On the wasteland.
The night wind blew past, carrying a thick, acrid stench.
Chen Mo casually crushed the lens of a drone on the ground. His heavy black-and-red armor rapidly dissolved like melting wax, and the roiling flesh and blood retreated into his body.
Two seconds later, he was back in his nondescript gray hoodie and casual pants.
"All right, quitting time. Time to go home and sleep."
Chen Mo brushed some nonexistent dust off his sleeves, shoved his hands into his pockets, and headed toward the city.
By the time he returned to the safe house, it was nearly the second half of the night.
Chen Mo took out his key and opened the door as quietly as he could, but the hinges still gave a creak.
The living room lights were off again. Only the laptop screen cast a faint glow over Allen's unshaven face.
Mia was curled up in the corner of the couch, a thin blanket draped over her and a cushion worn from washing clutched in her arms.
At the sound from the door, she immediately looked up.
Chen Mo pulled the door shut, locked it behind him, and raised a hand in greeting.
"Still up? Staying up late will stunt your growth, and I'm not taking the blame for that."
She slowly climbed off the couch and walked barefoot over to Chen Mo, tilting her head back to look at him.
"You smell burnt."
"Oh." Chen Mo scratched his chin, his tone casual. "I went out for a walk and saw someone grilling late-night snacks at a roadside stand. There was a lot of smoke."
Mia shook her head.
"It's not just the burnt smell." Mia looked into his eyes. "There's fire on you too. A really, really big fire."
Chen Mo didn't answer.
Mia paused, her voice growing even quieter as she gently rested a hand on Chen Mo's knee, as if afraid of waking something.
"I also heard lots of people shouting."
The old air conditioner's outdoor unit wheezed and rattled outside the window.
The smile on Chen Mo's face faltered for a moment, and he looked down at Mia.
The girl's ability had probably grown stronger again. Or rather, she had an extraordinary sensitivity to the bloody scent left after the Blacklight Virus had preyed on someone.
The two stared at each other for a while.
Chen Mo suddenly sighed, placed a large hand on Mia's head, and tousled her hair a couple of times.
"Kids shouldn't go sniffing and listening to everything." He curled his lip. "Adults have a lot of garbage in their heads. Listen to too much of it and kids get stupid."
Mia's hair was a mess. She ducked her head in protest but didn't pull away.
"Will you get stupid too?"
"I'm different," Chen Mo said with a straight face. "I'm already an adult whose garbage sorting was a failure."
Mia blinked.
Allen: ...
This guy really had an answer for everything.
But as he watched Chen Mo stand back up, he felt there seemed to be something else buried beneath the joke.
He was just used to covering up unpleasant things with flippant jokes.
"Stop lecturing Mia for now." Allen turned the laptop around. "Take a look at this."
An emergency news report was playing on the screen.
The anchor sat in a brightly lit studio, looking grave and speaking in a steady voice.
[Tonight, a serious gas pipeline explosion occurred near an old highway on the outskirts of the city. The fire is now under control.]
The broadcast switched to aerial footage.
Most of the old highway had collapsed, a charred crater had been blasted into the wasteland, and several armored vehicle wrecks had been burned down to their frames.
The anchor continued:
[According to the preliminary investigation at the scene, there were no casualties in the incident. Citizens are advised not to panic.]
Chen Mo watched the screen in silence for two seconds.
"A gas pipeline?"
He pointed at the crater, which was almost big enough to fit a small building.
"Is their gas made from some family heirloom hydrogen bomb?"
Allen dragged the progress bar forward. Several interviews with experts appeared on the screen, talking about aging pipes, underground cavities, and safety hazards.
"The faker this news is, the more desperate they are." Allen closed the laptop, his expression grim. "What did you go do today? I keep feeling like they're about to make a desperate move."
Chen Mo pulled out a chair, sat down, and took a sip of water.
"What else can they do? Send me a lawyer's letter?"
"Vought really would do that."
"Then I'll have to see whether their lawyer can take a beating."
Allen looked at him, his mouth twitching.
Fine.
Same old him.
Vought Tower.
Only one floor lamp was on in the office.
Homelander lay with his head in Madelyn's lap, half his cape draped over the edge of the couch. Several charred tears marked the suit over his chest.
Madelyn looked down at him, gently running her fingers through his disheveled blond hair and brushing away the dust bit by bit.
"John." Her voice was soft. "Look at me."
Homelander's lashes fluttered, but he didn't look up.
He stared at the ceiling as if looking at something no one else could see. After a long time, he finally spoke in a hoarse voice.
"I can't beat him."
Madelyn's fingers paused.
Homelander went on as if he hadn't noticed. "Heat Vision didn't work. My fists didn't work. Even smashing him into the ground didn't work. He can recover, get stronger, and take the abilities of the people he devours."
