Night had settled by the time Hughie stepped out of Vought Tower, the glass facade reflecting streetlights and passing traffic.
He moved fast at first, then slowed when he spotted the car.
Butcher was waiting.
Hughie got in, shutting the door a little too quickly, adrenaline still riding high.
"It’s done," he said, almost out of breath. "I planted it. No one saw anything—what’s next?"
Butcher didn’t answer right away. He pulled the car into motion, merging into traffic like this was just another pickup.
"What’s next?" he repeated.
Butcher glanced at him briefly, then back at the road.
"Now?" he said. "You go home. Get some kip. Show up to work tomorrow like nothin’ happened."
Hughie blinked. "That’s it?"
"That’s it," Butcher said. "You’ve done your bit."
Hughie leaned back, confused, the energy not dropping as fast as he expected.
"But—shouldn’t we—like, check something? Or—"
"No," Butcher cut in, calm. "You start runnin’ around, askin’ questions, actin’ different—you get noticed. You get noticed, you get caught. Simple as that."
Hughie went quiet, trying to process that.
From the backseat, Mark watched him, saying nothing.
Butcher kept driving, steady, unbothered.
"Go back to your life," he added. "Same routine. Same face. Like today never happened."
The car moved through the city, headlights cutting through the dark.
Behind them, unseen, something else followed.
Butcher dropped Hughie off near the electronics store and pulled away without ceremony, leaving him standing there, still trying to process it. He’d expected more—another step, another instruction—but apparently his role ended at "normal guy who doesn’t look suspicious enough to bug Vought."
Which, ironically, was exactly why it worked.
Inside the car, Butcher reached into his coat and pulled out the receiver, switching it on to listen in. He held it up, waiting for something—anything—from the bug.
All that came through was the dull hum of traffic.
He frowned slightly.
"OI," he said. "What does that sound like to you?"
"Traffic," Mark said.
Butcher’s expression shifted, a small smile forming.
"Exactly," he muttered. "An’ that ain’t where it’s meant to be."
The bug was supposed to be in a conference room.
Instead, it sounded like it was outside.
Which meant—
"Bollocks," Butcher said.
Then the line cracked, a sudden burst of sound—shouting, something breaking, a struggle.
He didn’t wait.
The wheel jerked hard as he spun the car around, tires screeching, sending Mark sideways into the door.
Back at the shop, Hughie didn’t even see it coming.
One second he was stepping inside, the next he was slammed into the floor, something hitting him from nowhere, again and again.
"WHO ARE YOU—" a voice snapped, close but unseen. "WHY WERE YOU IN VOUGHT—WHO SENT YOU—"
Hughie tried to scramble back, panic kicking in as blows kept landing with no one there to hit.
Glass rattled around him as he crashed into a display.
Then headlights flooded the shop.
A car tore straight through the front, smashing through glass and metal, slamming into the invisible shape mid-motion and sending it crashing across the floor and into a wall of TVs.
Everything went loud.
Then still.
Hughie pushed himself up from the floor, head spinning, chest heaving, eyes darting over the wrecked shop. Glass everywhere, shelves knocked over, TVs hanging half-broken from the wall.
He turned toward the car.
It was sitting halfway inside the store, engine still running, headlights cutting through the dust and debris.
The driver’s door opened.
Butcher stepped out, calm as ever, eyes flicking over the wreck like he was just checkin’ the weather.
"Alright there, sunshine?" he said, looking at Hughie. "Miss me?"
Hughie just stared at him, still trying to process getting beaten up by someone he couldn’t even see.
The passenger door slammed open.
Mark got out, wiping at his cheek, a thin line of blood where a shard had nicked him.
"Fuck your driving," he snapped, glaring at Butcher. "Did you try to kill me from the back seat or what?"
Butcher didn’t even look bothered.
"Stop whingin’," he said. "You’re still breathin’, ain’t ya?"
The next second, a punch landed square across Butcher’s face and sent him crashing into a shelf, metal rattling and products spilling everywhere.
Mark’s head snapped toward the movement. "—fuck, where is this invisible prick—"
Something slammed into his gut, knocking the air out of him.
He staggered back, breath hitching, then stilled.
Listened.
A faint shift. Air moving wrong. Footsteps without weight.
He moved on instinct, arm snapping forward and driving a punch straight into empty space.
His fist stopped.
Hit something solid.
There was a split-second of resistance, like striking a wall that wasn’t there.
"I’m fucking Translucent," the voice snapped, close now. "You think you lot can take me?"
The next hit came hard, catching Mark across the face and sending him crashing sideways into a display.
"This is why I hate invisible guys," Mark muttered, trying to steady himself. "No rules—"
He didn’t get to finish.
Something grabbed him.
Lifted him clean off the ground and slammed him back into a broken shelf. A jagged piece of metal punched into his side, biting deep enough that his body jerked on impact, breath cutting out.
Blood followed.
Hughie froze when he saw it, panic flashing across his face.
"Jesus—!"
*****
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