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Vought Tower Headquarters.
The marble floor gleamed like a mirror, the air thick with expensive aromatherapy and the scent of 'success.'
The place made Jessica Jones itch.
She wore the same black leather jacket and ripped jeans as always, hair a mess and reeking of last night's cheap whiskey.
She stood beneath the towering Homelander statue in the lobby, face twisted in complicated distaste.
"Fuck," she muttered.
She hated this place—hated everything about it.
She didn't belong.
Everyone around her, from reception to security, looked torn from a fashion spread—perfect, practiced smiles stapled in place.
"Ma'am? Do you have an appointment?"
"I'm here for Homelander."
Jessica slapped the black V-card onto the reception desk with a sharp crack.
Ten minutes later.
Top-floor office.
Anthony stood with his back to her, framed by the floor-to-ceiling window.
He wasn't in costume.
He wore a hand-tailored Italian suit, every strand of blond hair sculpted into place.
From this angle he didn't look like a hero—he looked like a Wall-Street bastard.
"Jessica Jones," he said, voice calm.
"You look... awful."
"Takes one to know one." Jessica stuffed her hands in her pockets and scuffed mud across the expensive Persian rug.
"Your hair looks like a golden retriever licked it into shape."
Anthony turned slowly.
Shit—Jessica had to admit, the guy's packaging really was God-tier.
That face, equal parts divine and arrogant, was even more blinding in person.
"Did you come all this way to insult my hair?" he asked, smiling as he stepped closer.
"I came," Jessica lifted her chin, "because I hear you're putting together a "super circus." Thought you might need someone selling tickets."
"The Super Seven," Anthony corrected, voice soft but crushing.
He walked in close.
Too close.
Jessica caught the scent of his body-wash; heat crawled up her cheeks.
"Why would I need you?" he asked, leaning in, his height casting her in shadow.
"Because I can twist a man's head off like a soda cap," she shot back, eyes locked on his.
"And you— you need someone to do the dirty work. Perfect heroes can't get blood on their hands, right?"
"Ha."
Anthony laughed.
"Jessica... Jessica..." He shook his head as if scolding a child.
"You think I need strength?"
He reached out.
Jessica instinctively stepped back, fists raised.
But his fingers only brushed her shoulder, lifting a tiny peanut crumb from her hair.
"I don't need strength, Jessica. I have all the strength I want."
Slowly... his feet left the floor.
He hung in the air before her, looking down.
"Jessica Jones, twenty-four, car-crash survivor, parents dead. Superhuman strength, resilient physiology. PTSD, moderate alcohol dependency."
"You—" Jessica's face paled.
"I can see every hidden fracture in your body, your liver swollen from booze. I can see you're... afraid."
"You bastard!" she roared, shame and terror launching her fist.
She put everything into it.
BOOM—!!!
Anthony lifted a hand and casually caught her punch.
The fist that could punch through cinder-block was wrapped in his palm, motionless.
"No, Jessica," he said, lowering to the floor while still holding her hand.
"You're not afraid of me."
"You're afraid of yourself."
"Shut UP!" She tried to yank free; the hand might as well have been welded.
"You fear that helplessness. Kilgrave was first, but he won't be last. The world is darker than you think. Without me, you're just a freak flailing in the dark."
"You're more terrified you'll always be that useless little girl who watched her family die."
"I—said—shut—UP!"
Jessica snatched a brass desk ornament and smashed it across his skull.
Crack!
The ornament shattered; Anthony didn't blink.
He released her hand.
Jessica backed into the corner, panting like a caged animal.
"Fuck... you," she sobbed, crying hard for ten minutes before quieting.
Anthony straightened his tie. "Feel better?"
"..." She wiped her face, eyes hollow.
"See?" Anthony became the dazzling Anthony Starr again.
He walked to the bar and poured a whiskey.
"You now have two choices, darling. "
He offered the glass; she took it and gulped it like water.
"One: walk out, go back to your roach-hole, keep playing Hell's Kitchen vigilante, drink your cheap booze. Someday you meet another Kilgrave—or worse, SHIELD or the military grabs you, slices you up to study why you jump so high."
'...'
'Two.'
Anthony spread his arms toward the window.
"Join me."
"I'll give you... everything."
"Vought's PR will brand you a hero. Not some alley-brawling street hero— the kind people scream for, buy action figures of, pin posters over their beds."
"I'll also pay you enough to drink top-shelf whiskey for life."
"Most important..."
He turned; something shimmered in his blue eyes—something Jessica couldn't name yet couldn't look away from.
"I can give you approval and... love."
Love?" Jessica blinked.
"Don't you want... to be loved by everyone?"
"I..." her voice cracked, "I fucking... hate you."
"I know," Anthony grinned wider.
"Great start."
"I fucking hate that name."
"Which one?"
"Jones... Queen"
she growled. "Sounds like a stripper's stage name."
"Oh, no no." He wagged a finger.
"That name is fantastic."
It screams strength, independence, defiance— and yeah, it's sexy as hell to say.
You'll get used to it.