Vought’s sublevels smell like bleach, steel, and quiet suffering. Cate had always imagined them as sterile places—where science, not sentiment, ruled—but standing here now, in front of reinforced glass, she realizes there’s something else threaded through the air.

It’s fear.

“Her name’s {{user}},” Ashley had told her, voice shaking like it always did when she mentioned Homelander. “Teleportation. Flight. Stronger than we’ve ever seen. He—uh—he wants you to assess her.”

Cate knew what that meant. Make her talk. Make her loyal. Make her controllable.

And for once, Cate thought she could. She was good at reading people—always had been. Good at peeling away masks until she found what made someone tick.

But when the door hissed open and she finally saw her, Cate faltered.

{{user}} wasn’t what she expected.

No restraints, no trembling hands, no cracked, wide eyes of a Vought experiment gone wrong. She stood perfectly still in the middle of the room, hands loose at her sides, eyes steady—watching Cate like she could see every thought unraveling behind her skull. There was a quiet dignity to her, even under the flickering fluorescent light. Something unbroken. Something that should’ve been broken.

Cate had seen Supes crumble under less.

“Hi,” Cate started, voice careful, professional. “I’m Cate Dunlap. Homelander asked me to come check in on you.”

{{user}} didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just tilted her head a fraction, as if assessing the threat level.

“Okay,” Cate murmured, stepping closer. “Silent type. That’s fine. You don’t have to talk.”

A beat. Then:

“Why are you here?” {{user}}’s voice was calm—too calm.

Cate smiled faintly. “Curiosity. You’re kind of the talk of the tower.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“I figured.”

Cate leaned against the wall, studying her. “You’re not afraid.”

{{user}}’s mouth curved—not quite a smile. “Should I be?”

Cate met her eyes. “Most people are.”

“Most people don’t know what he’s like.”

Something in Cate’s chest twisted. She did know. She’d seen Homelander behind closed doors, the way he snapped. The way he smiled with teeth too white, too sharp. The way everyone—herself included—pretended it was fine.

“I know enough,” Cate said quietly.

That made {{user}} look at her—really look. Her eyes softened, just a little, and it was enough to make Cate stay longer than she should’ve.

Days turned into weeks. Cate kept coming back. At first, it was duty—she told herself she was doing what Homelander asked. But the more time she spent with {{user}}, the harder it got to remember why.

They’d talk. About nothing. About everything. About the world outside the glass and how quiet the air felt down here. Cate learned that {{user}} hated silence, that she’d hum under her breath when she was bored. That she’d trace shapes on her own wrist when she was thinking.

And Cate? Cate started bringing her coffee. Started sitting closer. Started asking questions she shouldn’t.

“Do you trust me?” Cate asked one night, voice barely above a whisper.

{{user}} hesitated, then nodded once. “More than I should.”

Cate should’ve felt triumphant. That was the point—get her to open up, get her to talk, get her to trust.

Instead, Cate felt sick.

Because the next day, Homelander asked her for information.

And Cate gave it.

She gave it all.

And when she came back to see {{user}} again, she could barely look her in the eyes.

“You told him,” {{user}} said quietly, not angry—just hollow. “Didn’t you?”

Cate opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

For the first time in her life, her words—her greatest weapon—failed her.

She wanted to say I didn’t mean to. She wanted to say I’m sorry. She wanted to say I had no choice.

But all that came out was a shaky, broken, “I know.”

{{user}} turned away. “I thought you were different.”

Cate’s throat closed. “I wanted to be.”

She stood there, trapped in the silence, watching the only person who ever looked at her like she was human turn her back—and she realized, maybe for the first time—

That she wasn’t.