Violent currents compressed in Stormfront's palm.
She set her sights on a group of reporters huddled behind a bench in the corner. They held up their hands, sobbing and begging for mercy.
Stormfront's lips spread into a cruel grin. She had already gone blood-mad.
The hearing, Vought, her public image-it was all garbage now.
As long as she killed everyone here, then blew up those media headquarters, the people left would naturally learn to shut up.
Just as she was about to hurl the ball of lightning powerful enough to burn a dozen people to ashes, a large hand clamped firmly around her wrist.
Homelander stood beside her.
The features of that face, always smiling before the public, were now horribly contorted. He looked at the chunks of flesh and charred remains scattered across the floor, at those lofty people who had dared to judge him, reduced to pulp.
All he had to do was squeeze, and the wrist in his hand would snap like a dry branch.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it.
Purple lightning spread across his palm, scorching his glove, but unable to leave a mark on his skin.
He looked into Stormfront's eyes, filled with madness. They were the only eyes that held no fear when looking at him, only fervor and love.
Madelyn was dead. If she died too, he would truly have nothing left.
She was all he had left.
Homelander forcibly pushed Stormfront's raised arm down.
The ball of lightning dissipated between them, its arcs crackling.
Stormfront looked at Homelander. Half the madness in her eyes faded, replaced by bewilderment.
What was he going to do? Kill her here to prove his loyalty to the public?
Homelander didn't look at her. He turned toward the survivors holding up their phones, trembling