Sub-Level 50 of Vought Tower was drowning in that harsh, surgical kind of white light that makes everything look even more unforgiving.
I stood in the hallway, hands relaxed behind my back, dressed all in white—my suit still perfectly pressed.
A pack of Vought forensics in hazmat suits swept the floor with UV lights and swabs, desperate to catch a ghost—something, anything.
Madelyn Stillwell was on my left.
Her suit looked like it came straight off the mannequin, but she stood stiff as a board, anxiety prickling beneath the surface.
Then there was Homelander on my right, staring at the ten-ton titanium vault door someone had just tossed aside like a toy.
His jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grinding.
“Walk me through the timeline,” Homelander said, voice low but sharp, echoing through all that empty space.
One poor tactical chief in his black uniform stepped forward, already sweating bullets, holding up a tablet.
“It was a highly coordinated, two-pronged strike, sir,” he said, hands shaking while Homelander glared him down.
“At 1:04 AM, a team hit our Triad black site in Newark—heavy munitions, all-out assault.
Pulled our best teams straight out of the building.
Then at 1:06, this corridor went dark.” Stillwell crossed her arms.
“The cameras?” “Four kinetic rounds,” he replied, swiping some grisly pictures onto the screen.
“Fired all at once to blow out every camera in sight.
Once the guards were taken out—blunt force straight to the carotid—the whole surveillance grid was dead.
The server didn’t record a thing.
Not even a blur.” Homelander strode up to the battered vault door, running his gloved hand along the wrecked hinges.
“Hydraulics.” His eyes lit up with something dangerous as he turned to Stillwell.
“Military-grade hydros.
Quiet, insane pressure.
Just tore these right off.” “That’s our working theory, John,” Stillwell managed, keeping her voice steady and in control.
“A well-funded, well-armed anti-Supe group.
Same ones who hit the Triad warehouse.
That entire Newark assault?
All just a distraction.
Gave them the opening to roll the heavy gear in here.” I didn’t let a hint of emotion show.
Let Vought keep telling themselves their story.
They couldn’t imagine anyone outside their leash pulling a stunt like this, so naturally, Butcher was their villain.
“They’re humans,” Homelander hissed, acid in his voice.
“Just people.
Mud-people, breaking in here and stealing from me.” “We’ll find them,” Stillwell said, cool and calm.
“We’re throwing every resource at this.
Black Noir’s on the breach analysis now.” Homelander didn’t answer—just swept past, cape flaring, abandoning the ruined vault.
When he was gone, Stillwell finally exhaled, shaky and long, then faced me.
“I need you in the air, Invincible,” she snapped back into her stone-cold executive mode.
“If that cell goes public, we need a friendly, calm face over the city.
Do a patrol.
Remind everyone we’re in charge.” “Consider it done, Madelyn,” I said, playing it just as smooth.
Ten minutes later, I was above Manhattan, three thousand feet up, tucked in the freezing cloud cover.
Not really patrolling, though.
I closed my eyes and focused—casting my Viltrumite hearing toward the Flatiron District, right to a particular basement under a rundown pawn shop.
The aftermath of the Newark job was chaos.
“Hold her bloody arms down!” Butcher yelled.
“She is terrified, Butcher!
You’re making it worse!” Frenchie shot back.
I listened in—pure pandemonium.
Kimiko was chained to a rusted pipe in the basement’s corner—thrashing, panic in overdrive, rattling the chains so hard you’d think the brick walls would collapse.
Hughie was losing it in the background.
His heart hammered so fast I could barely imagine what he looked like.
“We’re dead,” Hughie gasped, pacing like a trapped animal.
“We hit a warehouse, shot some goons, and kidnapped a girl who rips heads in half.
Vought’s going to kill us!” “Calm down, Hughie,” Butcher grunted, fishing for his first-aid kit and slapping it open with a snap.
He started patching up the claw marks on his chest.
“We got what we needed.
We got proof.” “We kicked a hornet’s nest!” Hughie shrieked, on the verge of panic.
“Every hit squad in the world is coming!” “Let them,” Butcher shot back, eyes on Kimiko.
“We lay low, figure her out, and use her to burn Vought to the ground.” Frenchie went soft, mumbling in French and English, offering Kimiko some water—his gentle voice slowly working.
Her wild thrashing faded into exhausted, ragged breathing.
The cold wind whipped at my face.
I opened my eyes.
Butcher didn’t see the real storm coming.
He thought Vought wanted him for setting a freak loose.
He didn’t know they were after a vault of pure Compound V.
Things were about to get nuclear for The Boys.
Pressure like this?
Either it shatters you, or you turn into something unstoppable.
The more Vought tried to crush Butcher, the closer he’d get to the truth.
Below me, the city buzzed along, clueless as ever.
No idea how close war was humming in the wires right beneath their feet.