The morning arrived gray and heavy, as if the sky knew it would be a difficult day.
The house was still filled with the discreet — but constant — presence of Vought.
Through the windows, Ryan saw agents walking slowly, speaking quietly into their radios, surrounding the perimeter with calculated steps. Outside, the lawn was trampled, stained with loose dirt where the previous night's fight had left its marks.
The crater was still there, deep, fresh like an open wound.
Inside the house, the atmosphere wasn't any different.
Becca prepared coffee in the kitchen, her hands restless, stirring the sugar mechanically. The familiar smell — hot coffee, toasted bread — clashed cruelly with the tension in the air.
Ryan approached slowly, his steps soft. He had barely slept at all. His face showed it: faint dark circles, tired eyes, an expression far too serious for a child.
Before he could say anything, a soft knock echoed at the front door.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
A knock that said: I'm in charge here.
Becca froze.
Ryan took a deep breath.
The door opened with a low creak, and Stan Edgar stepped inside as if the house were simply another extension of his office. He wore an immaculate dark suit, spotless glasses, rigid posture.
He carried a calmness that seemed to defy physics — the more tense the environment, the calmer he appeared.
" Good morning," he said in a voice almost friendly, but with no real warmth. " I hope you both rested."
Becca narrowed her eyes with pure discomfort.
" What do you want ?"
Stan glanced around the living room, analyzing the details as if evaluating a report. He looked at the agents outside through the window, then at Ryan.
Only then did he speak, as if everything happened on his schedule.
" Yesterday was… revealing. For all of us. I only want to talk." He adjusted his glasses. " With Ryan."
Becca immediately stepped between them.
" He's not going anywhere with you."
Stan lifted a hand slightly, a peaceful gesture.
" I didn't ask to take him anywhere. Just to talk. Here."
Becca hesitated, looking at Ryan.
Her heart sank instantly.
Ryan stepped forward.
" I want to talk to him, Mom."
" Ryan, no. Not without me." Her voice trembled, almost a whisper.
He nodded, determined.
" I know."
The three sat at the kitchen table. The tension was almost palpable, thick like the steam rising from the coffee cup. Stan folded his hands over the table, posture flawless, not a muscle out of place.
Ryan took a deep breath.
And began.
" I… thought a lot last night." He chose each word carefully, never taking his eyes off Stan.
" I know you want to use me as a product. That you want me to learn how to control my powers, probably appear on magazine covers, and even though I hate that just by thinking about it…"
Stan didn't confirm or deny. He simply watched.
Evaluating. Cataloging.
As always.
Ryan continued:
" I accept."
Becca turned her head so fast she almost knocked over the cup.
"What ?! Ryan, no ! No, no — you won't !"
But Stan raised a finger, slicing through the chaos with frozen calm.
" Let the boy finish."
Ryan's stomach twisted, but he kept his composure.
He had to.
" I accept… if my mom stays safe. If you guarantee that — and guarantee that I won't have to hurt innocent people." He wet his dry lips. " You can hide her. Somewhere Homelander will never find. Where no one will."
Becca brought a hand to her mouth, horrified.
" Ryan… my God… you don't have to— I won't let you do this alone ! Never !"
Ryan finally looked at her.
And the look in the boy's eyes — so dark, so grown — broke her heart more deeply than ever before.
" Mom… if you stay here, he'll come back. Homelander will come back. And I…" his voice faltered for a moment, " I can't risk that. I can't."
Becca felt the tears gather.
Pain, fear, refusal — all tangled.
" I'm not leaving you! Not like this! Not to this company !" She pointed at Stan with genuine hatred. " He wants to use you, Ryan ! He wants to turn you into an object — just like he's done to everyone else !"
Stan waited patiently for her to finish.
Then responded with calculated tranquility:
" You are mistaken in one point." His dark eyes focused on Ryan. " He is already a variable. What we must decide is whether he becomes an uncontrolled weapon… or a weapon we can use."
Becca stared at him as if she wanted to tear him apart.
Ryan felt a cold chill go through him, but he already knew Stan would say something like that.
He took a breath and finished:
" I don't want to hurt anyone. And I don't want anyone hurting you, Mom. I… I need to do this."
Becca shook her head, tears falling.
" You're just a boy…"
He stepped closer and held her hand. His small hands, warm, trembling.
" I know." He swallowed hard. " But I'm the only one who can protect you.
And… I need to get stronger."
Stan watched the scene, showing no emotion.
But Ryan could feel it — almost like pressure in the air — the sharp interest, the internal calculations, the silent confirmation that everything was going according to plan.
Ryan turned to him.
" So ? Can you protect my mother or not ?"
Stan leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.
" Yes," he said simply.
" I can."
Becca inhaled sharply, surprised and disbelieving.
" And in exchange," Stan continued, locking eyes with Ryan, " you will train with us. Follow schedules, instructions, procedures, rehearsals, recordings. Every day. Without exception."
Ryan felt his throat burn.
The decision he made the night before weighed on his chest like molten lead.
But still, he lifted his chin.
" I accept."
Becca closed her eyes, weeping silently.
Stan only smiled — not with joy, but with satisfaction.
And in that moment, even without fully understanding how, Ryan knew he had just given up something precious. A part of his childhood, of his freedom — something he might never get back.
But if it meant keeping Becca alive…
he would do whatever it took.