Homelander did not care about the blood sample. Not really.
The researchers were the ones sweating over it. Their genetic sequencing ambitions, their biological protocols, whatever they planned to do with the results once they secured them. A DNA extraction from Superman just gave them another biological oddity to prod at for the next five years. That outcome belonged to them.
What belonged to Homelander was something else entirely.
He had pushed his heat vision to the absolute limit. And Superman still had not bled.
His skin showed no indication of breaking. No mark, no reddening, no trace of damage. Homelander's strongest sustained output—the attack he reached for when he needed to end a fight quickly—had not even cleared the baseline threshold of Clark's physical defense. It did not technically qualify as harm.
A tight, hot pressure clamped down behind his sternum and bled down his arms into his fingers. The tension had been building for days. Now it spiked.
Watching Clark stop the armored truck, his first thought had been entirely clear. Vought might find someone who can replace me. Someone who can actually beat me.
He knew from that moment Clark's ability profile sat dangerously close to his own. He simply had not expected close to to be a catastrophic understatement. In actual combat terms—ignoring the surface metrics and the perception figures where Homelander retained an edge—Clark outclassed him. Perception range offered an advantage, but not one you could build a victory on in direct confrontation. You could not win a fight just by seeing further.
The thought had circled him for years. A quiet, persistent friction against the foundation he stood on, asking what would happen if the ground shifted. Underneath everything else, a single question remained unanswered: If Homelander isn't the strongest, what is Homelander?
He never found an answer. He found a way around the question instead.
I am the most successful superhero in the world. I don't need to ask who I am. I am stronger and better than everyone else.
He returned to those words often enough that the repetition became automatic. The layers built up until they functioned as conviction whenever he needed them.
Now, the veins around his eyes bulged against the skin. He had run his heat vision for the better part of a minute on sustained full output. He stared at Clark's forearm, willing the surface to give.
Break. Just break. One scratch. Let it bleed.
Clark looked at Homelander.
He glanced down at his own arm. The heat vision tracked across it, the red light reflecting evenly off his skin. Then Clark looked up, meeting Homelander's gaze.
Clark let his defenses yield.
The skin broke. A thin gash. Nothing more.
"That's it. That's exactly what we needed."
The researcher crossed the room at a half-run. He extended a syringe, pressing it against the break to draw the thin thread of blood seeping from the wound. He pivoted and hurried back to his equipment, his steps rapid, his posture leaning forward over the glass vials.
Homelander watched Clark. His facial muscles were completely slack.
He understood what had happened without needing it explained. Clark had helped. The break belonged to Clark as much as it belonged to the heat vision. Homelander's actual output, operating alone, was still insufficient. He had not broken Superman's defenses. He had been permitted to look like he did.
The detail that sank deepest, however, was Clark's expression.
Clark offered no satisfaction. No competitive edge, no trace of triumph. The skin around his eyes softened. His brow drew together in a slight, downward curve. He looked at Homelander without anger, without challenge, entirely relaxed.
People looked at Homelander in a great many ways. With wide-eyed admiration. With manageable fear. With practiced, careful deference. No one had ever looked at him with pity.
His jaw locked shut. His fingers curled into his palms. The tendons along his forearms rose in sharp relief against the skin. He forced a breath through his nose. He kept his hands at his sides.
No immediate action. He must have a weakness. Everything does. And I have been at Vought longer. I am worth more to them than he is, for now. That is still true.
The physical pressure receded slowly. It did not disappear. He packed it down.
Once the blood results came back, he would find an angle. There was always a way. There had to be.
You cannot be invincible.
As Clark and Homelander left the testing facility, an older man in a tailored suit settled into a chair across from Madelyn Stillwell in her office at Vought Tower.
"The autographed photo, Steve," Stillwell said. She slid it across the desk, the corners of her mouth lifting into a precise, practiced curve.
The glossy print was inscribed in thick marker. To Mason — Strive for the Top. The signature below it read: Homelander.
The man turned the photo over in his hands. His shoulders dropped an inch against the back of his chair. "My son will love this."
"We hope so," Stillwell said. Her tone remained light. "As long as he doesn't list it online." As Baltimore's mayor, Steve's son possessed no shortage of material wealth. The joke served as social lubrication.
"Let's talk." Steve set the photo aside. He picked up the glass of red wine poured for him prior to his arrival. "What's your assessment of my proposal?"
"Baltimore is a beautiful city," Stillwell said. "But your unsolved homicide rate sits at sixty-two percent. Your department is exhausting its operational capacity. Federal assistance will become necessary in the near term."
"You could simply name who you're recommending."
"Nubian Prince."
The screen behind Stillwell flickered, populating with an image. A broad-shouldered hero in a heavily stylized African-inspired suit. Dark skin, a neutral gaze. The design communicated physical power while strictly avoiding any visual markers that might trigger audience hostility.
"Sixty-eight percent overall approval on his image, including a consistent fifty-nine among White respondents. Mainstream aesthetics, no significant political friction, minimal organized opposition. The feasibility profile for a Baltimore placement is strong." Stillwell let the silence stretch for two full seconds. "A three-year exclusive contract, full Vought PR support, and for your personal consideration, nine and a half percent of the contract's sales revenue."
Steve tilted his head. "He's been Detroit's resident hero for years. Detroit has a serious financial investment in that relationship."
Stillwell did not blink. "He's a Vought asset. Vought relocates its people when the fit warrants it. It's standard practice."
"How much?"
"Three hundred million. Per year."
The mayor held his glass. He took a slow breath, set the glass down, and straightened his suit jacket. He shifted his weight toward the edge of his chair, planting his feet flat on the carpet. The physical posture communicated his position entirely.
"I understand the number is significant," Stillwell said. "But we both understand that Baltimore needs what this placement provides."
Steve stopped his forward motion. He stayed seated. He stared at the polished wood of the table.
"Two hundred million," he said. "For Nubian Prince. That works for me."
"I cannot agree to that." Stillwell's posture did not shift. She did not lean back or narrow her eyes. She merely stated a boundary. "Atlanta has an active conversation with us right now regarding the same placement. Their number is competitive."
The hum of the climate control filled the room.
"I think you will find a way to agree," Steve said. "Because I happen to know about Compound V."
Stillwell's smile held perfectly static. She did not twitch. She did not blink. She simply lifted her chin and met his gaze across the desk. The room went dead silent. Neither of them spoke. The calculation finalized between them, locking into place without another word exchanged.