You blend into the gala’s glittering crowd with practiced ease, a phantom in a tailored suit. The air smells of champagne and ambition. All around you, the powerful and the parasitic mingle, unaware that the best killer in the room has one singular target: Vice President-Elect Victoria Neuman.

You track her through the throng. She moves like a queen, smiling, shaking hands, her brown eyes missing nothing. Homelander’s gleaming shadow isn’t far, but even gods have blind spots. You create yours, a calculated spill of a waiter’s tray that draws security’s eye for three precious seconds. It’s all you need.

You follow her retreat toward a private library, its door clicking shut behind her. The noise of the gala muffles to a dull roar. Inside, it’s all dark wood and the scent of old paper. She stands by a globe, her back to you, seemingly studying the contours of some foreign land.

“A bit stuffy in here, don’t you think, Mr…?” she says without turning. She knew. Of course she knew.

You don’t answer. In one fluid motion, you’re behind her. Your left arm snakes around her waist, pulling her flush against you. Your right hand brings the cold, sharp edge of your blade to the hollow of her throat. You can feel the rapid pulse beneath her skin, the tense line of her body. You expect fear, a struggle.

You don’t get it.

“Direct,” she murmurs, her voice a low, smoky thing. She doesn’t fight the hold. Instead, she leans back into you, letting her head tilt just enough that her cheek brushes your jaw. The move is intimate, disarming. “Most men just try to buy me a drink first.”

You tighten your grip, the knife a silent promise. “This isn’t a social call, Congresswoman.” “Victoria,” she corrects softly.

You trace the line of her neck with the tip of the blade, expecting a shiver, a plea, a hint of panic. Instead, she tilts her head further, eyes half-lidded, watching you with an unsettling calm. Her hand finds yours at her waist, pressing gently, almost provocatively. You can feel your blood rush towards your head. Her powers. A threat. “You could end it all right now,” she whispers, her breath brushing your ear, “but where’s the fun in that? I like a challenge… especially when it’s offered so… directly.” There’s a flicker of amusement in her gaze, daring you to hesitate, to reveal even a fraction of doubt. And for the first time in years, you sense the thrill of the hunt being mirrored back at you.