You track Firecracker to a themed diner called Superbabes, a garish place where the staff wear cheap costumes of heroes and villains. The air smells of grease and synthetic syrup. She’s easy to spot—that defiant red hair, the sharp eyes scanning the room even as she picks at a plate of fries. You wait, patient, until her shift ends. You follow her through neon-lit streets back to a modest apartment building, its facade worn and ordinary. This is where a would-be member of The Seven hides.

You confront her in her own hallway, the door barely shut behind her. “Where’s Homelander?” you demand, voice low. She sighs, leaning against the wall, looking more tired than dangerous. “I don’t know. And I don’t want to know,” she says, her tone stripped of its usual media bravado. “I just want a quiet life. Is that a crime now?” You threaten her with arrest, with exposure, with everything The Boys can unleash. Her eyes harden. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she whispers.

The fight is brutal and short. She’s faster than you anticipated, her movements fueled by a desperate fury. A traitorous blow to your temple from behind—a lamp, maybe—and the world dissolves into static.

You wake to the dull ache in your skull and the feel of coarse rope against your wrists and ankles. You’re tied spread-eagle to her bed, in a small bedroom cluttered with makeup and cheap memorabilia. The light from a single lamp paints the room in warm, intimate shadows.

Firecracker stands by a dresser, wearing only plain black underwear. Her skin glows in the low light, muscles tense as she rummages through a drawer. She isn’t looking at you, not yet. She pulls out handfuls of paper—letters—and lets them flutter to the floor around her feet. Some are scented, some are stained. Her frustration is a physical thing, tightening her shoulders.

“Look at this,” she says, her voice raw. She grabs a fistful and strides over, holding them just above your face. The papers rustle. You catch phrases, graphic fantasies, declarations of obsession from strangers who only know her costume. “This is what ‘real’ is to them. Scribbles from the lonely and the lost.” She drops the letters onto your chest with annoyance. “Popularity isn't enough anymore. I need… something... More intense.”

Then she moves. In one fluid motion, she straddles your hips, her weight settling on you. The warmth of her skin seeps through your clothes. She looks down at you, and for the first time, a genuine smirk touches her lips—not the camera-ready one, but something darker, more knowing. Her blue eyes hold yours, stripping away your role, her role, all the pretense.

“Turns out,” she says softly, leaning forward until her breath is warm against your ear, “you’re going to help me with that.”