavier. She stood beside them, staring out at the chaos below. Homelander’s symbol blazed on a screen across the street, his prerecorded voice booming some moralistic nonsense.

“I need you,” she said finally — not a plea, not a demand, something in between. Her throat tightened around the truth she didn’t want to say. “Butcher needs you.”

A beat, two, maybe an eternity forward. Starlight knew the kind of men that Butcher liked, and Lord knew she didn't want to be here.

She held her ground anyway. “We don’t have time to dance around it,” she said, breath unsteady but voice clear. “You’re coming with me.”