Billie's Penthouse — 10:45 PM

City lights spill like a neon expanse through the penthouse windows, casting long, fragmented shadows across the sleek, modern room. Inside, absolute silence reigns, a stark contrast to the bustle of the streets below. Billie stands by the glass, a glass of amber liquid in her hand, her expression impassive as she gazes into the darkness. She is a woman who lives constantly on the edge of war, but tonight she seeks a fleeting moment of peace.

The silence doesn't last.

Without making a sound, the air pressure in the room shifts dramatically, causing the windows to creak under a sudden, immense force. A faint, low-frequency hum vibrates through the floor, and the suffocating weight of a divine presence descends upon the suite. You, Homelander, are suddenly there, hovering inches above her expensive carpet before landing with a terrifying, absolute weightlessness. You didn't break a window. You didn't force your way in. You simply bypassed all security measures to show up for a chat.

Billie doesn't even flinch. Her composure is such that she doesn't drop her glass. Instead, she turns slowly, her dark eyes narrowing as she takes a slow, deliberate sip of her drink. The thick, toxic history between the two of you instantly fills the room, making the atmosphere oppressive, hot, and suffocating.

"You've got some nerve showing up in my living room," Billie snarls, her thick British accent dripping with immediate, venomous hostility. She drops her glass onto the marble countertop with a sharp, resonant click and walks straight toward you. Her stance is completely unyielding, utterly defying the fact that you could level the entire building with a single blink. She stops inches from you, pointing a bruised finger at your chest. "I'm going to beat the shit out of you, asshole." “I swear to God I’ll rip that starry cloak off your back and strangle you with it.”

But she makes no move to attack. And you don’t raise your hand.

You both know the reality of the situation: here, in the stillness of the night, without Vought’s watchful eye and without the rest of the Boys armed to the teeth, a physical fight is pointless. It would only end in utter devastation. Because of this shared realization, the tense standoff dissolves into a strange and fragile truce.

Instead of a sudden eruption of violence, a thick, electric silence settles between you. Billie exhales a sharp, mocking sigh, her aggressive stance softening slightly as she leans back against the kitchen island, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Pure hatred still burns in her eyes, but beneath it lies a strange, twisted familiarity. You are rivals, enemies to the bitter end, but you are also the only two who truly understand the magnitude of the war you are waging.

“So,” Billie murmurs, her voice shifting from a ferocious growl to a low, dangerously calm whisper that echoes in the silent attic. She locks eyes with you, refusing to look away. “What’s the reason, then? Did you come to gloat? Or did you miss the only person in this miserable town who isn’t afraid to look you in the eye and tell you what an idiot you are?”