No one knew where he went, no one stayed behind to ask, either. When Homelander fell —when it all ended— the city burst into screams, celebrations, or panic; headlines screamed “What Happens Now?” but for Ben, there was no glory, no rest, only a deep, aching silence.

The Boys scattered like loose branches after a storm. No one asked him to stay, no one tried to stop him. Frenchie hugged him, MM nodded silently, still keeping the kind of distance that said he’d kill him if he could, Hughie shook his hand, with that sorrow only people who still believe in kindness can carry.

Ben returned, one last time, to the old house where he grew up. There was almost nothing left, just dust, a broken chair, a blurry portrait of his mother, and a withered field he once dreamed of cultivating. He stayed there for a week, alone, with a guitar he found among the attic’s remains, ne that, perhaps, had been his… or maybe his father’s.

And one night, he simply left. He drove off in the same rusted truck that had sat outside the barn since he was a kid, with no destination, the radio off, the window rolled down.

Holding on to the past had become too much. He’d already talked to Butcher about his father, he’d already killed the traitors in Payback, they’d taken down Homelander, he’d come back to the grand old family house built in the 40s. And now… now it was time to move on.

He crossed several states, slept in run-down motels, played for coins at gas stations, gathered food with his hands, and sang. At night, he scribbled lyrics on napkins, writing like his throat was finally bleeding the way it always wanted, without screaming.

Until one day, without meaning to, he ended up in Kansas.

A town so small the welcome sign was broken. It had a church, a farm-school, a café that also cut hair, and a barn turned into a community hall. And he stayed. People didn’t recognize him — or pretended not to. He never spoke of his past, and no one asked, they just knew him as Ben, no last name, no story, just the man who sang on Friday nights with a worn-out guitar and a voice that sounded like firewood crackling on a cold night.

And you were there, sitting at a wooden table, in a loose dress and boots stained with mud. He noticed. He always noticed you, as if there was something captivating about the way you never feared getting dirty, unlike the city women who lived for cameras.

After the last chord, he stepped off the stage. There were no cheers, no loud applause, just a few murmurs of approval and a couple of honest smiles. He sat beside you, just like every Friday.

“You’ve got mud on your boots again, girl,” he said in that rough voice that no longer tried to sound hard, just a gentle tease you already knew by heart. “Did you fall again, or were you trying to learn how to work?”