"Closer"
Also in Newark, in an ordinary apartment building.
Homelander stood outside the doorway, looking slightly bedraggled.
He wore a wrinkled, dark gray hoodie, its hood pulled low enough to conceal most of his face.
He was nearly six foot three, but the hoodie was clearly a size too large, hanging loosely on him and making his whole appearance look somewhat ill-fitting.
It was not that the clothing was poor quality, but that he simply was not used to wearing ordinary clothes like this.
Right now, though, he just wanted to conceal his identity so he could get things done.
A rolled-up document that Ashley had printed and shoved into his hands was still tucked in his hoodie pocket.
There were only three lines on the document: an address, a name, and a brief note.
High-IQ supe. Female. Regular routine, shuttling between three fixed locations.
Homelander was about to knock, but the door opened before he could.
Seeing this, Homelander narrowed his eyes in slight surprise.
A Black woman stood in the doorway, her skin a deep chocolate brown, her hair cropped very short and styled in dreadlocks close to her scalp, revealing the full, rounded contours of her skull.
She looked to be in her early thirties, wearing a T-shirt washed to a faded gray and a pair of sweatpants, standing barefoot on the old rug in the doorway.
She was not tall, either, barely over five foot three, but she was so fat that her whole body looked bulky.
Her eyes, however, were extraordinarily distinctive.
In her mind, a deductive brainstorm had already taken place the instant Homelander appeared.
Height between 188 and 190 centimeters, weight approximately 100 to 105 kilograms.
The shoulder and chest muscles concealed beneath the hoodie were highly developed.
This indicated that the subject regularly engaged in high-intensity combat training.
The hoodie was supermarket merchandise, the pants were new, and there was virtually no wear on the soles of his shoes.
This indicated that the outfit had just been purchased and was clearly not his usual style of dress.
The hood was pulled very low, covering most of his face, indicating that he did not want to be recognized.
But the contours of his chin and lips still clearly revealed certain features.
Next came a detailed comparison of his jaw angle, the thickness of his lips, and the curve of his chin.
They matched one face among the tens of thousands stored in her memory to a remarkably high degree.
What surprised her, however, was that there were actually injuries on his neck, and they looked fresh.
It seemed... things were not so simple.
There was only one person in the entire United States who fit the conditions of finding this address at one in the morning, wearing these clothes, and showing this expression.
"Mr. Homelander."
Jessica spoke in a steady voice, without any surprise.
"Please come in."
Homelander froze for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his eyes.
This gorilla-looking Black bitch really does have a few tricks.
After all, he had personally picked this outfit online, then had Ashley find it for him in physical stores.
By all rights, no one should have seen through him so easily.
But that was precisely what raised Homelander's opinion of her and gave him greater confidence in his plan.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
"How did you know?"
Homelander asked with interest.
"Simple. Clothes, timing, contradictions."
As she spoke, she walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of water from a kettle, then set it on the table and pushed it toward him.
"Height, weight, shoulder width, jaw angle, eye and hair color, the distribution of your center of gravity when you stand-all of those are information in themselves."
Homelander fell silent for a while.
Then he reached up and pulled off his hood, revealing the face everyone in the United States knew.
Blond hair, blue eyes, sharply defined features-but incongruously, there were fresh bruises and injuries on it.
"I need help."
Homelander found the words a little humiliating, but he still muttered them out.
Jessica tilted her head slightly, studying the injuries on his face, her brain rapidly completing its deductions within seconds.
"The person who beat you has abilities above yours. My current assessment is a close-combat type, specializing in strength and endurance."
Homelander nodded.
"But they seem to have shown considerable restraint. They shouldn't have..."
"Enough."
Homelander immediately cut her off, his expression suddenly darkening.
First he took a deep breath, then picked up the glass and drank a mouthful of water.
"I've looked into you. Your IQ ranks among the highest in the world. You're smarter than those idiots with fancy titles. You're a genius."
"But why are you living in a pig cage like this?"
Homelander looked around the cramped rental.
Old furniture, yellowed walls, instant noodle boxes piled in dusty corners-there were even fucking cobwebs in places.
"Because there's no point. There are so many things I can predict or work out. Nothing feels fresh."
"Oh? I think I can offer you an opportunity."
Homelander set the glass back on the table, laced his fingers together, and leaned forward, his blue eyes fixed on her.
"Join The Seven. You won't have to fight or deal with anything. You just need to use your brain to help me solve a few... problems."
"The Seven is almost full."
Jessica looked at Homelander with intelligent eyes.
"Black Noir, A-Train, The Deep, Queen Maeve, and Starlight, who recently joined."
"Can your reach extend into Vought's inner circle?"
Homelander stared at her irritably for two seconds.
In the past, he would already have given her a Heat Vision gift package, but since he needed her help now, he chose not to lash out.
