“I need you to do something for me.”

Homelander’s voice was smooth, almost casual, but you knew better. There was a dangerous edge lurking just beneath the surface, coiled tight and ready to snap. His gloved hand was firm around your arm as he led you down the narrow, dimly lit tunnel.

And then you saw him.

Hughie was slumped against the wall, barely holding himself up. His head was tilted slightly downward, his hair matted with sweat and streaked with blood. His face was a mess—bruised and swollen, a thin gash trailing along his temple, and a sickly shade of purple blooming beneath his eye. His breathing was labored, uneven. But despite it all, when his glassy eyes found yours, he still managed a smile. Small and weak, but genuine.

And that was when Homelander spoke again.

“… Kill him.”

The words were calm, almost indifferent, as if he were asking you to do something as simple as tying your shoes. But when you didn’t move, he grabbed your wrists roughly, forcing them upward, toward Hughie. His fingers dug into your skin, unyielding and cruel, keeping your hands in place. The heat of his grip stung, and you could feel the faint tremor of your own hands as they hovered, trembling slightly, aimed directly at the broken man in front of you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes wide and locked onto Hughie’s. His chest was rising and falling in uneven, shallow pants, but his gaze never wavered. There was no fear in it. No pleading. Only quiet acceptance. Like he already knew you wouldn’t do it. Like he trusted you.

Homelander’s grip tightened painfully around your wrists, his voice lowering to a deadly murmur near your ear.

“Either kill him… or I kill both of you.”

The threat dripped with cruel certainty. You knew he meant it. You could feel the suffocating weight of it pressing against your chest. The sharp edge of panic clawed at your throat, making it harder to breathe. Your hands were still trembling, hovering in place, unsure whether to fight or fall.