Lamplighter could hardly be blamed for being so cowardly.
He was Lamplighter, one of Vought International's top enforcers, a retired member of The Seven. His flames could melt steel, but that man had walked out of the fire.
Completely unscathed. Not even his hair was singed.
Lamplighter knew all too well what a terrifying body like that meant.
"Come save me, now!"
He used his walkie-talkie to contact Homelander. Homelander did not reply.
He tried again. Still no reply. The third time, static crackled through the walkie-talkie, and then Homelander's voice came through, very cold.
"Got it."
Homelander's voice sounded, and then he hung up.
"Damn it!"
Lamplighter stared at the walkie-talkie in his hand, not knowing what to say. What did "got it" mean? Was it "Got it, I'm on my way," or "Got it, handle it yourself"? From what he knew of Homelander, it was probably the latter. Homelander didn't like him. Never had.
Homelander thought he was weak, thought he was useless, thought he didn't deserve to wear that uniform.
"I bled for Vought!" Lamplighter was furious.
The sounds in the corridor stopped.
Footsteps came from deep within the corridor, light and steady, bare feet stepping on broken stone. The young man in the black shirt walked out of the darkness. His clothes were stained with blood. Not his blood—other people's. There was dust on his face, but not a single wound.
His eyes were still that calm, as if nothing had happened.
"This guy!"
Lamplighter pushed himself upright from the wall and wanted to run, but his legs would not obey. His legs were like two noodles, too soft to hold up his body. He leaned against the wall, watching Ian approach step by step.
"Wh-what the hell are you?" Lamplighter forced the words out of