The spatial rift closed inside an abandoned warehouse.
Starlight steadied herself, light glowing in her palm. Concrete walls surrounded them, clutter piled in the corners, a hanging lamp swaying overhead with a low hum.
Something felt off.
Hang's clone stood at the center of the warehouse, hands in his coat pockets. Benjamin loomed behind him, his two-meter frame casting a long shadow.
"Didn't you say we were intercepting Homelander?" Starlight turned to him.
"Why bring us here?"
Footsteps echoed from deeper inside.
Seven or eight figures emerged from the shadows. At the front was a man with stubble, wearing a black trench coat, eyes sharp as blades. He held a shotgun leveled at Hang.
"Don't move."
The others raised their weapons—assault rifles, a crossbow. A bespectacled young man held a detonator, thumb hovering over a red button.
Starlight stepped back, light gathering in her hands.
"Who are you?"
"The Boys," the stubbled man said. "We specialize in killing your kind."
He stared at her, eyes filled with hatred—not for her personally, but for all superpowered beings.
Starlight had seen prejudice before—but never this pure.
Hang ignored the weapons and looked at the man.
"Billy Butcher."
Butcher narrowed his eyes. "You know me?"
"Of course. A man seeking revenge for his wife."
Butcher's face darkened. He pulled the trigger.
The shotgun blast froze midair.
Every pellet stopped thirty centimeters in front of Hang, suspended in place. Butcher froze for a second, then fired again—second, third shot.
All halted.
The others opened fire. Bullets, bolts, explosives—all stopped in midair.
Dozens of projectiles hovered.
Hang raised his hand slightly—and clenched.
Everything disintegrated into dust.
Butcher's face went pale.
Hang stepped forward.
Butcher tried to move—but couldn't. An invisible force pressed down on everyone. They couldn't even lift a finger.
"You hate superpowered people," Hang said calmly.
"Because they ruined your lives."
"Butcher—your wife was violated by Homelander. She got pregnant. She died giving birth."
"Hughie—your girlfriend was run over by A-Train. Vought paid you fifty thousand to keep quiet."
He turned to the others.
The young man with glasses trembled. The detonator slipped from his hand.
"Frenchie—your parents died in a Vought pharmaceutical explosion. They called it an accident, but you found the truth. Illegal Compound V waste disposal."
"And you—Mother's Milk. Your daughter was injected with Compound V. Her genes collapsed. Vought took her to a black site. You still don't know if she's alive."
With each name, faces grew paler.
Butcher's veins bulged as he clenched his jaw. He tried to speak—but no sound came out.
"I know everything about you," Hang said, stopping in front of him.
"Because I hacked Vought's servers. I have all their files—including the truth you've been chasing."
He raised his hand. A faint golden light flickered at his fingertips.
Mind Projection.
Images flooded Butcher's mind.
Eight years ago.
Becca alone at home. Homelander breaking in through the window.
No rescue. Only violence.
Her struggle, her screams, her pleas—all useless.
Homelander smiled afterward.
"Don't tell anyone. Or you and your husband die."
Then he left.
The vision shifted.
Becca discovered she was pregnant. Doctors exchanged uneasy glances.
Thirty minutes later, men in black suits arrived. She was taken to a secret Vought facility.
The fetus carried superpowered genes. It had to be kept—it was Vought's property.
She tried to escape. Failed.
Ten months later, she gave birth.
The infant's cry shattered every piece of glass in the room. Nurses collapsed, eardrums ruptured.
Becca died—blood loss, organ failure.
The baby was tagged, cataloged, placed into a containment pod.
The vision ended.
Butcher dropped to his knees, tears and saliva hitting the floor. He tried to scream—but only broken sobs came out.
The others saw their own truths.
Hughie saw A-Train glance back after killing his girlfriend—then smile and run.
Frenchie saw executives covering up evidence, blaming dead workers.
Mother's Milk saw his daughter strapped to a table, convulsing in agony.
Silence fell over the warehouse.
Starlight stood off to the side, pale. She hadn't seen the visions—but their reactions told her enough.
Hang released the mental pressure. The Boys collapsed—shaking, crying, or staring blankly.
Butcher looked up, eyes bloodshot.
"What the hell do you want?"
His voice barely human.
