Clark had thought about it all night.
Not Maeve's arguments about success and fame; those had not moved him. What stayed with him was the harder question underneath it all. Vought had spent years, possibly decades, cultivating a culture where fame and commercial value were the only metrics of a worthwhile hero. The people inside that system had grown up in it. It was the air they breathed.
Do they need help? he kept coming back to. Or do they need something else entirely?
He had not reached a conclusion by morning.
They ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Jude watched Clark across the table, his gaze steady and assessing.
"How are you feeling? Any improvement?"
Clark shook his head. "Nothing I can actually feel. Maybe a slight uptick, but it's below the threshold where I'd notice it confidently." He turned his coffee cup. "The aura is taking its time."
"It's going to," Jude said. "Barbatos energy doesn't clear on a schedule. Give it the week."
Clark nodded. They ate in comfortable silence.
Then the man in the suit appeared.
He crossed the restaurant with purpose, locking onto their table and closing the distance before they could notice. He was in his mid-thirties, wearing a well-fitted jacket. His grooming signaled institutional wealth—the kind of precise maintenance that came from a corporate expense account.
"Excuse me." He stopped at their table. "Mr. Jude?" His gaze shifted to Clark's face, his brow furrowing slightly as he worked through something. "And... Mr. Clark Joseph Kent?"
Clark set his coffee down. "That's me. Can I help you?"
The man looked at him, his expression briefly confused as he compared the name on the hotel registry with the person in front of him. Robin and Hughie's account confirmed Superman and Clark were the same person. But the man sitting across from him, wearing a plain shirt and wire-rimmed glasses, bore only a passing resemblance to the figure who had lifted an armored truck the day before.
"Are you certain you're... the Superman from yesterday? The armored truck?"
Clark considered the situation for roughly one second. He concluded that concealing his identity in a universe where heroes did not bother with it was a waste of effort. He dropped the bio-field.
The man's posture immediately straightened.
"I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't recognize you." He extended his hand, his demeanor snapping into practiced warmth. "Douglas. Public relations, Vought International. Welcome to one of our properties. The company would like to extend complimentary accommodation, seven days, for both you and Mr. Jude, with full expenses covered—"
"We've already paid," Jude said. He exchanged a brief glance with Clark—a Vought hotel, of all the options in New York—and looked back at Douglas. "We're not interested in a refund. Tell us what you actually want."
Douglas smoothed his hospitality into something more professional. "The matter is somewhat sensitive. Perhaps somewhere with a little more privacy?"
Jude noted the suit, the watch, the haircut. A Vought lackey, he thought, but a well-compensated one. He looked at Clark, who had already made his decision.
"Keep it quick," Clark said.
Three minutes later, they stood in Clark's room.
Jude crossed to the window and scratched the back of his head. His fingers brushed the small, silent shape perched there. Yomogi sat motionless, watching the room intently. The cat registered the contact and offered two soft meows, barely audible. It was a message relayed from another source.
Satsuki says the signal block is off. Recording equipment on the briefcase is live again.
The tiny light on Douglas's briefcase, dark since he entered the room, resumed a faint pulse. Douglas, who had never noticed it go dark, noticed nothing.
Jude settled into the chair by the window. "Go ahead."
Douglas squared his shoulders. "As I'm sure you're aware, one of Vought International's heroes—A-Train—was in the area yesterday on a priority intercept. Bank robbery in progress, Queens. He was running tight on time, and there was—" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "—a minor incident on the way."
"A minor incident," Jude repeated.
"—which, fortunately, resulted in no injuries, thanks in large part to Superman's intervention."
Jude let that sit.
Interesting. Vought PR's standard playbook for this kind of situation was denial: A-Train had it handled, no civilians were in danger, Superman's presence was just a nice bonus. Douglas had just acknowledged—on his own recording equipment, in a private room—that Superman's intervention was the reason Robin was alive. It was not a slip of the tongue. It was an opening offer.
"The company is genuinely impressed by what you did yesterday," Douglas continued. "Six lives, by our count. The three members of the public, and the three individuals who surrendered." He produced a leather folder from his briefcase and placed it on the table. "Vought International would like to formalize its appreciation."
Clark looked at the briefcase. He did not reach for the folder.
"You have three documents in there," he said. "The first is a confidentiality agreement. Jude and I agree never to discuss or disclose the A-Train incident in exchange for the settlement. The second is the settlement itself: a hundred thousand dollars each." He paused. "The third is an invitation for me to join The Seven. That one doesn't include the confidentiality restriction."
Silence filled the room.
Douglas froze, his smooth composure showing its first real crack. He had not studied yesterday's footage carefully—why would he?—and Homelander had no reason to brief a PR associate about a stranger's abilities. He had not known about the X-ray vision.
He recovered quickly. It took him less than four seconds.
"A hundred thousand dollars," Jude said, before Douglas could fully reset. He leaned back in his chair. "That's quite a number for a minor incident. Either Vought places very high value on what happened yesterday, or someone ran the numbers on our bank cards and realized two or three thousand wasn't going to cover it." He tilted his head slightly. "I'm guessing you've already been to see Robin and Hughie?"
Douglas remained silent.
"What did you offer them? Twenty thousand? Thirty? You know how to read a room. For an ordinary household, that's a serious amount of money. Hard to say no to."
"Our proposals are made in good faith," Douglas said carefully. "To all parties."
"Robin said no, didn't she," Jude said. He did not phrase it as a question. "I watched her yesterday. She's not the type to sign something after almost being killed by the person the document protects. She's going to take action."
Douglas's expression hardened. The professional warmth drained away, leaving something cold and direct. He had abandoned his prepared script.
"Mr. Jude." His voice lost its PR polish. "Even with your testimony, she will not win. She's not litigating against A-Train. She's litigating against Vought International's legal department, its media relationships, its public communications infrastructure, and eighteen years of established brand equity. The outcome of that case is not in doubt."
He let the words hang in the air.
"Vought doesn't want a public storm any more than you do. Heroes shouldn't carry stains. It damages everyone involved, including the citizens who depend on them. If this goes the wrong way, the person who ends up as the villain in the public narrative won't be A-Train."
He straightened the folder on the table.
"The way I see it, you have two options. You take the agreement, you take the settlement, and this is done cleanly today. Or—" his eyes moved to Clark, "—Superman joins The Seven. In that case, Vought International will have no interest in restricting what you or Mr. Jude choose to say about any of this. The confidentiality clause disappears entirely."
He closed the briefcase.
"Those are the terms."
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