WEIGHT OF AMERICA || Homelander

007: Hypnotic Madness

The lights of Vought Tower glittered against the city skyline, but to Anastasia, the night felt suffocating. She sat still in her penthouse suite, legs crossed elegantly, while her mind twisted in on itself. Phantasm—her public persona, polished to perfection—was only a mask. Beneath it, Anastasia was anything but composed.

She was spinning in the aftermath of every encounter with him. Homelander.

He haunted the edges of her thoughts, as if his very presence lingered in the corners of the room. Whenever she tried to meditate, close herself off, her mind would drift back to his piercing blue eyes. Those damn eyes. The way they could switch from fake charm to burning cruelty in a heartbeat.

She should have hated him. In many ways, she did.

But there was something else—something grotesque and confusing. It slithered through her like a toxin, a fascination she couldn't squash.

This isn't you. But this is you, or perhaps, are you running away from both, Phantasm or... Anya?

At first, she thought it was curiosity. A fellow creation of Vought, someone who might understand what it felt like to be manufactured and sold as a god. But Homelander wasn't like her. He was a storm—impossible to control, devouring everything in his path. And yet... something about that recklessness tugged at her, made her feel unhinged. Like staring at the edge of a cliff and wanting to jump, just to see what falling felt like — her bipolar mind; making her go batshit the mind and soul. Lounging at one another as the impulsiveness of Anastasia and sense-maker Phantasm clashed like water and fire.

Anastasia cursed under her breath, raking a hand through her hair. Why did he matter so much?

Homelander stood in front of the massive windows of the tower, looking down at the city.

It should have felt good—knowing every person in those buildings worshiped him, either through fear or admiration. But his mind kept circling back to something else. Someone else.

Phantasm.

Not Maeve, not Madeline, not anyone else but that damned bitchy Russian.

A slow, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. She was different. Not in the way the others were. Not like Maeve or Starlight—those were manageable, predictable. Phantasm was something else entirely. The second she had walked into The Seven, Homelander felt his skin prickle. She carried an air that made him... uneasy. Threatened, even.

It had gnawed at him from the beginning—the way she looked at him with those sharp, knowing eyes, like she could see through him. Really see. And that bothered him more than anything else.

What bothered him more was the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about her.

The smallest things sparked his obsession—her voice, low and steady, with just a hint of a Russian accent. The way her presence changed the room without effort, commanding attention. And those moments when she would glance at him, just briefly, and he couldn't tell if she wanted to kiss him or crush his skull.

It was maddening. And it made him want her all the more.

Anastasia wasn't sleeping tonight.

She stood barefoot on the cold marble of her penthouse floor, a glass of bourbon dangling from her fingers — it was her Russian side searing through the glass of composure she set. The alcohol warmed her throat but did little to still her thoughts. Every time she tried to push him from her mind, the memory of him pulled her back. She hated that about herself. The fact that some part of her wanted his approval, even though she despised everything he stood for.