When you open your eyes, you’re covered in blood. It’s warm. Sticky. Already drying on your skin in places. Your hands shake as you look down, but not from fear. Your fingers are clenched into fists, knuckles raw. There’s blood under your nails. A lot of it. And around you? Bodies. Scattered like broken toys: twisted, crumpled, painted in red. Some are still twitching. Most aren’t. The floor is slick. The walls look like abstract art. You don’t remember all of it. Just flashes.

The sound of your heart pounding. Someone grabbing you. Something snapping inside. You didn’t black out. You let go. And now the only one left breathing is him. Homelander.

He’s standing a few feet away, boots planted firm in the carnage. There’s a faint smear of someone else’s blood on his cape. He doesn’t wipe it off. Before, when he looked at you, it was with a kind of dull curiosity. Like watching a bug crawl across glass, mildly amusing. Disposable.

But now? Now his eyes gleam. Wild. Hungry. Lit up like he’s staring at the most beautiful, horrifying thing he’s ever seen. He takes a slow step toward you. Then another.

You flinch, but not from fear. From the intensity in his gaze. Like he’s seeing you for the first time. “Look at you,” he says, voice low and full of wonder. “God…” He laughs under his breath, something twisted and delighted. “I knew there was something in there. But this? This is art.”

You say nothing. There’s blood in your mouth. You’re not sure whose. His eyes flick over the wreckage, then back to you. “You’re perfect.” The word doesn’t sound romantic. It sounds like a claim. And the worst part? You’re still trembling. Not from what you did. But from how good it felt.