His Adam's apple bobbed.
"The way he looks at me... it's like he's looking at a juicy piece of meat."
Madelyn lowered her head and pressed her palm against his cheek.
"That's only because you're tired," she said gently. "You went through a terrible fight. Anyone would be affected."
"I'm not just anyone. I'm Homelander. I'm supposed to win."
Homelander's voice grew lower as he spoke.
Madelyn watched him, knowing full well that ordinary comfort was no longer any use.
That monster had eaten Lamplighter tonight, nearly swallowed Black Noir, and forced Homelander to retreat with Stormfront.
Next time, Chen Mo would only be harder to deal with.
But she couldn't let Homelander keep wallowing in self-pity.
Vought could afford to lose Homelander, but Madelyn couldn't.
"Of course you're not just anyone." Madelyn leaned down and brushed a smudge of dust from beside his eye with her thumb. "You're Homelander. You're the hero they believe in, and the most powerful being in this country."
Homelander closed his eyes and clenched his hand.
"I'm not the strongest anymore."
After he said those words, silence fell over the office.
Madelyn looked at him and slowly took his hand.
"Then become the strongest again, John."
Homelander finally looked up at her.
Madelyn met his gaze. Her tone remained gentle, but there was a hint of probing in it.
"Vought created you, which means miracles can happen more than once. John, maybe you still have a chance to become stronger."
Homelander stared at her for several seconds.
"You mean an experiment?"
Madelyn gently stroked his hair.
"I'm saying we still have a chance, John."
Homelander closed his eyes again, his breathing a little heavier than before.
Madelyn bent down and kissed his forehead.
"You won't lose a second time."
Homelander lay in her lap, his lips moving.
"What if he gets stronger too?"
Madelyn's fingers paused slightly, then resumed their gentle stroking.
"Then you'll be stronger than him."
In another room in the same building.
Edgar stood before a screen, having reviewed all the combat data.
Heat Vision clashes, lightning resistance, fire manipulation, telekinetic suppression, flight, and super-speed reactions.
Every item had a red warning beside it.
Edgar removed his glasses and slowly wiped them.
"Notify Project Team Two."
The assistant paused in surprise.
"Sir, that project has never been disclosed to the board."
"That's why it has value."
Edgar put his glasses back on, his voice calm.
"Tell them to prepare the samples, along with the complete combat records."
"And the objective?"
Edgar looked at the black-and-red shadow in the paused image.
"First, understand him."
In the basement of a motel on the outskirts of New York.
Butcher sat on a rusty folding chair, half an unlit cigarette between his teeth, his rough fingers tapping his thigh.
Mother's Milk stood behind him with his arms crossed, his brow knotted.
Across from them, a middle-aged white man was curled up on a single bed, still trembling.
He was one of the survivors of Flight 37, whom they had finally managed to track down.
"Mate, have some water." Mother's Milk sighed, picked up a bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the cap, and pressed it into the man's hand. "Don't be scared. We're not with Vought, and we're not trying to kill you to keep you quiet."
The man gripped the bottle with trembling hands and took several gulps before calming down a little.
"You... you really just want to know what happened that day?"
Butcher spat out the cigarette butt and leaned forward.
"More than that." He stared at the man. "I want to see what you recorded."
The man's face went a shade paler. He was clearly hesitating.
Vought's public relations department had been silencing people everywhere these past few days. Several who refused to cooperate had already "disappeared in accidents."
Butcher pulled a large revolver straight from his jacket pocket and slammed it onto the sheet-metal table in front of him.
"Either show me, or I'll open up your head and find it myself."
The man shuddered all over at that. He hurriedly pulled an old folding-screen phone from an inner pocket close to his body and handed it over.
Butcher snatched the phone and opened the only encrypted video on it.
The picture was blurry.
Inside the cabin, the turbulence was extreme, and screams of despair could be heard clearly.
Then the camera shook and turned toward the window.
A vast, horrifying mass of blood-red could faintly be seen churning through the dark clouds.
Then enormous black-and-red tendrils pressed directly against the plane's exterior, as if they were alive.
A pair of gigantic wings of flesh and blood, each at least a hundred meters long, spread from beneath the plane. They dragged the steel behemoth, hundreds of tons in weight, to a halt and steadied its descent in midair.
Mother's Milk leaned in for a look, sucked in a deep breath, and couldn't help swearing.
"God, what kind of monster is that..."
Butcher said nothing.
He paused the video, freezing the image on that terrifying black-and-red flesh.
After a long time.
Butcher pocketed the phone and rubbed his stubbled chin, his gaze heavy.
"This thing's obviously not with Vought." He sounded as though he were talking to himself, yet also as though he were asking Mother's Milk. "But if he's not one of Vought's dogs..."
Butcher paused, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Then whose fucking side is he on?"