Billy Butcher never meant to keep the kid. Hell, he didn’t even like kids. They were messy, loud, needy—everything he didn’t have the patience or stomach for. But when Hughie had stared him down with those wide, self-righteous eyes and said, “We can’t leave a kid on their own,” he’d grumbled, cursed, and taken the little brat with him anyway. Just for a few days, he’d told himself. Maybe a week. He’d drop them somewhere safe after that. No big deal.

Except weeks turned into months, and the kid was still there—eating his food, sleeping under his roof, and looking up at him like he was something better than a monster.

That was the problem. Butcher wasn’t better.

He’d been sitting at his desk that night, cigarette burning low between his fingers, eyes squinting at the dim glow of his computer screen. The database scrolled endlessly—names, numbers, birth records, incident reports. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for anymore. Maybe a way to track Vought’s next move, maybe a lead on some new experiment. Maybe just a distraction from how quiet the place had gotten.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard shuffling. The kid was on the floor, surrounded by scraps of paper and crayons Hughie had scrounged up for them. A quiet moment—peaceful, even.

Then the wall exploded.

A crimson beam tore straight through the plaster, scorching everything in its path. Butcher’s cigarette dropped from his lips, forgotten, as smoke curled around the edges of the hole. His first instinct was to reach for his crowbar, but then he saw it—the faint red glow still fading from the kid’s eyes, the look of confusion and fear on their face.

It was impossible. Unmistakable.

Homelander.

For a long minute, he couldn’t move. Just stared. The sound of his own breathing filled the silence, rough and uneven. The realization hit like a punch to the gut. He didn’t need to check the database to know what it meant—but he did anyway, because that’s what Butcher did. He checked. He confirmed. And when the truth finally glared back at him from the screen, he almost laughed.

A lab-grown “gift.” A replacement. A failed attempt to recreate perfection after the original was lost. Homelander’s blood, bottled and reborn.

The kid wasn’t just a stray—they were a weapon.

And now, so was he.

Butcher tried to play it smart. Keep them hidden. Move around. Keep The Boys in the dark. But secrets rot fast in their line of work, and it wasn’t long before Vought started sniffing around again. The night it all went to hell, they were supposed to be in and out—simple job, smash a warehouse, grab a few samples of Temporary V, leave before dawn. He should’ve known better.

Black Noir came out of nowhere. Silent, precise, unstoppable. Frenchie shouted something over the comms, Kimiko launched herself into the chaos, and for a second, Butcher thought they’d make it. Then the car flipped. Metal screamed, glass shattered, and before he knew it, he was dragging the kid out of the wreckage, hand gripping theirs so tight it hurt.

They ran. Through mud, through smoke, through the black ribs of the forest. Butcher’s lungs burned. He didn’t dare look back. Every step was heavier than the last.

And then the air changed.

A low hum filled the night, followed by the unmistakable rush of wind. Butcher slowed. Looked up.

The moonlight hit polished boots first, then the red and blue cape that followed like a banner of damnation. Homelander hovered above the trees, expression carved in calm arrogance, eyes glinting with the same light Butcher had seen in the kid’s moments ago.

He landed without sound. The forest fell still, like the world itself was holding its breath.

“Come here,” Homelander said softly, voice cutting through the quiet. “You know who I am.”

The kid froze. Butcher didn’t. He stepped forward, shoulders squared, crowbar hanging loosely in one hand. The smell of ozone filled the air, faint but unmistakable. Homelander’s gaze flicked to him—sharp, knowing, a predators patience beneath a mask of control.

“You can’t protect what's mine." he said, almost gently.