The testing chamber is sealed.
Layered blast doors lock into place with a deep mechanical thud, followed by the faint hum of systems coming online. The room is massive—wide, circular, its walls lined with reinforced alloy panels designed to absorb heat, pressure, and impact far beyond anything human-made weapons could produce.
Ryan stands alone at the center.
In front of him, a reinforced test dummy waits—humanoid in shape, built from dense composite materials, thick plating layered over an internal support frame. It doesn't look fragile. It looks like it was built to survive monsters.
Above him, unseen behind thick glass and meters of shielding, Ashley's voice echoes through a speaker.
"Okay, Ryan," she says, trying—and failing—to sound casual. "You can go all out. The dummy and the room were designed to withstand extreme temperatures. Just… whenever you're ready."
Ryan nods once.
He lifts his gaze to the target.
And… nothing happens.
Silence fills the chamber.
The systems hum softly. The lights remain steady. The dummy stands untouched.
Seconds stretch.
Ryan feels heatless. Empty.
Behind the glass, Ashley swallows audibly before speaking again. "Y-you can start whenever you want. No rush."
Ryan exhales slowly.
' It's not like punching. Or flying. Or moving fast. '
He closes his eyes.
' Think. Remember. '
The last time he felt something close to this—really close—was at the house. When Homelander arrived. When the air itself felt wrong. When his mother screamed.
When he thought she was going to die.
His chest tightens.
He lets himself feel it.
The fear.
The helplessness.
The rage he swallowed because he was too weak to act.
Those emotions aren't hot at first.
They're cold.
Sharp. Constricting.
Then—slowly—they change.
The cold pressure twists inward, compressing, until it becomes something dense and heavy behind his eyes. A contained burn. A restrained inferno pressing against the inside of his eyelids.
Ryan's jaw clenches.
' This is it. '
He opens his eyes.
Twin beams of blinding red light erupt instantly from his gaze.
The heat vision slams into the dummy with terrifying force, punching straight through its chest as if the reinforced plating were paper. The metal glows white-hot for a fraction of a second before collapsing inward, molten edges dripping to the floor.
The beam doesn't stop.
It continues through the ruined dummy and strikes the wall behind it.
The reinforced alloy melts.
Warning alarms blare as the surface bubbles, warps, and begins to liquefy under sustained heat.
"RYAN—STOP !" Ashley screams through the speaker, panic tearing through her voice. "THE ROOM WON'T HOLD— !"
Ryan gasps, shock snapping through him.
He instinctively raises his hands to his face—
—but the beams don't shut off.
They split.
The heat vision escapes through the gaps between his fingers, scattering into multiple erratic laser-like streams that rake across the chamber. Walls scorch. The floor blackens. Deep burn marks carve violent lines across reinforced surfaces.
Ashley's scream cuts out as emergency systems kick in.
Ryan staggers backward, heart pounding, terror flooding him.
' Stop—stop—stop '
Finally, the heat cuts out.
The sudden absence leaves his eyes burning and watering, smoke curling upward from scorched metal all around him. The chamber is filled with the sharp smell of molten alloy and ozone.
Ryan lowers his hands slowly.
His breathing is ragged.
The dummy is gone—reduced to a partially melted frame.
The wall behind it is permanently damaged.
Silence returns, thick and heavy.
Ryan stares at the destruction, chest rising and falling rapidly.
—-----
The next sessions are slower.
Deliberate.
Ryan stands in the same reinforced chamber, but this time the room feels different—not tense, not expectant, but quiet in a way that invites focus. The damage from the previous test has been repaired, though faint discolorations still mark the walls like scars that refused to fade completely.
In front of him now, there is no dummy.
Just a solid block of special alloy steel, mounted securely on a reinforced base. Dense. Heavy. Engineered to withstand extreme heat without immediate failure.
Ashley's voice comes through the speaker again, calmer this time, more controlled.
"Now isn't about power," she says. "It's about control. Start low. As low as you can."
Ryan nods.
He takes a breath.
This time, he doesn't reach for fear or rage.
He reaches for stillness.
He closes his eyes briefly, centering himself, remembering the feeling right before the heat exploded last time—not the emotions, but the pressure. The sensation of something waiting behind his eyes.
He opens them slowly.
Nothing happens at first.
Then—just a whisper of warmth on a red lazer.
A faint red glow appears on the surface of the steel block, no brighter than heated metal left too close to a flame. Ryan holds it there, teeth clenched, focusing on keeping it steady.
' Don't push. Just hold. '
His eyes sting slightly, but he doesn't flinch.
After several seconds, he exhales and lets the heat fade.
The glow disappears.
The metal cools.
Ryan blinks rapidly, relief washing over him.
"I turned it off," he murmurs to himself.
Ashley lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "Good. Very good. Let's try again."
