Soft light spilled onto the light beige plush carpet.
The air temperature is kept constant at 24 degrees Celsius, the humidity is just right, and the air purifier even contains a calming fragrance.
Everything here is designed for comfort.
This is a meticulously decorated nursery, except that the "baby" living here is 1.85 meters tall and has the strength to crush a tank like a soda can.
The Homelander was curled up in a corner of the sofa.
His injuries had already healed.
Only the lingering phantom limb sensations reminded him of the brutality he had suffered in that training room not long ago.
The sensation of the man's foot pressing on his calf.
The mortal named Lynn Morris looked at him with the eyes of someone looking at trash.
That fear was etched into my very bones.
The Homelander shuddered.
He instinctively gripped the warm glass in his hand; it was hot milk with double the sugar that his personal assistant had just brought in.
He stared at the television across from him.
In the video, the barbarian— the Soldier Boy —who had just rubbed his head to the ground, is now giving the camera that nauseatingly paternal smile.
"... It's a boy. His name is John."
"He's amazing, really. He's more of a hero than I am."
He's lying.
Every word he said was a lie.
That old bastard doesn't love him at all. That old bastard just wants to smash his head in and call him a sissy and a piece of trash.
But...
"Wow! This is amazing!" host Jimmy Fallon screamed.
" The Soldier Boy Family! The Birth of the Nation's Crown Prince!"
The scrolling live comments bar at the bottom of the screen is too fast to read.
Oh my god, I've fallen in love with this boy named John!
[If he were the Soldier Boy's son, he would be the most perfect!]
[Let him out here! We want to see him!]
There was no fear.
They didn't look at you like you were a monster.
No one cares whether he is a product of artificial in vitro fertilization, no one cares whether he is mentally unstable.
Everyone is waiting for him.
Everyone... loves him.
The Homelander slowly raised his cup and took a big gulp of milk.
The warm, white liquid slid down my throat, filling the never-ending void in my stomach.
His blue eyes, which always carried anxiety and ferocity, now revealed a strange kind of obsession.
In the original world, he needed to use laser eyes to threaten and oppress to rule in order to gain people's insincere awe.
He had to be constantly on edge, afraid of revealing any flaws, afraid that those ants would discover that he was not perfect after all.
But here.
In this new Vought.
That horrible boss, and that savage "father," they were cruel, they broke his leg, but they... were actually helping him.
Look.
They don't need him to do anything, they don't need him to put on a show.
As long as he behaves obediently, as long as he accepts the name " John " and the label of "son of Soldier Boy ".
The world's love and admiration will flock to him.
"More like a hero than me..."
The Homelander muttered to himself, repeating the words the Soldier Boy had spoken on television.
Even if you know it's just lines, part of Hans Landa's script as the public relations manager.
But it sounds... really nice.
If this is the price of being an "asset".
If this is the reward you get after having your leg broken.
That's not bad either.
This is simply heaven.
As long as you behave, you'll get milk.
As long as you obey, you'll receive applause from the whole world.
There was no complicated backstabbing here, no Madelyn or Edgar trying to stab him in the back.
There is only one authority here— Lynn Morris.
That man was terrifying, but he kept his promises.
Suddenly, the Homelander felt that the beating he had received earlier was just a special kind of "baptism."
That was a father disciplining a disobedient child to teach him the rules.
Now that he understands the rules, the candy came.
The door to the room opened.
Tifa Lockhart walked in.
She was still wearing that smart, form-fitting uniform, and holding a tablet computer in her hand.
"It seems you really like it here."
Tifa glanced at the nearly empty milk in his hand, her tone indifferent.
"Yes... yes, ma'am." Homelander stood ramrod straight. "It's... comfortable here."
He observed Tifa's expression, afraid that he might have used the wrong word.
Tifa walked up to him, and instead of looking at him with the same eye she used to look at an object, her gaze softened slightly.
She raised her hand and straightened his slightly wrinkled collar.
This gesture flattered the Homelander.
Tifa handed him the tablet.
"This is the debut plan the PR department has devised for you. You need to memorize this 130-page set of specifications. Your preferences, your catchphrases, your fictional childhood experiences, your admiration and rebellion towards your father... you must know every detail by heart."
The Homelander accepted the tablet with both hands, treating it like a precious treasure.
"I will memorize it. Every single word."
"Very good." Tifa nodded. "Also, a styling team will come to give you a makeover tomorrow morning at seven o'clock."
"Okay, we'll do whatever the boss says." Homelander had no objections.
Tifa looked at this once arrogant "god," who was now as docile as a tamed golden retriever.
Physical torture is just an appetizer; true control lies in the mental reshaping.
He gave this love-starved giant baby what he craved most—attention and recognition—and then firmly grasped the only way to obtain these things in Vought's hands.
"There's one more thing."
Tifa turned to leave, but stopped at the door.
"My boss asked me to tell you."
"In this world, you can be a god, a star, or a savior. But all these identities were given to you by Vought."
"If you perform well, we will make you a legend for all mankind."
"But if you mess it up..."
Tifa didn't finish speaking; she just turned and glanced at him.
There was no murderous intent in his eyes, only a chilling indifference.
Goodnight, John.
The door closed again.
The room returned to its cozy and quiet state.
Homelander stood still, clutching the tablet computer tightly in his hand.
He wasn't angry at Tifa's warning; instead, he was enveloped by an unprecedented sense of security.
rule.
Clear, explicit, and inviolable rules.
This is what he has always been missing.
Before, no one told him what to do, so he could only wander around like a headless fly, resorting to violence to get what he wanted.
The road has now been paved.
He sat back on the sofa and turned on the tablet screen.
The first page is a concept art of his character.
Below is a bolded slogan:
We protect the past, we define the future.
"Defining the future..."
The Homelander drank the last bit of milk in one gulp.
The sweetness spread through my mouth.
He stuck out his tongue and licked away the remaining milk stains on his lips, revealing a smile that was a mixture of innocence and wickedness.
This is life.
This is home.