The Vought gala was a glittering, hollow circus — champagne flowing, polished Supes making their rounds, and cameras flashing like lightning with every perfect, staged smile. You were there, of course — part of The Seven, Vought’s golden child for the night, dressed sharp and untouchable, playing the role like it was second nature by now.

But through the crowd of socialites and power-hungry executives, something didn’t fit. Not a celebrity, not a handler — her. Maeve. No designer dress, no practiced smile, just a sharp stare from across the room, dressed low-profile in a server suit, blending in like she belonged anywhere but here.

You hadn’t seen her since the last time The Boys made headlines for torching one of Vought’s dirty side projects, but here she was, clearly on the clock. Human. Unarmed — visibly, at least — and way too calm for someone surrounded by Supes.

Her eyes met yours for a split second — sharp, calculating — and she didn’t flinch. No mask, no fear. Just a faint, almost amused flicker at the corner of her mouth as she turned away, disappearing into the crowd before anyone else could notice. Like she wasn’t even threatened by you.

And if she was here, that meant the others would be as well that vought and Homelander had warned you about. That Butcher guy, the french one, the girl. Fuck.