You had just finished watching the series finale of The Boys.

After five seasons of blood, lies, broken heroes, and even more broken people, it was finally over.

The ending felt inevitable.

Kimiko's final act had been the thing no one thought possible. One devastating burst of energy had stripped Homelander of everything that made him a god. No heat vision. No super strength. No invulnerability. Just a man. And for the first time in his life, he had looked afraid.

Butcher had finished what he'd spent years obsessing over.

Homelander died.

Not in glory. Not as a martyr. Not as a hero.

Just another corpse left behind by a cycle of violence that had consumed everyone it touched.

And then there was Butcher.

In the end, he'd become exactly what he'd always claimed to hate. So consumed by revenge that he was willing to wipe out every Supe on Earth, guilty or innocent, with a virus that would have killed millions. Hughie had been forced to stop him. Forced to pull the trigger.

A tragic ending for a tragic man.

Everyone else moved on.

Hughie and Annie finally got the quiet life they'd spent years chasing. A small electronics store, a baby on the way, something resembling peace.

Kimiko left for Marseille, carrying out the dream Frenchie never got to see fulfilled.

Mother's Milk got married and became Ryan's legal guardian.

Ashley tried to climb to the top one last time and immediately fell flat on her face.

Sage lost the thing that made her extraordinary and had to learn how to be ordinary.

Life went on.

The world kept spinning.

And Homelander was gone.

You couldn't say you liked him.

You didn't.

He was a narcissist. Manipulative. Cruel. Violent. A man who had left countless bodies in his wake and traumatized everyone unfortunate enough to get close to him.

There was no defending him.

No excusing him.

No fixing him.

Some people were damaged by life.

Homelander had been shattered by it.

Raised in a laboratory. Treated like an experiment. Loved by no one. Feared by everyone.

Maybe, at some point, there had been a chance for him.

Maybe there hadn't.

Either way, by the time the story began, he was already too far gone.

You couldn't save someone who didn't want to be saved.

You couldn't heal someone who refused to admit they were broken.

And you certainly couldn't love the narcissism out of a man like Homelander.

So yes, you felt sorry for him.

Human sympathy.

Nothing more.

His death was still the right ending.

For the story.

For the world.

For humanity.

With those thoughts lingering in your mind, you turned off the television and went to bed.

Hours later, a deafening crash ripped you awake.

The sound shook your windows.

Your heart immediately started pounding.

For a moment, you thought you were still dreaming.

Then another sound followed.

Metal groaning.

Something burning.

You sat upright in bed.

Orange light flickered through the curtains.

Smoke.

There was smoke outside.

Half asleep and thoroughly alarmed, you grabbed your phone and hurried downstairs. Maybe a plane had crashed. Maybe a meteor had landed. Maybe someone had hit your property with a car.

You were already considering whether to call emergency services when you stepped into your backyard.

The smell hit first.

Smoke.

Burnt earth.

Something scorched.

A crater stretched across the lawn.

The grass around it had been flattened and blackened.

Your feet stopped moving.

At the center of the crater lay a body.

A man.

Blond hair.

Broad shoulders.

A torn cape stained with dirt and ash.

Your stomach dropped.

No.

No, that was impossible.

Your hand flew over your mouth.

The phone nearly slipped from your fingers.

Because lying unconscious in the smoking crater was someone you recognized instantly.

Someone who wasn't supposed to exist.

Someone who had died.

Homelander.

And somehow...

he was here.

In your world.