"Black Noir had an accident and is recovering... as for A-Train, he's very inefficient at carrying out orders. I'm considering replacing him."
"So there's one vacancy in The Seven that the corporation won't interfere with."
"Yes. I can bring you straight in."
Hearing Homelander's words, Jessica fell silent.
She was thinking, deciding, and completing a risk assessment of the entire proposal as quickly as possible.
About a minute later, she raised her head and looked straight into Homelander's eyes.
"Your injuries are concentrated around your neck and collarbone.
That indicates your healing factor can't repair these wounds in a short time. His attack power exceeded your defensive threshold.
At the same time, the timing of your visit is very telling. Your injuries haven't fully healed, which means you're in a hurry."
She paused for a second, then quickly delivered her conclusion:
"I infer that you're currently experiencing a crisis in both your abilities and your position.
The strength you take pride in, the image you rely on to maintain your authority, are gradually being dismantled."
"Am I right?"
Homelander said nothing, but his gloomy eyes betrayed him.
"You came to me because you realized something.
You realized strength alone isn't enough. You've encountered an equal threat you can't resolve through brute force.
In terms of position, you have difficulty reaching the corporation's deeper levels.
Therefore, you need someone to help you do what you're not good at."
The atmosphere in the room suddenly froze.
Homelander stared at her with a complicated look, various emotions surging through his blue eyes.
There was shock, wariness, and the humiliation of being seen through, but more than anything, there was relief at having "found the right person," along with undisguised ambition.
"What's your name?"
"My current name doesn't matter. But since you want me to join The Seven, I'll need a new one."
Homelander was silent for a while. Then he seemed to think of something, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
"From today onward, you're Sister Sage."
Jessica nodded, her expression still calm, a barely perceptible flicker of calculation crossing her eyes.
"Deal."
"Then let's get to work."
Jessica-oh, no, Sister Sage-stood up, walked over to the desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a blank notebook and a pencil.
She sat back down, opened the notebook to the first page, and wrote the date in the upper-left corner.
"First, I need you to tell me everything that happened that day, from beginning to end.
Don't leave out a single detail.
His height, weight, and methods of attack."
Homelander hesitated, then recounted his confrontation with John from beginning to end.
Sister Sage listened quietly, the pencil in her hand moving rapidly across the paper.
"That person may be your clone, or a restraining weapon Vought cultivated through targeted development."
"So it was to keep me in check?"
Homelander's brows furrowed deeply.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
"He's stronger than you. At this stage, that's unavoidable."
As she spoke, Sister Sage stood up and walked to the window, looking out at Newark's barren nighttime scenery.
"You didn't come to me just to deal with him. You're afraid of Vought's attitude toward you, the impact on your position, and who your son will belong to."
"A great man once said that truth lies only within the range of a cannon.
The real issue is that, after more than thirty years, every supe's cells have developed tolerance.
You're no exception. Your abilities are weakening too, though only by a very small amount.
But for someone like you, who's used to standing at the summit, a lack of progress-or any slight decline-is enough to make you panic."
Homelander's expression grew even darker.
"But have you ever considered this?"
Sage turned around, the light behind her outlining her silhouette. Her face was hidden in shadow, her eyes extraordinarily bright in the darkness.
"Could there be a way for your cells to undergo a second evolution, despite the tolerance they've already developed?
I'm not talking about injecting yourself with newer Compound V.
I'm talking about making your body powerful again through a deeper method."
This was the key point. Homelander narrowed his eyes as he listened.
"I remember that back during World War II, Vought launched a classified project code-named 'V1,' the predecessor to Compound V.
This catalyst was at least three times as effective as Compound V, but its fatality rate was as high as ninety-nine percent.
A large-scale accident occurred during testing, and Vought subsequently sealed the project away."
Sister Sage turned to the next page, where a simple tree diagram had been drawn, several lines branching downward from "V1."
"But there's never been a case of a supe being injected with Compound V1 after inheriting Compound V."
"So the first thing we need to do now is find the original V1 records."
She held up one finger.
"When Vought sealed the project away, they couldn't have destroyed every copy. There must be backups somewhere.
Either in a safe at some abandoned laboratory, or in some retired researcher's basement, or..."
"In Edgar's safe."
Homelander finished for her, leaning back in his chair and revealing his signature fake smile.
"That scheming bastard loves keeping something up his sleeve. If V1 really is as powerful as you say, he definitely kept a copy for himself."
Sister Sage glanced at him without replying.
"Second, once we find V1, we'll need test subjects. Dosage, metabolic pathways, cellular tolerance thresholds-all of those are unknowns."
"Then we'll find test subjects."
Homelander squeezed his gloves, as casually as eating or drinking.
"Where do you plan to find them?"
"Godolkin University."