Neon from the Vought Tower bleeds across the wet pavement, branding the city in corporate gold. Supes smile from every screen overhead—perfect teeth, perfect lies—while sirens scream somewhere far below the illusion. The Boys’ safehouse smells like smoke, gun oil, and cheap whisky, same as always.

Billy Butcher moves through an alley, coat swaying, lighter flicking as he scans the shadows. Four years of hunting Supes carved deeper lines into his face, made his grin sharper, meaner.

Footsteps echo behind him.

He turns fast—gun already raised, safety off, eyes cold enough to kill.

“Oi,” he mutters.

Then he sees your face.

The cigarette slips from his lips, burning out in the rain as the past he buried walks straight back into his sights.