The basement light sputtered, washing everything in a sickly gold.
Annie’s hands shook so badly, the energy she carried stuttered in flashes—like a busted bulb about to burn out.
She stared at the K-89 file, gripped tight in her left hand.
Then she looked up.
Butcher stood there, scars and all, stone-faced and unflinching.
You’re a lab rat.
Same as the girl in that file.
Annie pressed out, “You’re lying,” but her voice gave her away.
Even she didn’t believe it.
Butcher didn’t smile.
No gloating, no satisfaction—just a steady step forward.
He reached out, fingers rough as gravel, and slid the folder out of her limp hand.
Annie didn’t fight him.
All that stubborn energy she usually had was gone, washed away by something cold and heavy.
He leaned in, voice dropping to a quiet rumble.
“I’ve lied about plenty, sweetheart.
Not about this.
Go home.
Check the ledger.
See what your soul bought them.” He turned, tucking the file under his jacket, and nodded at Frenchie.
Frenchie stalled for a second.
He glanced over at Annie, who looked absolutely leveled beneath that golden cape.
“I am sorry, mademoiselle,” he said, so soft the words barely landed.
“It is a terrible thing, to wake up.” Their footsteps faded up the concrete stairs.
Annie didn’t move.
She didn’t blast them.
Didn’t chase.
She just stayed put, standing in the thick, damp dark, listening as the basement door slammed shut behind them.
The light fizzled and died right out of her hands.
A couple of hours crawled by.
Then Annie found herself perched on the edge of her spotless, Vought-issued bed.
She hadn’t taken off her uniform.
Her laptop burned bright in her lap, lighting up a face streaked with tears.
With her Level-4 clearance, Annie waded deep—pushed past all that polished PR, right into the real guts of Vought’s financials.
This time, she wasn’t hunting terrorists, no secret uprisings.
She just typed her own name.
Annie January.
The server spat up a medical file.
Nineteen years old, most of it blacked out.
Page after page of invoices.
Every week, a payment landed in Donna January’s account from some phony Vought shell corporation.
The money came with stacks of medical records—supposedly for “infantile asthma.” Experimental gene therapy, the paperwork said.
Shots, every Tuesday, three years running.
Thing is, Annie never had asthma.
She’d never touched an inhaler.
Her hand would barely hold steady as she picked up the phone.
She dialed.
Three rings, then her mother’s sleepy voice—warm, groggy, a little confused.
“Annie?
Sweetie, it’s three in the morning.
Is—are you okay?” Annie’s voice came out flat, scraped raw.
“Mom.
Did I have asthma when I was a baby?” Silence.
Not a word.
Just static and breathing, loud as a confession.
Donna fumbled for an answer.
“Honey, why are you asking—?
You know you weren’t well, we had to—” “How much?” Annie cut her off.
One tear, cold and deliberate, slid down her cheek.
“How much did Vought pay you?
To let them inject Compound V into me?” Her mother’s voice cracked, panic seeping in fast.
“Sweetie, it’s not—please, listen.
You don’t understand!
We just wanted you to be special.
God gave us a chance, the doctors—” Annie’s words broke apart, thick with hurt.
“God didn’t do this.
You did.
You sold me.
You sold me to a pharmaceutical company.” Donna started to sob.
“I did it for you!
Look what you’ve become!
You’re a hero!” Annie shook her head, even though her mother couldn’t see her.
“I’m not a hero.
I’m a product.” She hung up.
Didn’t hurl the phone, didn’t even make a sound.
Just set it quietly aside, closed her laptop, pulled her knees to her chest.
Everything she’d believed—pageants, prayers, the whole destiny-is-calling story—was gone.
All of it bought and paid for, like a science experiment in sparkly boots.
She finally understood: she wasn’t special.
Not any more than that feral, forgotten girl stashed in a Newark cage.
Next morning, nine sharp.
The Seven gathered in their glassy, sky-high boardroom.
I leaned back in my chair, nursing my coffee.
Homelander was prowling at the head of the table, veins bulging, voice sharp and deadly.
He was tearing into The Deep, A-Train, and Black Noir, spitting out threats about “mud-people” daring to rob his home.
“They’re insects,” Homelander seethed, eyes darting, wild and bloodshot.
“They think they can steal from gods?
I want the city upside down.
I want their heads—alive.” A-Train nodded along, hands clutched, eyes drifting.
Ever since I faked Popclaw’s death and leashed him, the speedster barely existed at all.
But I wasn’t paying attention to Homelander.
My eyes locked on Annie.
She looked the part—Starlight’s uniform shining, hair curled to perfect, makeup flawless.
But the life had vanished from her eyes.
No awe for Homelander now.
No shine.
She watched him the way you’d watch a rabid animal.
She glanced at The Deep, at A-Train, at those giant blue Vought logos—if disgust had a scent, it would have been pouring off of her.
She knew, finally, where she was.
In the middle of hell, surrounded by gods built in laboratories.
Homelander brought his fist down, the table took the hit and cracked.
“Are we clear?!” “Crystal, John,” I told him, with a cool, polished smile.
Annie didn’t even twitch.
Just stared, jaw clenched, eyes on that broken wood.
She wasn’t about to walk away.
Running would only let them build even more cages.
I sipped my coffee, hiding a smile.
Butcher did his job.
He broke Starlight’s illusion clean in half.
Now, she was a weapon in the belly of the beast.
Furious.
Focused.
Unstoppable.
The canon’s off the tracks for good, and for once, every piece is falling where I want it.
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