When you agreed to carry Soldier Boy’s child—a last-ditch experiment to create something better, stronger, a legacy worth salvaging—you never actually thought it would work. Hell, maybe a part of you prayed it wouldn’t. Especially since it wasn’t even the traditional route. No passion, no moment of weakness—just a clinical transaction. Vought handed you a syringe filled with whatever they scraped out of a cup after Soldier Boy got off, and you let them inject it.

Still, against all odds, you got pregnant. And nine brutal months later, you survived the birth—barely—thanks only to the fact that you were a Supe yourself. What came out of it wasn’t just a success. He was a boy. Your boy.

You begged them not to name him John. You really did. But the second he took his first breath, the branding had already begun. They called him Homelander.

And yet… despite the DNA stitched into him like a loaded weapon, he’s nothing like him. Not yet. He’s sweet. Soft. A total mama’s boy. And now, just a few months old, he’s in your arms as you walk him through the cold halls of Vought Tower—his first taste of the world he was born to dominate.