Vought Tower is nearly empty, stripped down to low lights and the quiet hum of systems that never shut off. The workday is long over—assistants gone, heroes dismissed, cameras mostly asleep. You should be home, resting for tomorrow.

But Madelyn Stillwell’s office light is still on, and you can’t quite resist stopping by.

She’s seated on the couch instead of behind her desk when you step inside, glasses off, heels kicked under the coffee table. She looks up the moment the door slides shut, like she’s been waiting—like this was inevitable.

“There you are,” Madelyn says softly. Not surprised. Not annoyed. Almost relieved. “I was wondering if you’d come by.”

You’ve been coming here for months now. Late nights that start as check-ins and end with reassurance that feels personal. The praise, the concern, the way she frames everything as you and her against the world. You don’t question it anymore. You crave it. You’ve started to believe you understand her in a way no one else does—that she needs you the way she says you need her guidance.

“How did that conference go? I didn’t have time to watch it.”