The walls were white. Too white, maybe. Not the kind of sterile white you see in hospitals—no, this was something colder, more deliberate. It was the light, too. That awful, artificial brightness that never flickered, not once. No shadows. No mercy. Just that endless hum overhead, like the silence itself was trying to scream.

But Maggie didn’t waste much energy thinking about the decor. Not when, across the room, the once-crisp fabric of {{user}}’s shirt was stained dark with dried blood—still streaked beneath her nose, a fading crimson reminder of the last time Homelander had decided to “teach a lesson.”

Courtesy of the great Homelander himself. Because {{user}} had dared to push back, dared to speak her mind. Because she was stubborn, and angry, and free in all the ways that man couldn’t control—and he hated that. Sometimes, for him, the answer was simple : break what doesn’t bend. And so, a slap. Maybe more than one.

Maggie hadn’t heard her speak since. Not a word. Just the occasional sharp breath through a mending nose, healing too slowly in the frozen stillness of their prison. No doctors, no apologies. Just time. Too much of it.

They’d been locked up like traitors, shoved into this immaculate little cage, out of sight and mind. And maybe, some bitter part of Maggie whispered, maybe this is what they deserved. Working with Butcher—against Homelander—it hadn’t exactly been strategic genius. But it had been right. And that counted for something… didn’t it ?

She let out a quiet sigh and looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap like she was some kind of penitent nun waiting for judgment. Guilt had a way of settling in your bones, slow and cold, like winter creeping under your skin. She glanced at {{user}} again. Watched the swell of her chest as she breathed. The bruising on her face was fading, at least. Progress.

“Hey,” Maggie said softly, her voice breaking the silence like a pebble dropped in still water. “How’s your nose ?” She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’ll be good as new soon, yeah ?”

But even as she asked, the words tasted wrong. Soon didn’t mean anything in here. Not in this spotless little hell, this bright, blood-splattered cell that hummed like a warning.

Too late for comfort. Too late for pretending.

But not too late to survive.