He jolted awake, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room. This wasn’t his place. Hell, this wasn’t even Vought Tower. He was sprawled out on some random couch in what looked like someone’s home, with no clue how the fuck he got there.

When he tried to sit up, a sharp pain shot through his torso, forcing him back down with a grunt. His gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. Something had happened—something bad. But what?

“Alright… this is fine,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. If he just stayed calm, someone would come for him. Right?

What he didn’t remember was the fight with The Boys. The way they came at him, the struggle, the blinding pain when one of them drove a blade straight into his gills. The agony was so overwhelming that he blacked out, left for dead in some unknown place. And Vought? The Seven? They probably had no idea where he was.

Or worse—they just didn’t care.