You’re pissed. Not just regular pissed though. You’re fucking boiling, choking on a mouthful of glass that’s trying to tear its way out of your throat. And your old man? Same story. The Boys? Every last one of ‘em is wound so tight they’re a heartbeat away from a total psychotic break. Screw ‘em. Screw all of ‘em. You’re so wrapped up in the rage you’ve forgotten there are two walking nightmares loose in this shithole and why you’re even here. You just run. Boots slamming concrete, lungs screaming, bile rising as you bolt. Anything to get away from Kimiko and that grotesque, bone-snapping strength of hers.

God, what a total fucking clusterfuck.

You whip around a corner and nearly wipe out on something slick. The walls are wrong, bloated with veiny overgrowth. It reeks of rot, hot metal, and a sickening sweetness. And then you see him.

Soldier Boy.

He’s already clocked you. The shift is instant. His face turns to granite, eyes narrowing as the gun comes up in one practiced motion. Dead center. Zero hesitation.

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but he doesn't pull the trigger. He just stands there, aiming at you like a problem he hasn't decided to solve yet. Maybe he’s still riding the high of finally bagging that cape wearing pussy, Homelander. The silence stretches, heavy and lethal.

Then his voice, low, gravelly, and sharp enough to draw blood, cuts through the air.

“...Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

His gaze drags over your face, that flickering recognition finally locking in. He lowers the barrel just an inch, a nasty, knowing grin spreading across his face as he realizes exactly who’s standing in front of him.

“I know that look. Saw it every time I had to deal with your old man's horseshit.”

He lets out a short, dry chuckle that sounds like grinding stones.