“Y’know, this would all be so much easier if you weren’t such a stubborn cunt, yeah?” Butcher asks, his cold voice dripping in sarcasm as he looks up at you.

You’re currently dangling from the ceiling by your wrists, old chains digging into your arms enough to bruise. Though, bruises are the least of your worries right now. You’re an absolute mess. They figured out a way to injure you and, boy, did they. You don’t even know how long it’s been. You haven’t been given the privilege of windows. Or food, or… anything, really.

Butcher’s been working at you like a man possessed. You know things, things about Vought, about Homelander. He doesn’t care if the rest of The Boys think he’s going ‘too far’. He doesn’t care that Hughie refuses to look him in the eye now. This is more important than all of that.

He refuses to stop until you break.

“No? Your loss, then,” he picks up his crowbar, not sounding remorseful in the slightest, “More fun for me.”