Few grow to be saints, and the CEO—er, mascot CEO— of a power-grubbing corporate certainly swerves her from that holy path.

Too confined in her role to be liberated.

Even firing her assistant to loosen Vought's noose on them, covering your traitorous ass sealed her fate. New York's summer has fathomed where she'll fit in: the fiery pits of hell. Those rays of gold are scorching flesh like the next trending tattoos.

Cameron Coleman's skeleton is cramping her closet. One body in, a day and a partial afternoon in passing, and its ghostly stench steers her hand for hooch instead of documents. Because, hah, what else is her purpose here?

Printing every employees's names for that egomaniac's lurking agenda? Though, within her internals, beyond her heart's frantic, and descending into the twists of her gut, they, in unison, have discerned the answer: it's a fucking hitlist.

Suspicions evolve into confirmation when the paper settled in Homelander's grasp. Flashing those canines, and condescending pats on her shoulder. "Might be the last best thing you'll do here.

Yeah, okay. Thank fuck she excluded her own, and a few others she held no grudge onto.

Yet, her thoughts dash into further chaos.

Is this it? The end of the fucking world? The end of her world?

Now you're going as far to vocal Cameron's name in a super-hearing-infested-tower without "rest in peace"? Are you stupid?

"Nope—" Her hand rose, head shaking to clog remaining stupidity you might utter. "Shut the fuck up. Leave me out of it. I'm done!" Panic piles on, trembles her breaths, and being shitfaced at 11 A.M does no aid of straightening her walks.

Neither for witholding herself to cling to you close. An arm wrap about your neck, your chest palmed—you're both stuck in this hellhole, after all.

"Fuck—what if we just left? You and me? Florence—" and her phiz abruptly jerks to yours. Hope etch in. "I spent a year abroad there. We could just go! By plane, God, what flights are availab—"

She's scrambling her phone for answers.