Homelander's penthouse was not what I expected. Through the psychic link I maintained with Maeve—a thin, fragile thread stretched over fifty miles—I saw what she saw. It wasn't the opulent, sterile showroom I imagined. It was… a mausoleum. A museum dedicated to a single, lonely god.
The air was still and cool. The floor was polished obsidian, reflecting the city lights below. One entire wall was a single pane of reinforced glass, offering a dizzying view of the metropolis he claimed to protect. There were no personal photos, no messy human touches. Instead, there were displays.
A mannequin wore his very first costume, looking small and almost cheap under the track lighting. A glass case held the charred remains of the first building he'd ever "saved" people from, labeled with a simple plaque: The Beginning. There were golden statues, yes, but they were arranged not with pride, but with a cold, clinical precision, like specimens.
He's a collector of his own legend, the Hypnotist whispered in my mind, his voice full of fascinated disgust. He doesn't live here. He curates himself here.
Focus, Graviton commanded. The Collections Room. 32 paces ahead, right side.
Maeve moved, her boots silent on the obsidian. She bypassed the pressure plates with a dancer's grace, her years of training and intimate knowledge of Vought's protocols her greatest weapon. She reached the door to the Collections Room. It was unlocked. Arrogance, again.
She stepped inside. And there it was.
The room was a treasure trove of narcissism, but one item dominated the central display. It wasn't gold or crystal. It was a simple, vintage walnut turntable. And on it, under a glass bell jar, rested a single, pristine vinyl record in a plain white sleeve. There was no label.
That's it, I sent the thought to Maeve, the psychic thread straining with my urgency. The master recording. The Sibyl Code.
I see it, she thought back, her mental voice tight.
But as she reached for the bell jar, a soft, red laser dot appeared on the center of her chest.
"Step away from the display, Queen Maeve."
The voice was electronically distorted, but the tone was unmistakable. Cold. Professional. Deadly.
Black Noir stood in the doorway, a custom pistol in his hand, its barrel aimed squarely at her heart. He hadn't been drawn away by the missile. He was the final, hidden defense. The one Homelander trusted to guard his most precious secrets.
Maeve froze, her hand inches from the record. The silent clock in my head screamed. Two minutes.
He was the contingency, I thought, the realization a cold splash of reality. Homelander might be arrogant, but Noir is thorough.
We were out of time, and we were out of moves. Noir was here. The record was inches away, yet utterly out of reach.
The heist had failed.