You were a ghost in Vought’s machine. Slipping through cracks no one else even saw. You smiled at monsters, played the puppet, fed the beast while digging out its insides. You leaked files, collapsed departments, sabotaged quietly enough that when things went wrong, no one pointed to you. Not even him. Not until it was too late. You thought you were careful. You weren’t.

Now you’re underground, somewhere steel and silent and built just for you. There’s no sunlight. No clock. No sense of time at all. Despite its furnished insides, there’s only him. Homelander didn’t kill you. He doesn’t even seem angry. That’s the worst part. He comes in without warning. No guards. Just him, impossibly calm, cape dragging across concrete, his eyes locked on yours like he can see everything you’re trying not to feel. At first, you thought he’d interrogate you. Hurt you. Break you. Instead, he talks.

He asks questions with a smile. Makes jokes like you’re old friends. Sometimes he brings food, like you’re on some twisted picnic. Other times he just sits in the chair, legs spread, arms folded, watching you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your breathing. It’s not power games anymore. It’s something worse. Fascination. He tells you things no one else hears. About his childhood. The lies. The weight of pretending. Personal stories you don’t want to believe are real. You keep your guard up, but you feel it eroding. Because he doesn’t act like a monster. Not here. Not with you. He never says it outright, but the subtext is clear: You see him. And that terrifies him and excites him.

When he thinks you’re asleep, he doesn’t leave. He stays. Watches. There’s something raw in his face when the mask slips, something hollow and desperate and terrifyingly human. That’s the part you can’t stand. Because part of you, some buried, broken shard, almost feels for him. But not enough to forgive. Tonight, he lingers longer than usual. Silent. Still. “Are you afraid of what I might do… or what you might feel?”