You weren’t supposed to be there — not in that room, not in that chair, not wearing the suit Vought had designed in a flurry of overnight fabric meetings and branding proposals. Two months ago, you were just another regional hero with a modest following, doing press tours for local sponsors and stopping petty crime in the neighborhoods no one in the Seven even bothered to visit. But the Seven had lost a member, and after a couple of strategic reshuffles (Vought’s words), your name had risen through the stack.

The Vought PR team had prepped you endlessly for your first official meeting with Homelander — smile, be respectful, don’t try too hard, don’t try too little. Everything you’d heard about him painted a picture of a man impossible to please, someone who’d pick apart the smallest twitch in your expression and take it as a personal insult. So, when the elevator doors opened and you saw him leaning casually against the glass wall of the conference room, you braced yourself.

You expected arrogance. A show of dominance. Maybe a comment sharp enough to leave you second-guessing yourself for days. Instead… he smiled. Not the syrupy, too-wide PR smile you’d seen on posters — but an easy, almost disarming curve of the lips.

“Hey,” he’d said simply, eyes scanning your suit in one slow pass. “Looks good. You’ll fit right in.” And then he just… walked with you to the table, like this wasn’t some high-pressure initiation, like you weren’t sitting across from the most feared man in the country.

It wasn’t sweet — you could tell he wasn’t trying to coddle you — but there was a strange warmth beneath his words. He didn’t belittle you. He didn’t watch you like prey. He spoke like you were already one of them. And that? That was more unsettling than any cutting remark could have been.

"When you’re out there, you represent me. Not just Vought, not just the Seven. Me. You don’t let anyone make me look bad. In return? I’ll make sure no one touches you. No one.”