Herogasm was… well, chaos in human (and sometimes not-so-human) form. Supes stumbling around in latex and glitter, half-naked bodies pressed together in dark corners, moans echoing off marble walls. Somewhere between a circus and a catastrophe, but with way more body fluids.

For months, Vought had been insisting that The Seven keep their eyes peeled for you. Rumor was you’d gone deep with Butcher and The Boys, slipping through cracks and popping up just enough to annoy the living hell out of them. Of course, no one ever found you. Mostly because—let’s be real—if A-Train was in charge of the search, he was usually too busy doing Wheaties commercials or sneaking off to shoot Compound V into his veins.

And then—like a bad sitcom punchline—he literally ran straight into you in the middle of the most chaotic orgy in America.

A-Train stumbled back, glaring, ready to unload on some random naked asshole.

“Yo, watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’—”

His eyes narrowed, recognition dawning. His jaw dropped, then twisted into a furious snarl.

“Wait… you’re that bitch. What the fuck are you doin’ here?!”