Ashley Barrett walked far too fast through the towering corridors of the tower, her heels echoing nervously against the polished floor. She held a tablet tight against her chest as if it were a shield, her fingers gripping the edge with excessive force.
The smile on her face was rehearsed—wide, professional—but it failed at the corners, trembling every two or three steps.
" S-so, Ryan… " she began, her voice a little higher than usual. " This is the administrative sector. Marketing, public relations, contracts… everything passes through here at some point. "
Ryan walked beside her, his hands folded in front of his body, his posture far too straight for someone his age. His eyes moved over everything with silent attention: the glass walls, the immaculate offices, the screens displaying graphs, slogans, smiling faces of heroes.
Behind them—deliberately a few steps back—Homelander followed.
He tried to appear relaxed—hands behind his back, an almost nostalgic expression—but Ryan felt the weight of his presence like constant pressure against his spine. Like a spotlight that never shut off.
" I…," Ashley cleared her throat. " I remember when the tower was still under construction. It was chaos. A logistical nightmare. But you'll see, everything is very organized now. Very safe. "
" Thank you, Ms. Barrett, " Ryan replied with a polite smile, his voice calm, controlled.
Ashley blinked, surprised by the formality.
" Oh, please, you can call me Ashley. "
" Of course. Thank you, Ashley. "
There was no open coldness in his tone. No hostility. It was respectful. Polite. But distant. Like someone answering because he knew he should—not because he wanted to.
Even so, something about it made Ashley relax a little. Her shoulders dropped by a centimeter. Her smile became less rigid.
Still… Ryan could hear it.
Her heart was beating too fast.
Her breathing slightly shallow.
The nearly imperceptible sound of saliva being swallowed again and again.
'Nervous,' he realized. 'Very.'
" To the left are the internal studios, " Ashley continued, speaking faster, as if silence bothered her. " Commercials, interviews, costume tests… you'll probably pass through here a few times, but nothing will be done without your authorization and Mr. Edgar's, of course. "
At the mention of Stan Edgar, Ryan could hear the tendons in Homelander's face tighten—a sign of irritation.
" I understand, " Ryan nodded lightly.
Homelander leaned forward a little.
" You know, Ryan, " he began, trying for lightness, " when I first came here, all this was… smaller. Less polished. I slept in a windowless room for weeks. "
Ryan didn't look at him immediately. He kept walking, focused on the corridor.
" I can imagine why, " he replied, without extra emotion.
Homelander's smile wavered again, almost imperceptibly.
" They weren't sure what to do with me, " he continued with a small, nervous, insistent laugh. " But I learned fast. This place… it shapes you. It can be a home, if you let it. "
Ryan finally turned his face slightly—just enough to look at him from the corner of his eye.
" I already have a home. "
The words were spoken without aggression. Without challenge.
Still, they cut deep.
Ashley nearly stumbled.
" W-well !! " she said too quickly. " We're almost there. This floor is more… private. "
The corridor grew quieter as they moved forward. Fewer employees. More discreet cameras embedded in the walls. Smooth doors with no visible identification.
Ashley stopped in front of one, swiped her badge, and pushed it open.
The room was… empty.
Spacious, but impersonal. Light-colored walls. A simple bed still without sheets. A desk too clean. A closed built-in wardrobe. A wide window showed the city far below, buildings looking like miniatures.
Nothing there said home.
Ashley entered first, turning with a careful smile.
" S-so… " she took a deep breath. " This will be your room from now on. We can decorate it later, of course. However you want. Posters, books, whatever you like. Just ask. "
Ryan took a few steps inside, observing in silence. The faint echo of his own footsteps bothered him.
He heard Ashley swallow hard behind him.
Her heart still racing.
The fear still there.
" Thank you, " he said at last, turning to her. " It's fine. "
Two simple words.
But enough to make Ashley release the breath she'd been holding for minutes.
" Great… really great, " she smiled, genuinely relieved for a few seconds.
Homelander stayed at the door, watching the boy look out the window, the entire city beneath his feet.
" I'll be around, " he said, more quietly. " If you need anything. "
Ryan didn't answer immediately.
When he spoke, his voice was firm, polite… and distant.
" I know. "
And in that room—too large, too empty—Ryan felt with absolute clarity:
He had entered the tower by choice.
But staying there… would be a test.
---------
Some time later, Ryan's room was still practically the same.
Empty.
The bed still didn't have sheets that were truly his. The desk remained too clean—no marks, no open books, no mess. The wardrobe held only a few clothes, all new, all chosen by other people. Nothing there carried memory. Nothing there said who he was.
Ryan sat on the narrow balcony of his room, legs bent, arms resting on his knees. The night wind rose between the buildings and touched his face with a light coldness, almost comforting.
Above him, the sky was dark and deep.
Below, the city never slept.
Thousands of lights.
Cars cutting through avenues like living lines.
Windows lit in distant buildings. Giant screens flashing colorful ads, heroes smiling, empty promises wrapped in neon.
From where he stood, everything looked… beautiful.
The lights reminded him of Christmas decorations—warm, vibrant, almost magical. A constant, hypnotic spectacle. It was easy to understand why people believed. Why they trusted. Why they smiled when they looked at it all.
Ryan took a deep breath.
Inside, something burned.
It wasn't pure anger. Not anymore.
It was drive.
The desire to be better.
To be stronger.
To have control.
Everything that had happened—the house surrounded, the fear in his mother's eyes, Homelander's broken smile, the cold grip of Vought's invisible hand—mixed inside him, feeding a silent flame.
'I can't fail,' he thought.
He slowly closed his fists, feeling the air compress around them, almost responding to the tension in his body. It was still unstable. Still dangerous. But it was there. Growing.
He didn't want to be a symbol.
He didn't want to be a product.
He didn't want to be a billboard god with a shiny smile.
He wanted to be someone who did something good with his future—something different.
Ryan looked down again. The city shone—alive, chaotic. Beautiful like a well-told promise.
But he knew.
He knew that behind every light there was a lie.
Behind every advertising smile, fear.
Behind every hero, contracts, secrets, and hidden blood.
Nothing there was what it seemed.
And yet… that city needed something different.
Something that wasn't for sale.
The wind blew stronger, making the curtains inside the room move softly behind him. Ryan let the air out slowly, as if preparing for something bigger.
"I will be better," he murmured, almost to himself.
The city didn't answer.
The lights kept shining.
The buildings remained standing, indifferent.
But inside that boy, sitting above a broken world too beautiful to be real…
A decision solidified.
He didn't know how long it would take.
Nor how much it would cost.
But he knew one thing with absolute clarity:
He would not be like them.
His thoughts were interrupted by something—a voice filtering through the millions he could now hear.
" HELP !! P-please, stop !! "
It was a female voice, filled with fear.
Ryan's skin prickled as he rose from his seat.
Someone down there needed help.