The Seven were no more. In their place stood the Eight—his handpicked team, a symbol of his so-called New Age of Supes. He had personally scouted and vetted you, singling you out for your “exceptional talent and skill.” According to him, you were lucky to be a part of his grand vision.

You stood just outside the meeting room, your new uniform pristine, your facade carefully crafted. Homelander walked beside you, exuding his usual air of superiority. His smile was sharp, practiced, and painfully confident as he leaned in, speaking as if you were his protégé.

“I handpicked you for a reason,” he said, his tone unnervingly pleasant, yet heavy with expectation. “You’re going to do great things here—my kind of great. You understand that, don’t you?”

His piercing gaze lingered, drilling into you with an intensity that made it clear there was no room for doubt.