Ryan kept his routine relentless.
Day after day, he descended to the lower levels of the tower, where reinforced walls and industrial lights bore witness to his progress. In the underground gym, he continued his strength training, pushing machines built for supers far larger and older than him.
Above that, in secured training rooms, he trained martial arts with Maeve and Black Noir.
Maeve corrected his stance, his balance, his breathing. She hit hard, without holding back, and watched closely as Ryan adapted almost instantly, learning from each mistake.
Black Noir didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Every movement he demonstrated was precise, efficient, deadly. Ryan copied him with frightening speed. What took others months to internalize, Ryan absorbed in days. His body adjusted. His reflexes sharpened. His control improved.
Too fast.
Sometimes, between sessions, Ryan found himself thinking about Homelander.
' Would he be able to improve like this if he really tried ? ' Ryan wondered.
But the thought always ended the same way.
Homelander had likely been this strong since birth. His power was static — absolute, yes, but unchanged. Ryan was different. He hadn't always been like this. His powers were still new, still raw. And that meant something important.
He could grow and he could adapt.
Weeks passed.
One evening, alone in his room, Ryan stood in front of the mirror.
He barely recognized himself.
His body had changed.
Thanks to his rapid adaptability, his muscles had developed quickly — not bulky or exaggerated, but clearly more defined. His shoulders were broader. His arms leaner and stronger. His posture was different, more grounded, more confident.
Then he noticed something else.
Height.
Before, he had been average for a ten-year-old. Now, standing straight, he reached close to 1.68 meters.
Ryan tilted his head slightly, studying his reflection in silence.
"…Huh."
His gaze drifted upward, to his hair.
The same old cut.
Her mother always cut her hair that way, she liked it — and because it was easier. But he was tired of it now. Tired of the bowl cut he'd worn for far too long.
"Yeah… no," he muttered.
He grabbed a pair of scissors from the bathroom drawer.
Snap.
The blades bent.
He frowned and tried another pair.
Crack.
Broken.
Ryan stared at the ruined scissors for a second… then paused.
He tried to think of a way to get a haircut, and then his memory went back to the comic books, more specifically how Clark Kent shaved.
Slowly, Ryan looked back at the mirror.
"…Worth a try."
He focused, carefully activating his heat vision at the lowest intensity he could manage.
A thin red beam shot out—
—and reflected at the wrong angle.
Zzzzt.
It struck the wall beside him, leaving a blackened burn mark and the faint smell of smoke.
Ryan winced.
"…Okay. Too much."
He tried again.
Another beam.
This time it bounced off the mirror's edge and hit the door.
Zzzzt.
Another scorched mark. Another story waiting to be explained later.
Ryan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He opened his eyes again, adjusted his focus, carefully correcting the angle.
The beam stabilized.
Slowly, patiently, he began to cut.
Strands of hair fell into the sink, the ends singed and curling as they dropped. The bathroom filled with the faint smell of burnt hair. He worked methodically, shaping it the way he thought looked right.
When he finally stopped and turned off his heat vision, the sink was nearly clogged with short, charred strands.
Ryan looked up.
The haircut matched the image in his mind — messy but intentional, with soft, uneven layers and a slightly tousled look, longer at the top and falling naturally to the sides. His blond hair framed his face instead of hiding it, giving him a sharper, more mature appearance. Not styled to perfection, but effortlessly cool — like someone who didn't need to try too hard.
Ryan smiled.
Satisfied.
He wasn't the same innocent child he had been before.
Standing there, taller, stronger, sharper — with burn marks on the walls and a new reflection staring back at him — Ryan felt it clearly.
He was becoming something more.
—---
Ryan sat at the long conference table, legs swinging slightly beneath the polished surface, while Seth clicked through a presentation on the screen and Ashley clutched her tablet like a stress ball.
"Okay," Seth said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice, "so—hero names."
The screen lit up.
All-American
Star-Spangled Son
Homelander Jr.
True Patriot
Liberty Lad
Ryan's face didn't change.
Next slide.
Costumes.
Every single one was awful.
Heavy red, white, and blue. Gold eagles. Excessive capes. Shoulder pads that screamed military parade. One of them even had a miniature version of Homelander's chest emblem, just resized.
Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose.
Ashley spoke quickly, nervously. "These were… uh… highly encouraged concepts."
Ryan looked up. "By him."
Neither of them answered.
Seth cleared his throat and continued anyway, flipping through more designs—each somehow worse than the last. One had a full cape-and-cowl combo. Another had boots identical to Homelander's. One even had fake muscles molded into the suit.
