The Flushing Chinese supermarket was thick with the mixed scents of star anise, fresh seafood, and cheap dish soap.
Zack Vance pushed his shopping cart, stopping in front of the cold meat counter.
He carefully selected a well-marbled beef brisket, then grabbed a few smooth-skinned yellow potatoes from the nearby vegetable section.
At checkout, the cashier deftly packed the ingredients into a plastic bag printed with a red fortune cat and handed it over.
As he stepped out of the supermarket, the chilly breeze of an early autumn evening hit his face.
At the same time, a few miles away in Brooklyn, inside a basement smelling of cheap tobacco and motor oil, several makeshift monitors flickered with a dim, gloomy light.
This was Frenchie’s secret safehouse.
The walls were covered in a chaotic mess of blueprints and newspaper clippings.
In the corner, a workbench was piled with loose wires, half-finished detonators, and several empty vodka bottles.
Frenchie sat with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, his oil-stained fingers flying across the keyboard.
Rows of decrypted radio frequency data scrolled rapidly across the screen.
Leaning in the shadows of the basement was a heavily-built man.
William Butcher wore his signature worn-out black trench coat.
His stubbled face carried a grim, sinister look from years of living away from the light.
He toyed with a metal lighter, making a sharp, repetitive *click-clack* sound.
His deep-set eyes flickered with a cold, aggressive light, like a lone wolf in the wild.
“Interesting,” Frenchie said, pausing his typing to zoom in on an audio waveform on the screen.
He turned to look at Butcher in the corner.
“I’ve been monitoring the encrypted frequencies of Vought’s Damage Control.
At 2:14 AM last night, the dispatch center sent an A-class sweeper squad to a high-rise apartment coordinate in Queens.
The official reason was ‘clearing uncontrollable biological residue.'”
Butcher stopped flicking the lighter and raised his eyelids.
Vought’s Damage Control was specifically responsible for cleaning up the messy, unspeakable aftermath left by The Seven.
Dispatching an A-class squad meant the severity of the situation had far exceeded ordinary public relations.
“Whose mess were they cleaning up?” Butcher’s voice was low and gravelly, carrying a heavy British accent.
“That’s the strangest part.”
Frenchie slid his finger across the trackpad, pulling up another intercepted dispatch order.
“Less than three minutes after the A-class squad set out, the order was forcibly recalled by the highest authority.
The authorization came from Madelyn Stillwell.
Vought’s vice president personally halted a routine cleanup mission in the middle of the night, dragging her people back immediately.”
Butcher walked over to the workbench, leaning his hands on the dusty table as he stared intently at the screen.
Corporations never do anything that isn’t profitable.
For Madelyn to personally slam the brakes, the only explanation was that Vought couldn’t afford the consequences of cleaning up that target.
“Pull up the surrounding data for those coordinates,” Butcher muttered, like a shark catching the scent of blood.
“Let’s see who was partying in that building last night.”
Frenchie nodded, his fingers flying across the keys again.
He hacked into all the traffic cameras and municipal weather monitors near that neighborhood.
A few minutes later, several sharpened screenshots and a meteorological waveform diagram were displayed side by side on the screen.
“Look at this,” Frenchie said, pointing to the weather bureau’s micro-waveform.
“At 2:17 AM last night, a high-altitude sonic boom erupted over Manhattan, with a trajectory pointing straight at those apartment coordinates.
This kind of speed and kinetic energy…”
“Who else could it be but that flag-draped psycho,” Butcher finished for him, a cruel sneer playing on his lips.
Frenchie clicked on the next traffic camera screenshot.
It was a blurry image captured by a hidden camera in the alley behind the apartment.
In the frame, a massive dark figure was stumbling along, leaning against the wall.
The chest area of his specialized polymer armor was visibly dented and cracked, and his gait was painfully slow.
“Black Noir.”
Butcher’s pupils contracted sharply.
As the silent assassin who was the most lethal of The Seven, Black Noir was usually Vought’s ultimate asset for wetwork.
But now, this cold-blooded machine had not only failed his mission, but had fled with broken bones like a beaten dog.
Black Noir went to assassinate, Joanne saved the day with a sonic boom, and Madelyn recalled the sweepers out of fear.
All the clues quickly pieced together in Butcher’s mind, ultimately converging on a specific address.
His gaze locked onto the red dot representing the coordinates on the screen.
That high-rise apartment in Queens, that familiar unit number.
In an instant, the memory of that night two weeks ago flashed in Butcher’s mind.
He had pried open that security door under the guise of a neighborhood watch officer, wanting to follow the scent of the female Homelander.
