The party

"Billy, can it be faster? We're about to be late."

You said to your wife, who sat in the front passenger seat: "Becca, we won't be late if you didn't spend forty minutes on your hair. Ah, we arrived."

You and your wife stepped out of the car in front of a Vought International building. Your wife looked nervous. Her fingers tucked into the collar of her green silk dress, pulling at the fabric until it lay flat against her collarbone.

"The top-ranking executives will all be there," she said, her voice muffled between her lips. "Even the Board of Directors. The ones who actually sign the checks."

You stroked her hair: "Relax, I know you can do it."

Two private security guards in black suits stood by the revolving doors. They didn't check IDs; they checked the invitations with a small brass instrument that clicked twice against the gold leaf before they let anyone through.

Inside, the lobby was three stories high, all white marble and walls decorated with famous paintings. Your eyes swept over some of them while your brain estimated the price. Each painting alone was worth hundreds of times your annual salary.

"Keep your drink in your left hand. Don't look at the ceiling." Rebecca whispered as her eyes darted over the heads of the crowd, searching for the higher-ups she had spent three years trying to impress. "And beware of Supes. They may look human, but their minds are different."

"I know how to take care of myself, Becca."

By ten o'clock, the noise in the main ballroom had grown to a steady, vibrating roar. The band was playing something slow and brassy, but the sound was swallowed by the high ceilings and the three hundred people packed between the sculptures.

Your wife had been swept away thirty minutes ago by a senior named Miller, a man with three chins and a signet ring that clicked against his champagne flute. You had tried to follow, but the crowd had closed behind them like water, leaving you pressed against the side of a long mahogany bar.

"Do you want a drink?" the bartender asked. His jacket was white linen, spotless despite the red wine splashing around him.

You looked at the glass. "Just soda."

"Are you sure? We have all kinds of cocktails here."

"The soda's fine."

"Come on, which man will have soda at a party?" a voice said beside him. "Give us two glasses of Martini."

Billy turned and saw a woman.

She was taller than him, even without the silver-heeled boots beneath her feet. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. But the most eye-catching feature was her dress. She wore a red-and-blue suit, with gold shoulder pads and a cape patterned like the American flag. The suit was so tight that people could see the muscles hard under it.

You swallowed your saliva. You didn't want anything to do with Supes, yet you encountered the biggest of them.

The bartender had already set down the two small tumblers of dark amber liquid. She took one of them and handed the other to you: "May I know your name?"

"Billy. Billy Reed." You said. "My wife works as a public relations writer for Vought. Miss Homelander..."

"Call me Jane," Homelander said. Her voice was surprisingly low, devoid of the theatrical resonance she used on the television screens. "This is a party; we don't use formal titles here."

You reached for the glass and poured it down in one gulp. Despite that, your throat still felt dry.

Homelander took one sip from her glass, her fingers long and tipped with short, unpolished nails. When she drank, she didn't look at the glass; she looked at your eyes, then down at your shoes, finally stopped at the area below your belt.

"Where is your wife?"

"I want to know that too," You said, trying to avoid eye contact. "A guy named Miller pulled her away. I haven't found them yet."

Homelander took a step closer. The air was silent. The crowd seemed to step away from her as quietly as possible. "You must love your wife so much."

"I... Maybe I'm just worrying too much."

Homelander smiled. It wasn't a warm look; it was the sort of smile someone might give to a dog that had successfully fetched a stick. "Then let me help you."

She drank the rest and placed the empty glass on the mahogany counter. Then she pulled you out of the hall. The grip was light, but you knew that if you tried to pull your hand away, your wrist would break before her fingers opened.

"There's a room on the forty-fourth floor," she said, "Miller usually brings his prey there. He’s going to promise her a promotion or a raise in salary that won't happen, ever. And after having what he seeks, he'll cast the poor woman away like a dirty rag."

You two reached the elevator. Inside, the light was yellow and smelled of flowers. The air conditioner was still working, but you suddenly felt hot.

"You don't talk much," she said, leaning against the steel wall as the elevator began to rise. The upward motion was fast, making your stomach drop toward his knees.

"There isn't much to say," he said.

"That's good." She reached out, her fingers catching the knot of your tie. She didn't pull it; she just held the silk between her thumb and forefinger, her knuckles brushing the skin of your throat. Her skin was hot, almost burning against your collarbone. "Most people talk too much. They think they have to explain themselves. They think I care why they do things."

She leaned in, her forehead almost touching his. Her breath smelled of the rye—sharp and clean, without the sour edge of a normal person's mouth. "I don't care, Billy."

The elevator stopped with a dull clank. Homelander led you to a door. She took out a card and swiped it on the sensor. The door opened; you rushed inside.

The room was empty.

Before you could ask, you heard a *click* sound behind your back.