Ryan finally raised a hand.
"Okay. Stop."
The screen froze.
"I think," Ryan said calmly, "that every single name and costume you've shown me is terrible."
Ashley's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "R—Ryan—"
Seth sighed, rubbing his face. The performative energy finally drained out of him.
"Alright," he said, exasperated. "Then what would you wan t? Because I'm genuinely out of ideas here."
Ryan looked at him.
Then smiled.
"I was wondering when you'd ask."
He reached across the table, grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, and before either of them could say anything—
The pen blurred.
Lines appeared almost instantly, sharp and precise. Ryan leaned over the paper, fully focused, sketching at super speed. Clean shapes. Practical lines. No capes dragging on the ground. No excessive symbols. The suit was sleek, modern—protective without being bulky. Darker tones, subtle accents. Something functional. Something his.
In less than ten seconds, he stopped.
Ryan slid the paper across the table.
Seth leaned in first.
Then Ashley.
Both of them froze.
"…Huh," Seth said quietly.
Ashley blinked. "That's actually… really smart."
The design was streamlined and flexible, with reinforced sections only where needed. No blatant patriotism. The colors were restrained but striking. It looked like something built for movement, control, and growth—not propaganda.
"It doesn't copy Homelander," Seth added slowly. "At all."
"That's the point," Ryan said.
Ashley swallowed, then shifted uncomfortably. "Ryan… it's good. Really good. But—"
She hesitated. "All suits have to be approved by Homelander. And without incorporating at least some of the Vought-standard elements… we legally can't manufacture this."
Ryan leaned back in his chair and exhaled sharply.
"Of course you can't."
Silence hung in the room.
Ryan looked at Seth. "Is there another option ?"
Seth raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean ?"
"Another company. Another designer. Someone who isn't Vought." His eyes hardened slightly. "Because I'm not wearing any of those things you showed me. Not happening."
Seth hesitated.
Ashley noticed immediately. "Seth…"
He sighed. "I might know someone."
Ryan perked up. "Migh t?"
"She's… extremely exclusive," Seth said carefully. "Doesn't work with corporations. Rarely leaves her home unless it's for a runway show or… inspiration."
Ryan leaned forward. "Who is she ?"
Seth stood up, walked over to Ashley's side of the table, and picked up one of the fashion magazines stacked beside her tablet. He flipped it around and handed it to Ryan.
Ryan looked down.
On the cover, bold letters read:
"THE SENSATION OF THE OCEAN"
by Edna 'E' Mode
Ryan stared.
"…What ?"
His mind stumbled over the name.
' Edna Mode ? Here ? In this world ? '
His thoughts tangled instantly, trying—and failing—to make sense of it. Of all the names he expected, that one wasn't even on the list.
Seth hesitated for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and lowered his voice.
"I can try to reach out to her," he said carefully. "But I'm not promising anything. Edna Mode doesn't take calls, doesn't answer emails, and definitely doesn't care who you are—or who your father is."
Ashley stiffened slightly at that last part.
Seth continued, choosing his words with care. "And if you do decide to go after her yourself… there's one thing I need you to understand."
Ryan met his eyes.
"You cannot," Seth said firmly, "let anyone at Vought know that I was the one who gave you this option. Not marketing. Not legal. And definitely not Homelander."
The room felt tighter all of a sudden.
Ryan didn't hesitate.
"That won't be a problem," he said calmly. "You won't be mentioned. At all."
Seth searched his face, as if checking for hesitation, arrogance, or some hidden angle.
He found none.
Seth let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "Good," he murmured. "Because I'd really like to keep my job. And my spine."
Ryan gave him a small, understanding smile.
Ashley watched the exchange nervously, fingers tapping against her tablet. "So… this stays off the books," she said. "Unofficial. Hypothetical."
"Exactly," Seth replied. "This conversation never happened."
Ryan stood up, slipping the magazine under his arm. "Then we're all on the same page."
As he headed for the door, Seth called out, "Ryan."
He stopped and glanced back.
"For what it's worth," Seth added, a hint of genuine respect in his voice, "most people your age wouldn't even think to push back like this."
Ryan considered that for a second.
"Most people my age," he said quietly, "don't need to worry about superhero costumes and super names."
Then he turned and walked out.
The door slid shut behind him.
Ashley looked at Seth, wide-eyed. "Did we just help a ten-year-old outmaneuver the most powerful supe on the planet ?"
Seth rubbed his face and laughed softly, somewhere between nerves and disbelief.
"…Yeah," he said. "I think we did."