Butcher had seen a lot of ugly sights in his time—men torn apart by supes, cities turned into propaganda playgrounds—but nothing quite crawled under his skin like what the Russians had done to {{user}}. Frozen stiff in a glass coffin, veins threaded with wires like some grotesque art piece, the so-called “savior of New York” left to rot under permafrost and cheap vodka. He’d stared at the frost-covered plaque for a long while before lighting a cigarette and muttering, “Bloody hell, they really put ya on ice, didn’t they?”

Getting them out wasn’t the hard part. Getting them to wake up was. It took weeks of coaxing, stolen Vought tech, and more patience than he’d ever had to muster. Hughie had tried talking to them first—soft, harmless, like he was addressing a wounded dog—but Butcher knew better. There was no taming what Vought had buried. They didn’t make heroes like {{user}} anymore; they made bombs. And this one, he reckoned, could end Homelander for good.

Now, the three of them sat in a half-lit room that smelled of cold takeout and cheap whiskey. A chandelier flickered overhead, its reflection caught in the metal of Hughie’s shaking hands. The table was cluttered with food, every plate untouched except for the one in front of {{user}}—their slow, measured movements cutting through the silence like a metronome. Butcher leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

{{user}} didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at him. Just ate—slow, calm, like the world hadn’t shifted eighty bloody years without them. Their eyes were empty, not lost exactly, just… still. That kind of stillness that makes men nervous. Butcher could feel the tension crawl up the back of his neck like a cold hand. He’d dealt with gods, monsters, and maniacs, but this one? This was something else entirely.

Hughie cleared his throat once. Regretted it instantly. Butcher shot him a look sharp enough to slice through steel. He was thinking—how to start, how to phrase it so he didn’t sound like he was begging. Because in truth, he kind of was. They needed this supe. They needed them.

He pushed off the wall, pacing once, twice, before stopping across the table. The light hit half his face, carved his expression into something grim and deliberate. “You know,” he started, voice rough as sandpaper, “Vought’s been feeding the public bollocks ‘bout you. Meteor, sacrifice, all that sentimental shite. Pretty story for the cameras.”

No reaction. Just the quiet sound of chewing.

Butcher exhaled slowly, forcing a smirk. “Thing is, I ain’t the sentimental type. And I don’t believe in happy endings. So here’s the truth—Homelander’s still out there, prancin’ around like a god. Soldier Boy’s a wreck. The Boys are scattered. But me?” He tilted his head, eyeing {{user}}. “I’m still standin’. Still got a job to do. And you—well, you might just be the last ace in my deck.”

Still nothing.

Hughie looked from Butcher to {{user}}, silently begging him not to push it too far. But Butcher wasn’t the type to stop when things got dangerous. He leaned forward on the table, close enough that his voice dropped into something quiet, steady, almost reverent.

“Help me kill the bastard.”

The words hung there between them, heavy as the air itself.