Jessica stared at him for a full minute.
The office was so quiet she could hear their breathing.
And suddenly, she felt it—
something unfamiliar tightening in her chest.
Love…
Fuck love.
It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
This golden-haired bastard—this walking ego with a perfect smile—was somehow making her feel… safe.
"Fuck it."
Jessica drained the glass in one go.
"I'm in," she said flatly.
Then she jabbed a finger at him.
"But listen up. I answer to myself. Try to control me, and—"
"And?" he asked mildly.
"And I'll tear this building down."
"Deal."
Antony smiled like a king who'd just won a war.
"Welcome to the Super Seven, Queen Jones."
Ding!
Special Popularity Points +15,000!
"Ashley," Antony said, tapping the intercom.
The door opened instantly.
"Take Ms. Jones to Styling. She needs the Vought baptism."
"Yes, sir."
"Wait—" Jessica was already being dragged toward the door.
"Styling? Baptism? I don't need that—"
"Yes, you do," Antony called after her calmly.
"You need to live up to the name, Queen."
"You blond asshole! Fuck—!"
The door shut.
…
Jessica Jones was officially sealed away by Vought.
Not in a cell.
In hell.
A very clean, very bright, very expensive hell.
She wasn't trained to fight.
She already knew how to fight.
She was trained to look right.
"No, Ms. Jones! Smile! Eight teeth! Like Mr. Homelander!"
"Ms. Jones! That line won't work! You cannot tell civilians to 'get out of your fucking sight'!"
"Ms. Jones! Put down the whiskey! Heroes only drink Vought Energy!"
Jessica felt her sanity slipping.
And then Ashley swiped her tablet.
"We're also polishing your origin story."
"I need a fucking origin story now?"
"Of course," Ashley replied patiently.
"You can't tell the public you hang around Hell's Kitchen beating up junkies."
"Here's the new script:
You, Jessica Jones—a Columbia University dropout—were exposed to alien radiation during the Battle of New York. You became lost. Isolated. Until—"
She smiled.
"You met Homelander."
"He became your lighthouse. You realized… with great power comes great responsibility."
Jessica nearly threw up last night's whiskey.
Then the stylist rolled in the suit.
Jessica froze.
It was white.
Not plain white. Pearlescent. Shimmering.
Sparkly.
On the chest—a gaudy purple-and-gold Q.
"…I'm going to kill you," she growled.
"Oh no, don't say that!" the stylist squealed.
"This is Queen-grade memory fiber! It highlights all your strengths!"
"Ashley!" Jessica turned.
"I will fuck your mother."
"Calm down," Ashley said, stepping back.
"This is your new image. Six weeks of media training, facial control, combat posing."
"I don't need combat posing! I know how to fight!"
"You fight, sweetheart," the stylist said delicately.
"But you don't perform. The audience wants beauty. Ballet. Like this."
He struck Homelander's iconic hands-on-hips pose.
"Get fucked."
Ashley cut in sharply.
"Homelander: Origin premieres globally in six weeks.
You—Queen Jones—will debut at the premiere alongside the Super Seven initiative."
"You'll be the brightest star that night."
"Second only to him."
Jessica stared into the mirror.
At the woman in white armor.
Softened hair. Controlled expression.
She barely recognized herself.
"Jesus fucking Christ…" she muttered.
"Yes! Hold that!" the stylist cheered.
"Just a hint of brokenness. Audiences love that."
-----
Meanwhile, Vought's PR machine erased Jessica Jones from Hell's Kitchen like she'd never existed.
Before the movie release, she had to be a mystery.
-----
Elsewhere, filming for Homelander: Origin wrapped.
Antony returned to his penthouse, poured himself a glass of 1982 "happiness water," and turned on the TV.
Breaking news.
"—Billionaire industrialist Tony Stark's Malibu residence has been attacked by unidentified armed helicopters. The mansion has been completely destroyed and has fallen into the ocean—"
On screen, the cliffside mansion exploded into fire.
"—Mr. Stark is currently missing. His head of security, Happy Hogan, remains in critical condition—"
"—Sources say Stark recently declared war on terrorist groups publicly—"
"Idiot."
Antony shook his head.
"Tony… you never change."
He knew the script.
He always did.
Antony picked up his private Vought line.
"Ashley. Draft a statement.
Vought International and Homelander condemn this cowardly terrorist attack in the strongest terms."
"Homelander will deploy all available resources to locate Mr. Stark.
We declare war."
He hung up.
His blood burned.
Another popularity surge waiting to happen.
And—
Ring. Ring.
Nick Fury.
Antony answered instantly.
"Director Fury," he said, voice heavy with grief and fury.
"I just saw the news. Tony… I can't believe this."
"I'm requesting S.H.I.E.L.D. authorization.
I have to act. These terrorists—"
"Antony," Fury said after a pause.
"Calm down. We're assessing—"
"Assessing?!"
Antony's voice shook perfectly.
"He's my friend! I can't sit back while—"
Silence.
"…We'll share what we have," Fury said at last.
"But be careful. This man is dangerous."
"I was born for dangerous, Director."
Call ended.
The grief vanished from Antony's face.
Permission acquired.
"Excellent."
He smiled.
"Dr. Killian…"
"Don't disappoint me."