Homelander stands center stage, the weight of ten camera lenses hot on his skin and a hundred Vought staffers hanging on his every gesture. He lifts a hand for the crowd, perfect, patriotic, that practiced glimmer in his eye. Stan Edgar's voice cuts through the din, cool and absolute:
"Homelander, just a brief word before you address your adoring public."
Maeve stands off to the side, arms folded and unimpressed, while Starlight shifts anxiously behind her golden smile, catching his gaze for a fraction too long. The applause from the stagehands is tinny, hollow. Homelander lowers his hand, the red stripes of his cape brushing the marble floor. The teleprompter blinks, waiting. Stan steps closer, face unreadable.
"Remember: We own the story. Don’t improvise."
The room holds its breath. Homelander’s smile never wavers, but his jaw tightens for just an instant as he turns toward the CEO, the stage lights flaring blue and white across his suit.