Hang looked down at him.
"I'm giving you a choice."
Butcher forced himself to stand. His legs trembled, but he held firm.
"What choice?"
"I'll give you the chance to kill Homelander," Hang said.
"Not by ambush. Not by poison. Face him head-on—and show the world their strongest hero falling."
Butcher let out a cold laugh.
"And why would you help us? You're one of them."
"Because I want to rebuild order."
The bluntness stunned everyone.
"This world's order is rotten."
"Vought markets supers as heroes—but they're products. Governments allow it because they want super soldiers. Ordinary people are kept in the dark, worshipping monsters."
"That order needs to be broken—and rebuilt."
"But I won't do it myself. I need a scalpel. Something precise—not a bomb that destroys everything."
He looked at them.
"You are that scalpel."
"You have motive, capability, and access. Most importantly—you're human."
"When humans defeat supers, the world will understand—they're not gods."
Hughie adjusted his cracked glasses.
"You want us to be your enforcers?"
Hang rubbed his forehead slightly. "Do I look like I need that?"
"And frankly—you're not much in terms of combat ability."
"I provide intel, weapons, and technology. You execute—eliminate rogue supers, expose Vought."
"What's the price?" Butcher asked. "What do you want?"
"Obedience."
The temperature in the warehouse seemed to drop.
"From today on, The Boys answer to me."
"When I say move—you move. When I say stop—you stop."
"No bargaining. No personal agendas."
Butcher's face turned ashen.
"You want us as dogs?"
"If that's how you see it," Hang said calmly. "But this dog has backing, resources, a future."
"Better than hiding in the gutter with a shotgun aimed at a tank."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I walk away."
Hang turned.
"Homelander continues unchecked. Vought keeps creating gods. You keep hiding."
"Maybe you get lucky and kill a few nobodies."
"Or maybe you're dead tomorrow."
He walked toward where the rift would open. Benjamin followed.
Butcher stood still. His fists clenched so tight his nails drew blood.
The others looked at him.
Hughie started to speak—Frenchie stopped him. Mother's Milk trembled silently.
Starlight watched, heart tightening.
She wanted to tell him to refuse.
But she didn't.
Because she knew—
He had no choice.
Butcher closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
"Wait."
Hang stopped—but didn't turn.
"I'll agree," Butcher said. "But I have one condition."
"Speak."
"Homelander dies."
"Not imprisoned. Not exiled. Dead."
"I want to watch him die."
Hang turned, a faint smile forming.
"Deal."
He raised his hand. Golden runes formed, condensing into a sphere.
Knowledge Infusion.
The sphere flew into Butcher's forehead.
Butcher's body jolted. Information flooded his mind—Compound V data, superhuman weaknesses, Homelander's movements.
Not just seven days—ten years of records.
He opened his eyes. Gold flickered within.
"That's your advance," Hang said.
"In three days, Homelander returns to New York. He'll hide in Vought Tower's bunker—reinforced alloy walls, nuclear-resistant."
"I'll give you the key."
"You'll end him yourself."
Butcher stared at his hand.
"What about us?" Hughie asked. "Do we get powers?"
"You will," Hang said. "But not yet."
"You'll each get the means to fight supers. Not garbage like Compound V—real methods."
"But first—you prove yourselves."
He waved his hand. A spatial rift opened again, golden light spilling out.
"Three days. Be ready. This is your only chance."
Hang stepped in with Benjamin.
Starlight hesitated—then followed.
The rift closed.
Silence returned.
Butcher stared at where it vanished, fists clenched.
"Boss…" Hughie said. "We're really doing this?"
Butcher didn't answer immediately. He looked at the others.
Mother's Milk's eyes were cold. Frenchie checked equipment. No one backed down.
They had seen the truth.
They knew they couldn't win alone.
And now—someone offered power.
No matter the cost—
This was their closest shot at revenge.
Butcher turned to a photo on the wall. Becca—smiling, alive.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "We listen."
"Long as it gets Homelander dead—I'll be the damn dog."
Hughie nodded.
No one objected.
Butcher grabbed a bottle of whiskey, took a long swig, then passed it around.
Each of them drank—silent.
Butcher looked out into the night, fists tightening.
"Three days."
"In three days… we kill that bastard."
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