Chapter 9 – The Timberwolf Walks Into the Trap
Wilson, head of Vought Security, stared at the man his subordinates had dragged into the office and couldn't hide his disbelief. The figure standing in front of him looked, at first glance, like an ordinary young man with pale skin. Then the details registered. His face was almost completely buried under long, curly hair that hung like a tangled curtain, and from beneath it protruded an exaggerated, elongated nose that gave him the look of a feral hound rather than a person. He didn't resemble a wolf so much as something dragged out of the woods and forced into clothes.
"This is Nelson," Jacques explained, pushing the man forward. "They call him the Timberwolf. His sense of smell is sharper than any trained dog. If anyone can track Number Fifty-Eight, it's him."
After Ethan's escape, Homelander had swept through the surrounding area in a brief, performative search before losing interest and leaving. No trace of the fugitive had surfaced. Wilson had nearly torn apart the surrounding neighborhoods in frustration, but nothing turned up. With Vought's ultimatum hanging over his head—find the escaped subject or resign—he had resorted to hiring external superhumans who might provide an edge.
Nelson raised two fingers casually, as if haggling in a flea market. "You want me to find someone? Two grand."
He wasn't a corporate hero with a brand deal and a costume line. Vought signed superhumans who looked good on camera and fit into a narrative. The rest, like Nelson, drifted through back alleys and gray markets. Recently he had developed an expensive taste for a certain stimulant, and cash was tight.
Wilson did not argue. He gestured for one of his men to bring forward a sealed evidence bag. Inside were clothes worn by Subject Fifty-Eight before the breakout.
"Mid-twenties male," Wilson said flatly.
Nelson took the clothes, pressed them to his nose, and inhaled deeply. His nostrils flared with an unsettling intensity, eyes half-lidded as he catalogued the scent.
Wilson watched carefully. "Bring me that man, and you'll get four thousand."
Nelson grinned.
Four thousand dollars would carry him comfortably for a while.
He spent the next day weaving deliberately through Pennsylvania neighborhoods, allowing the scent memory to anchor itself in his mind. He considered himself blessed by God with a gift that bordered on a curse. The world assaulted him with smells constantly, layers of sweat, exhaust, cooking oil, rain-damp pavement. Over time his ability had dulled slightly, but it was still more than enough to track a target.
By late afternoon, fatigue set in. He had cleared two blocks and found nothing conclusive. "Tomorrow," he muttered to himself, grabbing a dozen beers before heading back to his rental house. "Maybe the easy money comes then."
The moment he stepped inside, his body stiffened.
The layout was unchanged. Furniture intact. No obvious disturbance. But the air was wrong.
Someone had been here.
He inhaled sharply, expanding his nasal passages fully. A familiar scent lingered—one tied to the clothes he'd sniffed at Wilson's office. Beneath that, traces of intrusion. His drawer was open. The remaining cash he had hidden was gone.
A slow, cruel smile crept across his face.
He unscrewed a beer cap with his teeth and took a long swallow. "Interesting," he murmured. "You want to play games with the Timberwolf?"
He leaned forward and followed the scent trail outward like a hunter slipping into brush.
Across town, inside Harris's safe house, the man himself was pacing near the window.
"Are you sure this will work?" he asked nervously, lowering his binoculars.
Earlier, he and Ethan had visited Nelson's place, found it empty, and deliberately left scent traces everywhere before returning. It had felt reckless, but Ethan had insisted the wolf would follow.
"If his nose is as good as you say," Ethan replied calmly, "then it will lead him straight here. And that sensitivity will get him killed."
Harris did not argue. He had researched Nelson before—enhanced strength, animalistic instincts, brutal efficiency. In ordinary circumstances, he would never have dared provoke him. But after watching Ethan absorb gunfire like it was rain, Harris's fear had shifted from the wolf to the man sitting quietly in the room.
The bait had been set.
Now they waited.
Harris checked the street again through his binoculars.
"There," he whispered. "He found us."
Ethan stepped beside him and looked outward. Even without heightened vision, the figure was impossible to miss. A shaggy silhouette, face obscured by thick curls, nose protruding like a caricature.
Up close, the nickname Timberwolf seemed generous. He looked more like a feral hound.
Nelson, meanwhile, felt elation swelling inside him. The scent matched perfectly. The trail ended here. Wilson's missing subject was inside this house.
Four thousand dollars.
Lady Luck had finally turned her face toward him.
He swaggered up to the front door without caution. Wilson had not disclosed the danger level of the target, and Nelson believed he was hunting a petty thief who had stolen from Vought. In his mind, the job was already done.
Inside, Harris stiffened as the knock sounded.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
He glanced at Ethan, who gave a small nod. Harris opened the door and immediately retreated several steps.
Nelson entered confidently, scanning the room. His gaze settled on Ethan's face, and a grin stretched across his own.
He pulled out a chair and dropped into it casually, as if he owned the space.
The scent confirmed it.
Target acquired.
"Oh, kid," Nelson drawled, voice thick with amusement. "You've been busy. You steal my money and think you can hide? If you know what's good for you, you'll cut off one hand and save me the trouble."
Ethan did not respond to the threat. Instead, his eyes traveled slowly to Nelson's face, lingering on the exaggerated nose.
"Is that real," he asked calmly, "or cosmetic?"
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Nelson's grin vanished.
"Looks like you want to learn some manners," he growled.
He clenched his fist. With a sharp, grotesque pop, a bone spur erupted between his knuckles, extending outward like a crude blade. He flexed his arm, savoring the intimidation.
He had no intention of killing the man outright. A deep puncture wound would suffice. Pain was the best teacher.
Nelson lunged forward.
The bone spur slammed into Ethan's torso with force.
And stopped.
It felt as though he had punched a steel plate.
The spur failed to penetrate even a fraction of an inch. Instead, a jolt of pain shot backward into Nelson's arm, reverberating up to his shoulder. His grin faltered, confusion flickering across his face.
He looked up instinctively.