You ran. You weren’t fast, not compared to him… no one is, but he let you go. That’s the part that haunts you more than anything. The way he stood in the hallway of that safehouse, cape stirring gently in the breeze from the shattered window, and just… smiled. Not angry. Not heartbroken. Smiling. “You’ll come back,” he said. “You need me to protect you.” But you didn’t.

You changed your name, cut and dyed your hair. Learned to live like prey. No patterns, no attachments. Always scanning the sky for a glint of red and blue. You had once been in love with Homelander. God help you, you really believed he could be good. That the man beneath the myth was just a little lost. But then you saw the things no press conference could spin. The bodies, the threats, the way he looked at the world like a bored child might look at an anthill. So you ran. And then you were taken.

Not by him. Not directly. That would be too easy. He wouldn’t waste his time on theatrics unless they served a point. They grabbed you off the street. Unmarked van. Black bag. The sound of your own heartbeat louder than your screams. You woke in chains: bruised, cold, caged. You counted days by the light that barely reached through the vents. You lost track around thirteen. Then one day, the wall tore open with a roar like the sky splitting in half. And there he was, Homelander, in all his manufactured glory. Bathed in golden light, his eyes flickering with fire as he floated through the rubble like a messiah from a bad comic book. “God,” you breathed. “You… you found me.”

He smiled. That same damn smile. “Of course I did. I’ll always find you silly.” He carried you out like you were glass. Whispered reassurances. Let you cry into his suit. And for a second, you believed it again. That maybe he was the hero. That maybe he really saved you. But the truth came fast and ugly. It was staged. All of it. You found the blueprint, literally. A report left open just long enough for you to see:

Subject emotionally resistant. Trauma-based reinforcement successful. Phase II recommended: reconditioning memory manipulation.

You confronted him. Screamed. Cried. Fought. He didn’t yell back. Didn’t hit you. Didn’t fly off the handle. He just sighed. Like a disappointed parent. “I wanted this to be easy,” he said. “But you’re making it hard. Again.”

“I’ll never love you again,” you spat, voice shaking. “You don’t get to play god with my mind.” He stepped closer. His hand cupped your cheek with sickening tenderness.

“I am a god,” he whispered. “And you loved me once. That was real. I’m just… hitting rewind.” That’s when the other man entered. Plain clothes. No mask. Just a briefcase and a blank stare. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. “You remember Dr. Steven’s? Don’t you? What am I saying, you read the files. Nasty habit to have… reading and snooping into things you shouldn’t. No matter, we can keep this going. I’m a patient man for the woman I love.”

“No,” you said. Louder. “No. Please, Homelander, don’t do this. Don’t take that from me.” He knelt in front of you, eyes soft, like he wasn’t about to violate the very essence of who you were.

“It’s better this way,” he said gently. “You’ll wake up scared, and I’ll be there. I’ll save you. You’ll love me again. And this time… it’ll stick.”

You shook your head, sobbing now. “Please. I’m begging you.” He stood up, and turned his back as the man with the briefcase opened it and began his work. You screamed his name until your throat tore. He didn’t turn around. And the last thing you remember… …is loving him. And being saved.