Ryan repeats the process.
On.
Off.
Each attempt becomes cleaner. Faster. The heat no longer surges unpredictably—it responds. Listens.
He increases the temperature slightly.
The steel shifts color—dark red, then brighter, the surface beginning to shimmer. Ryan adjusts instinctively, dialing the intensity up and down like a dimmer switch rather than a trigger.
Sweat beads on his brow.
His eyes burn, but he stays steady.
"This is mine. I control this"
Slowly, carefully, he increases the heat further.
The block begins to glow incandescent orange.
The air around it warps visibly, heat distortion rippling outward. A faint metallic creak sounds as the structure reacts to rising temperature.
Ryan's breathing becomes measured, rhythmic.
Higher.
The steel turns yellow-white at the center.
Then—gradually—it begins to soften.
The surface sags almost imperceptibly at first, then more clearly, molten metal pooling and dripping in slow, viscous lines down the sides of the block.
Ryan eases off.
The beam fades smoothly this time, no sparks, no erratic bursts.
The block remains glowing for a moment longer before slowly cooling.
Ryan steps back, chest rising and falling, eyes watering—but he's smiling.
Not wide.
Not proud.
Relieved.
' I didn't lose it. '
Behind the glass, Ashley presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide but shining. "That was… perfect. You modulated temperature, duration, and shutdown."
Ryan wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
"I can feel the difference," he says quietly. "Before, it was like holding back a flood. Now it's more like… turning a valve."
Ashley nods. "That's exactly what we want."
Ryan looks at the partially melted block, the solid proof of restraint rather than destruction.
—--
The rescue simulations are the hardest part so far.
Harder than fighting.
Harder than heat vision.
Because this isn't about stopping something.
It's about not breaking what he's trying to save.
The training chamber has been reconfigured again. Suspended platforms. Simulated debris. Wind generators. A series of humanoid rescue dummies designed to mimic the weight, density, and fragility of real human bodies. Their surfaces are marked with pressure sensors, stress indicators, and internal monitors.
Ashley's voice echoes calmly from the observation booth.
"Objective: extraction and safe relocation. Remember—minimal force."
Ryan nods, jaw tight.
The first test begins.
A dummy drops from a collapsing platform.
Ryan reacts instantly—launching forward, catching it midair.
The result is… horrific.
The dummy explodes in his arms.
Plastic, synthetic bone, and sensor fragments scatter violently across the room. Warning lights flash. Red indicators spike off the charts.
Ryan freezes in midair, heart slamming painfully against his ribs.
' Oh God. '
He lands slowly, staring at the ruined pieces on the floor.
"I—I didn't mean—" His voice shakes.
Ashley's breath catches over the speaker. "Resetting the simulation."
Second attempt.
This time, Ryan tries super speed instead of flight—scooping the dummy up and running toward the extraction zone.
The dummy shatters.
Third attempt.
He slows down.
Still breaks it.
Every failure hits him harder than the last.
' If that were a real person… '
Ryan steps back, hands trembling.
' I can't save anyone like this. '
Then a thought surfaces—quiet, almost academic.
' Homelander doesn't tear people apart when he flies with them most of the time.
Superman doesn't either.
They have a bio-force field. '
A subtle layer of energy that cushions what they touch. Distributes force. Protects others from the raw physics of their power.
" If I can fly without tearing myself apart… then I have it too. "
The problem isn't speed.
It's control.
Ryan closes his eyes, hovering just above the ground.
He focuses inward—not on movement, not on strength, but on that same stabilizing sensation he feels when flying. The invisible pressure that holds him together. Supports him.
"Spread it. Extend it."
The next attempt is awkward.
The dummy still cracks—less violently, but enough to fail the test.
Again.
And again.
Each time, the damage is smaller.
Cracks instead of explosions. Dents instead of fractures.
Ryan adjusts instinctively, learning how to wrap the field around what he touches rather than dragging it along with him.
Finally, one attempt is… different.
A dummy falls.
Ryan catches it.
And it holds.
No alarms.
No shattering.
He flies gently, slower now, keeping his field steady, carrying the dummy like it weighs nothing—and everything.
He lands carefully in the extraction zone.
Green lights illuminate the chamber.
"Rescue successful," the system announces.
Ryan stares at the intact dummy in his arms.
Then he laughs.
Not loud. Not wild.
Just a soft, breathless sound of pure relief.
Behind the glass, Ashley presses both hands to her mouth, eyes shining.
Ryan sets the dummy down carefully, hands lingering as if afraid it might break if he lets go.
That could have been someone real.
The thought makes his chest ache—in a good way.
Because for the first time, the training doesn't just feel like preparation.
It feels like hope.
And Ryan smiles wider than he has since coming to the tower.
He's not just learning how to fight.
He's learning how to save.