What welcomed him was a twenty-year-old Asian youth with eyes so calm they were terrifying, and a Glock pistol pointed steadily at his forehead.
“Fuck…”
Butcher let out a low, gravelly laugh, his chest heaving.
He finally understood.
The strong scent he had smelled in the apartment that night was no coincidence.
That ordinary college student who dared to point a gun at his head was no unlucky bystander swept up in an accident.
“Did you find something?” Frenchie asked, confused by Butcher’s near-manic expression.
“No need to look.
I know exactly who that holy terror is.”
Butcher stood up straight, pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and slid one between his lips.
“I’ve been there.
A clever Asian kid.
Not only was he not afraid of me, but he actually had a gun to my head.”
Butcher lit the cigarette with his lighter, took a deep drag, and exhaled a thick cloud of blue smoke.
“Frenchie, you don’t understand those high-and-mighty monsters.
They seem invincible, but their extreme arrogance is always accompanied by some deformed psychological void.
To make a bloodthirsty beast play nice, to the point where she’d willingly break Vought’s own enforcer for him…”
Butcher tapped the screen with his cigarette-clutching finger.
“He is the leash around her neck.”
A plan so bold it bordered on madness quickly took shape in Butcher’s mind.
The Boys had always struggled to face The Seven head-on; they lacked the leverage to deliver a fatal blow.
And now, that leverage had presented itself.
A prime piece of meat, completely unprotected by superpowers yet capable of pulling the strings of Vought’s top asset, was sitting completely defenseless on the streets of New York.
“Get the car ready.”
Butcher threw the half-smoked cigarette onto the ground and crushed it under the heel of his leather shoe.
“I’m going to pay this old friend a visit.
Let’s see what this little beast-tamer is made of, and if he’s worthy of holding the knife that can pierce Vought’s heart.”
***
Meanwhile, back on the streets of Queens.
Zack Vance parked his car in the underground garage, grabbed his plastic grocery bags, and walked along the subterranean passage toward the street-level entrance of his apartment building.
On the evening streets, streetlights flickered on one by one, stretching the shadows of pedestrians into long, hazy, amber shapes.
The high-carbon steel dagger Black Noir had pressed against his throat last night still left a deep imprint on Zack’s nerves.
Though his body was relaxed, his mind was on higher alert than ever before.
In this corner of the world devoid of superpowers, any subtle anomaly could be fatal.
A cold wind mixed with car exhaust blew past the street corner.
Zack was about to pass a closed hardware store.
The bulletproof glass storefront acted like a dark mirror, reflecting the scene across the street.
Across the street, in the shadows untouched by the streetlights, sat an inconspicuous, second-hand black Chevrolet SUV.
Its windows were tinted extremely dark, and its license plate was covered in mud—an excellent disguise.
The engine was still idling, the exhaust pipe vibrating with a faint hum.
Through the glass reflection, Zack caught a faint glimpse of a blurry silhouette in the driver’s seat.
It was a heavily-built man, holding a cigarette that glowed a faint, intermittent crimson.
Butcher.
The crazed lone wolf.
The madman who would use anyone as a pawn for his revenge.
Zack’s fingers tightened slightly around the plastic bags.
He knew very well that Butcher wouldn’t appear here for no reason.
The commotion from Black Noir’s infiltration last night had ultimately caught the attention of the underworld.
The vengeance-obsessed leader of The Boys had definitely smelled blood, connecting Black Noir’s severe injuries with Joanne’s rampage.
To Butcher, Zack was certainly no longer the ordinary college student holding a Glock for self-defense.
He was the ultimate nuclear weapon that could be used to threaten and control the female Homelander.
Zack kept his gaze forward, his expression calm.
Like an ordinary person completely unaware of the danger, he steadily carried his beef brisket and potatoes.
Under Butcher’s dissecting gaze, which felt like it wanted to skin him alive, he walked past the intersection at an unhurried pace.
The automatic glass doors slid open to both sides.
Zack stepped into the brightly lit lobby of his apartment building.
As the glass doors slid shut behind him, completely cutting off the prying gaze from across the street, Zack’s tense shoulders relaxed slightly.
Vought’s executives had only just retreated behind the scenes, yet the scavengers in the sewers were already eager to take their place at the table.
The malice of this world never gave anyone a moment to breathe.
*Ding.*
The elevator reached the lobby, its metal doors opening smoothly.
Zack stepped inside and pressed the button for his floor.
Looking at his reflection in the elevator door, his lips curled into a cold, emotionless smile.