Homelander stood on the rooftop of Vought Tower, a god surveying his kingdom. A single, well-polished boot rested on the ledge, as his eyes scanned the city sprawling out below him. From up here, he could see the ant-like masses moving through the streets, oblivious to the gaze of their protector, their hero. Their Homelander. He allowed himself a slow, easy smile, feeling the cool night air whip at his cape, making it flutter like an American flag in a storm.

Below, they cheered for him, waved their flags, wore his symbol over their hearts. They saw him on TV screens, in magazines, plastered across billboards, larger than life and just as perfect. And why shouldn't they? He was made to be perfect, crafted in the purest image of American strength and valor. But tonight, he had felt the tension. Tonight, he’d sensed a shift—a crack in the veneer of adulation that made his gut twist and burn with a quiet rage he worked so hard to keep in check.

Where had it gone wrong?

His eyes narrowed as he remembered the protest he’d seen just hours before, the small yet vocal group gathered outside the tower, waving signs, chanting. Anti-Vought rhetoric? Anti-Homelander? The audacity. They screamed his name as though it were some curse, spat at the symbol he wore with such pride, and called for “accountability.” Accountability. From him?

A faint red glow flickered behind his eyes as he thought about the possibilities, his vision almost blurring from the restrained heat. He could turn this entire city to ash if he wanted to, level it and start fresh. He could make them beg for his mercy, force them to earn his love back. But no, no—that wasn’t the way, not yet. There were appearances to maintain, images to uphold. Homelander was a hero, after all. That was the role they’d crafted for him, and he played it well. So well, in fact, that they’d forgotten the razor’s edge hidden beneath his smile.