Vought Tower Headquarters.
The marble floors gleamed like mirrors, the air saturated with expensive fragrance and the unmistakable scent of success.
Jessica Jones hated it.
She stood out like a stain.
Black leather jacket she'd worn for years. Torn jeans. Messy hair. The lingering sour bite of cheap whiskey clung to her like a second skin. She stood beneath the towering statue of Homelander, staring up at it with a twisted expression.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath.
She hated this place.
She hated everything it represented.
Every person around her—from receptionists to security—looked like they'd been torn straight out of a glossy fashion magazine. Perfect posture. Perfect smiles. Perfect lies.
"Ma'am? Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked politely.
"I'm here to see Homelander."
Jessica slapped the black card with the gold V emblem onto the counter.
Ten minutes later—
Top Floor. Executive Office.
Antony—no, Antony Starr—stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him, gazing out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city below.
He wasn't wearing the suit.
Instead, he wore a tailored Italian suit, immaculate. Blonde hair slicked back to perfection.
From this angle, he didn't look like a hero.
He looked like a Wall Street bastard.
"Jessica Jones," he said calmly. "You look… terrible."
"Likewise," Jessica shot back, shoving her hands into her pockets and grinding dirt into the Persian carpet. "Your hair looks like it was licked by a dog. A golden retriever."
Antony turned slowly.
God damn it.
Jessica hated herself for noticing—but up close, he was even more infuriating. That face balanced divinity and arrogance in equal measure. On TV, it was impressive.
In person, it was unbearable.
"So," Antony said, smiling faintly as he walked toward her, "did you come all this way just to insult my hairstyle?"
"I came," Jessica said stubbornly, "because I heard you're building some kind of super circus. Thought you might need a ticket seller."
"The Super Seven," Antony corrected softly.
His voice wasn't loud—but it pressed down on her like gravity.
He stopped very close.
Too close.
She could smell his body wash. Clean. Expensive. It made her cheeks warm, and she hated that too.
"Why do you think I need you?" he asked, leaning in slightly.
"Because I can twist someone's head off like a bottle cap," Jessica snapped back. "And you—you need someone who can do the dirty work. Your hands are too clean for blood."
Antony laughed.
"Jessica… Jessica…" He shook his head as if amused by a child.
"You think I need strength?"
He reached out.
Jessica instinctively stepped back, raising her guard.
But his fingers merely brushed her shoulder, plucking a tiny crumb of peanut off her hair.
"I don't need strength," Antony said quietly. "Jessica, I already have strength."
Then—
He rose off the ground.
Just like that.
Floating calmly in front of her, looking down.
"Jessica Jones. Twenty-four. Survivor of a car accident. Parents deceased. Enhanced strength and abnormal physical durability. Diagnosed PTSD. Moderate alcohol dependency."
Her face darkened.
"I can see every old injury in your body," he continued evenly. "I can see your liver—slightly swollen from years of abuse. I can see your fear."
"You son of a bitch!" Jessica roared, rage and shame erupting together as she swung at him with everything she had.
The punch could shatter concrete.
BOOM!
Antony caught her fist with one hand.
Her knuckles were locked in his palm like they'd been welded there.
"No, Jessica," he said calmly, lowering himself back to the floor, still holding her. "You're not afraid of me."
"You're afraid of yourself."
"Shut up!!!" She tried to pull free—couldn't.
"You're afraid of that helplessness," Antony said softly. "Kilgrave was the first. He won't be the last. This world is darker than you think. Without me… you're just another freak clawing at the dark."
"You're terrified you're still that useless little girl—watching her family die."
"I SAID SHUT UP!!!"
Jessica grabbed a heavy brass ornament from his desk with her free hand and smashed it into his head.
CRACK!
The ornament shattered.
Antony didn't blink.
He released her.
Jessica stumbled back, breathing hard, cornered like an animal.
"Fuck you…" she sobbed—and then she broke.
She cried.
For ten full minutes.
Antony straightened his tie. "Done?"
"…."
Jessica wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, empty now.
Antony walked to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of whiskey.
"You have two choices, sweetheart."
He handed her the glass. She took it and downed it like water.
"One: walk out of this building. Go back to your hole. Keep playing Hell's Kitchen vigilante. Drink your garbage whiskey. One day, you'll meet another Kilgrave. Or worse—S.H.I.E.L.D., or the military. They'll cut you open to see why you jump so high."
"…."
"Two."
Antony turned back to the window, spreading his arms wide.
"You join me."
"I give you everything."
"Vought's PR team will turn you into a hero. Not some back-alley brawler—but someone people scream for. Buy dolls of. Tape posters of to their walls."
"I'll give you money. Enough premium whiskey for a lifetime."
"And most importantly…"
He turned back, blue eyes gleaming with something she couldn't understand—yet couldn't look away from.
"I'll give you recognition. And… love."
"Love?" Jessica whispered.
"Don't you want to be adored?" Antony asked gently.
"I…" Her voice cracked. "I fucking hate you."
"I know," Antony said, grinning wider. "That's a great start."
"I fucking hate that name."
"What name?"
"Jones Queen." She snarled. "It sounds like a stripper's stage name."
"Oh no," Antony wagged a finger. "You're wrong."
"It represents power. Independence. Defiance. And yes—it sounds sexy."
"You'll get used to it."