On the top floor of Vought Tower, in Solomon's private apartment.
A figure opened the door and walked in.
With the faint click of the electronic lock disengaging, a tall figure pushed the door open and entered.
He wore his signature dark blue bodysuit, a vivid stars-and-stripes cape trailing behind him. It was none other than Homelander, the Vought empire's biggest star.
Like a ghost, he passed through the living room with practiced familiarity and headed straight into Solomon's bedroom.
Standing before the spacious double bed, Homelander's eyes, usually filled with arrogance and hypocrisy, were now brimming with obsession and a sick attachment.
He still clearly remembered the first time he had stepped into this room.
Back then, Solomon had been lying on this bed like a cold, lifeless sculpture, without breath or heartbeat, unresponsive no matter how many times he called out to him.
At that moment, Homelander had truly thought he was dead.
Back then, he had truly thought Solomon was dead.
He approached the bed and touched the spot where Solomon had lain, as though he could still feel a trace of warmth.
He slowly walked to the bedside, his large, red-gloved hand gently stroking the place where Solomon had once lain.
The feel of the fine velvet gave him the illusion that the man's body heat still lingered there.
Finally, unable to suppress the twisted impulse inside him, he slowly sat down, then curled up on the bed like an overgrown baby seeking security.
In both posture and position, he tried to align himself perfectly with Solomon as he had lain there.
As though simply lying here would allow him to feel that man's presence.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
A bone-chilling voice exploded through the quiet room without warning!
To Homelander, that voice was