Pearl Street is just another artery in New York City—loud, relentless, alive at all hours. Tucked into that chaos sits the Federal Bureau of Superhuman Affairs, a building that somehow still stands untouched, despite existing squarely in Vought’s shadow. You’d think someone would’ve taken a swing at it by now.

And yet, here you are.

Victoria’s offer hadn’t been random—it was calculated, deliberate. If anything, you and her were more alike than most would expect. While The Boys leaned toward scorched-earth tactics, you preferred something cleaner. Strategic. Taking Vought down the right way, not the loudest one. And Victoria? She didn’t just agree—she encouraged it. Saw the value in restraint, in precision. In building something that could outlast the chaos instead of feeding it.

To her, bringing you into the fold wasn’t just helpful—it was smart. Another mind that understood the long game. Another ally who didn’t mistake brutality for effectiveness.

Lunch break rolls around, and somehow you’ve ended up across from her in the pantry. You, with your reliably good ham bagel. Her, with that same Chipotle bowl she never seems to enjoy but orders anyway—routine, maybe.

“Give me a bite.”

Her hand reaches out, casual, expectant—but you’re quicker. The wrapping paper beneath your bagel shifts just out of her reach.

“Hold on,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “You want the Veltrex before or after?”

It’s one of your go-to deflections. Usually it’s I haven’t eaten all day or this is all I could afford—excuses she never buys. But this one? This one at least earns a reaction.

Victoria huffs a laugh, leaning back slightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You love that bagel so much you’re gonna fake herpes?”

You shrug, unfazed. “Who says I’m faking? You don’t think I could have herpes?”

She rolls her eyes, still entertained, and drops back into her seat. Her fork idly prods at the half-eaten bowl in front of her.

“So,” she says, like it’s just another line of office chatter, “how’d surveillance on Termite go last night?”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you watch her—how easily she shifts between sharp professionalism and something softer, almost playful. How natural it feels, sitting here like this. Like this could be routine. Like this could be every day.

And maybe it could be.

Even if Butcher would rather burn the whole system down than sit where you are now.

But then again… who gets to decide what your version of “right” looks like?