The door was unlocked.
Miles Vance stood at his apartment door, his hand still resting on the knob.
The lock wasn’t damaged or picked.
It had been opened with a key—or by someone who could crack any lock.
He stepped inside.
A man in a trench coat was sitting on his folding bed, cradling his cat.
The ginger tabby was curled up in the man’s lap, eyes half-lidded, belly up, paws tucked in, purring in utter bliss.
The man looked up and glanced at Miles.
“This cat of yours is pretty fat.”
Miles stared at him.
“Put my cat down.”
The man didn’t move.
He looked back down at the cat and scratched beneath its chin.
The ginger cat let out a satisfied purr and rolled over.
“How long have you had it?”
“Three months.”
“Stray?”
“Found it.”
“A bloke like you picks up strays?” The man looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“Thought you were cold-blooded.”
“Who are you?”
The man gently set the cat on the bed and stood up.
He was half a head taller than Miles, wearing an open trench coat over a rumpled plaid shirt.
Several days of stubble dusted his face, and heavy dark circles hung beneath his eyes.
“Billy Butcher. You picked up my business card.”
Miles didn’t answer.
He closed the door and leaned against it.
“How did you get in?”
“Lockpicking. CIA taught me.”
“You’re not CIA.”
Butcher raised an eyebrow.
“How would you know?”
“The CIA doesn’t drop business cards outside convenience stores. And they don’t sit on people’s beds waiting for them.”
Butcher stared at Miles for two seconds, then chuckled—not a joyful sound, but an amused laugh.
“Spot on. I’m not CIA. At least, not anymore.”
He walked over to the window, parted the curtains a fraction to peer outside, then pulled them shut.
“What you did at the convenience store last night—I know about it.”
Miles straightened up, pushing off the door.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve got my ways.” Butcher turned to face him.
“You took down three punks in under ten seconds. Then Vought News handed all the credit to Maeve. And this morning, you went back to that convenience store and chatted with the old lady for ten minutes.”
Miles’s pupils contracted.
“You were tailing me?”
“Not tailing. Protecting.” Butcher pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, pulled one out, and stuck it unlit between his lips.
“Vought’s cleanup crew is looking for you too. They beat me to that convenience store—went there in the middle of the night. But they didn’t find you because you’d already left.”
“How do you know they didn’t find me?”
“Because my people have been keeping an eye on that place.”
Miles stayed silent for a few seconds.
“Who the hell are you?”
Butcher took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and crushed it between his fingers.
“The Boys. Ever heard of us?”
“No.”
“Makes sense. We’re not the kind of outfit that gets on TV.” Butcher tossed the crushed tobacco into the trash bin.
“What we do is simple—we keep our eyes on those cunts in capes, find dirt on them, and drag them down.”
“You mean Vought’s heroes?”
“Especially Vought’s heroes.”
Miles didn’t reply.
Butcher watched him, waiting a few seconds.
“You’ve got two choices now,” Butcher said, holding up two fingers.
“One, join us. Two, wait for Vought’s cleanup team to track you down—and they won’t be negotiating. They’ll just make you vanish.”
“Vanish?”
“How do you think Vought maintains its squeaky-clean image? The ones who don’t play along, the ones who know too much, the ones who saw things they shouldn’t have… where do you think they go?”
Miles remembered the moment The Deep’s hand slid onto the female intern’s waist.
He remembered the monitoring bracelet on A-Train’s wrist.
He remembered Homelander’s eyes—hollow, empty, devoid of anything.
“What’s in it for me if I join?”
Butcher paused for a second, clearly caught off guard by the question.
“You get to find out the bloody truth about this world. And you get to bring down Homelander.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s not enough?”
Miles thought it over.
“Fine. But I have one condition—I don’t kill.”
Butcher laughed—not an amused laugh, but a “are you fucking pulling my leg?” laugh.
“A bloody intern setting conditions with me?”
“You came looking for me, which means you need me. That gives me room to negotiate.”
Butcher’s smile vanished.
He stared at Miles for a long time—long enough for the wind outside to flutter the curtains, long enough for the ginger cat on the bed to yawn and turn over.
Then he nodded.
“Fair enough. Deal.”
Miles let out a subtle breath, keeping his expression neutral.
“What do I need to do?”
Butcher pulled a phone from his pocket—not his own, but a battered black Nokia.
“Take this. Secure line for you and me. Don’t use your own phone to talk about anything related to Vought. They bug everything.”
Miles took the phone and weighed it in his hand.
“Anything else?”
“Tomorrow night at eight, Brooklyn, 17 Hoyt Street, basement. Don’t tell a soul before you come, and make sure nobody follows you.”
“How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
Butcher reached the doorway, pulled the door open, and cast a glance back.
“Because when you found my card, you didn’t call the cops. You didn’t throw it away. You put it in your pocket.”
Miles said nothing.
Butcher stepped out, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Miles stood in his empty apartment for a long time.
Then he walked over to the bed and sat down.
The ginger cat hopped onto his lap and nudged his hand with its head.
Miles looked down at the cat, stroking its head.
“Mate… I think I just got myself into something massive.”
The cat meowed.
The corner of Miles’s mouth twitched upward.
“Exciting, isn’t it?”
The cat ignored him, curled into a ball, and went back to sleep.