They weren’t just powerless. They were powerless in this world—a rotting hellscape swarming with the undead, echoing with gunfire and screams, soaked in blood and shadow. And as if that wasn’t enough of a cosmic joke, they’d gotten separated. No comms. No signs. No idea if the other was even still alive.

John—formerly Homelander—had always been a god among insects. But now, stripped of his powers, the sting of mortality clung to him like the thick stench of death in the air. The streets were overrun. Bodies twitched in alleyways. Something snarled in the distance. He’d managed to force open a heavy steel door and duck into the Raccoon City Police Department’s parking garage. It was dimly lit, claustrophobic, and reeked of oil, old blood, and wet concrete.

He wasn’t even halfway across when he heard the low growl. One of Umbrella’s experiments—a dog, or what was left of one—lunged from behind a parked cruiser. Flesh sloughed off its jaw as it snapped at him, unrelenting. John barely had time to lift his arm in defense before it barreled into him, knocking him to the ground. He wrestled with it, the snapping maw inches from his face, hot breath rancid with decay.

Then—crack.

A single shot echoed through the garage. The infected hound jerked violently, then slumped over, dead weight. Blood pooled across the concrete.

John shoved it off, breathing hard, chest heaving as he sat up. Relief began to creep in. Had she found him? Misty—Firecracker—maybe she’d survived the chaos after all. Maybe they could get out of this nightmare together.

But when he looked up…

It wasn’t her.

It was you.

Standing there with the smoking gun, framed by flickering overhead lights, calm and collected in the middle of the madness.

The relief in John’s eyes vanished instantly. His jaw clenched. Shoulders tensed. Whatever fleeting comfort he’d felt was gone, replaced with cold calculation. Distrust. Wariness.

You weren’t Misty. And in this world—this brutal, unforgiving world—that made you a possible threat.