They weren’t just fighting for revenge.
Revenge was only Butcher’s driving force; the others had their own ledgers to balance.
Hughie wanted justice for his dead girlfriend, Robin.
Mother’s Milk wanted to unearth the truth…
Butcher tied each of their personal goals to the grand objective of taking down Vought, ensuring that while they risked their lives for him, they were also doing it for themselves.
When interests align, actions align.
But what the fuck did John have in his past life?
The Seven was his team in name only; in reality, every single member was playing their own hand.
The Deep obeyed him out of fear.
But fear only makes a man bow his head—it doesn’t make him loyal.
The Deep had backed up the black box precisely so he could betray John one day.
A-Train feigned obedience while abusing Compound V in secret, desperate to run faster.
Maeve had been waiting for an opportunity to turn on him from day one.
Translucent was a fool who didn’t even know how he died.
Not a single member of The Seven shared his interests.
Everyone merely bowed their heads temporarily in the face of terror.
But fear is not loyalty.
Fear is a spring—the tighter you compress it, the harder it bounces back.
If he wanted to obtain World Power…
Although John still hadn’t figured out what anchor held the most weight in this world, he could start by building up his own network.
Therefore, he needed to find people whose interests aligned with his.
And if they didn’t, he could use his foresight to manufacture those shared interests.
The Deep needed security; John could provide a far more reliable safety net than Vought ever could.
A-Train wanted a stable supply of Compound V; John could give it to him.
Butcher wanted Becca; John had her address.
Every man had his price.
Then there were those street-level supes far outside Vought’s system, forgotten in the shadows—capable enough, but never commercially packaged.
Or the test subjects tossed into Red River to die after being squeezed dry by Vought.
These people were Vought’s waste, but they could become the sharpest blades in John’s hand.
…
The apartment doorbell rang.
Hughie looked through the peephole.
One of the hallway lights was broken, and under the dim yellow glow stood a tall man in a dark hoodie.
His hood was pulled low, and his face was covered by a solid black mask.
It wasn’t a masquerade style—it was a matte mask, clearly the cheapest kind from a store shelf.
It covered everything above the bridge of his nose, leaving only his mouth and chin visible.
Hughie swallowed nervously.
At this hour…
who would come looking for him?
Could it be someone sent by Butcher?
Hughie studied the masked man carefully.
The man’s shoulders were completely relaxed, his hands hung naturally at his sides, and his weight was evenly distributed between his feet.
He didn’t look like he was here for revenge, nor did he look like an insurance salesman.
“Phew…
I’m just a nobody…”
Hughie comforted himself, then cautiously opened the door a crack, keeping the security chain on.
“Uh…
who are you?”
“You can call me John.”
The man outside pulled his hands out of his pockets—they were empty, with no weapons in sight.
Though muffled, his youthful tone was unmistakable.
He was young, very young, probably not even twenty.
At least Hughie didn’t have any twenty-year-old enemies, nor had he ever seen a supe under twenty active on television.
“So, do I know you?”
“You don’t know me, but you know William Butcher.”
“Are you from Vought?”
“If I were from Vought, you’d have been dead the second I showed up at your door.
You don’t need a brain to know Vought doesn’t knock.”
“Uh…
I guess that makes sense.
Then what do you want with me?”
When Hughie heard the name “Butcher,” he unlatched the chain halfway.
He remembered Butcher telling him that if a stranger brought up his name, not to shut the door immediately—it might be an ally.
But Butcher hadn’t told him that their ally would show up on his own, wearing a cheap mask bought from a convenience store.
“You’d better come in.”
Hughie slipped the chain off and took half a step back, his hand secretly reaching into the shoe cabinet drawer for a crowbar Butcher had left there.
He didn’t pull it out, but his fingers brushed against the cold metal handle.
John, with his exceptional observation skills, naturally noticed Hughie’s subtle movement.
But he ignored it.
With Hughie’s fragile, weak frame?
The kid fought like a coward; he wasn’t a threat at all.
Stepping into the apartment, John swept his gaze across the living room.
Ikea furniture, and a photo displayed on the TV stand.
In the photo, a girl smiled, showing two prominent canines, with the Brooklyn Bridge in the background under bright sunshine.
Beside it sat a coffee cup that had been there for God knew how long, a ring of brown residue dried along the inside.
John’s gaze lingered on the photo for less than half a second before moving away.
“You’re the one who killed Translucent, right?”
John turned around, looked Hughie dead in the eye, and dropped the question out of nowhere.
“Uh…
what?
No, I didn’t!
How could I!”
Hughie, who was still trying to figure out John’s identity, was utterly startled by this.
The man in front of him was definitely not one of Butcher’s friends!
Because only he, Butcher, and Frenchie knew this secret—unless that bastard Translucent was still alive.
“You shoved the C4 up his rectum, didn’t you?”
Hughie’s face went pale.
His hand instinctively reached toward the shoe cabinet.
*It’s over…
I think I just let a wolf into the house…*
*Butcher, get the fuck over here and save me!*
“How the fuck do you know—”
“I investigated.”
John offered a simple statement.
“A-Train ran through a girl named Robin.
You were her boyfriend.
Then Butcher found you and pulled you into his team.
Your first target was Translucent, who should be a pile of mush by now…”
what do you actually want?
Let me tell you, Butcher’s going to be back soon.
He’s…
he’s with the FBI.”
“The FBI?”
Beneath his mask, John let out a polite yet awkward smile.
“So the FBI is ordering you guys to murder people?”
How ridiculous.
What the hell was that bastard Butcher thinking, recruiting an idiot like this?
And this team of idiots was what defeated me?
John couldn’t even bring himself to laugh now.
“Who are you?
A Vought spy?
Or are you digging up dirt on Vought too?”
Hughie’s fingers froze on the handle of the shoe cabinet drawer.
“If that’s how you want to understand it, sure.”
John waved his hand dismissively.
Hughie fell silent for a few seconds.
He scrutinized the masked man before him, his guard raised to the absolute maximum.
“Why should I trust you?”
John walked slowly up to Hughie, stopping within arm’s reach.
“Let’s make a deal, shall we?
Tomorrow, A-Train will show up at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-Fourth Street in Midtown Manhattan.
He’ll be alone.
And right there, in front of you, in front of Butcher, in front of anyone else you want to bring, he will personally admit to killing Robin.”
“That’s impossible!”
At the mention of his enemy—someone he had once idolized but now hated enough to want dead—Hughie stared at John as if triggered by PTSD.
“That bastard A-Train is one of The Seven!
With his hypocritical, fake persona, how could he…
how could he ever do that!”
“That goddamn piece of shit!”
“You don’t have to trust me, but you can trust my sincerity.
Because right now, he should be terrified of me.
Maybe even more than he is of Homelander.”
John pulled a sticky note from his pocket and placed it on the shoe cabinet.
Two addresses were written on it.
“See you tomorrow.”
He opened the door, and the noise of the bustling New York streets rushed in, filling the living room.
*Click.*
The door closed.
Hughie stood frozen in the living room, staring at the sticky note on the shoe cabinet.
After debating with himself for a long time without coming to a decision, Hughie picked up his phone and dialed Butcher’s number.
The phone rang five times.
No one picked up.
He dialed again.
Still no answer.
“Fuck!
Goddamn it, Butcher, which bar are you getting wasted in this time?
Call me back!”