"Butcher said you're one of them," Frenchie said, eyeing Ethan carefully. "So what's your problem with the Invisible Man? Why do you want him dead so badly?"
Ethan didn't answer directly. He leaned back against the cold tile wall and shrugged slightly. "Everyone hates Vought once they see what's behind the curtain. Some just need a reason."
Frenchie studied him for a moment, guessing there was more to the story. Maybe someone close to him had been hurt. Maybe he had his own score to settle. When Ethan didn't elaborate, Frenchie didn't push further. He turned back to the metal worktable and began preparing a container of high-concentration sulfuric acid with professional precision.
Hughie stumbled out of the freezer room, face pale and eyes wide. "You can't just kill him like this," he said, voice shaking. "There has to be another way. He said he has a seven-year-old daughter."
Frenchie didn't even look up. "My old boss had two grandsons about that age," he replied quietly. "You want to guess what happened to them?"
Hughie faltered.
He turned to Ethan, desperate. "You wanted to kill him. But this? Is this really the only option?"
Ethan smiled faintly. "If you feel that strongly, you could book a flight somewhere peaceful. There's a giant Buddha carved into a mountain. Sit there for a while. Think about mercy."
Hughie blinked. "What does that even mean?"
Frenchie chuckled dryly. "He's telling you that your compassion might get you killed. And that we don't have the luxury of saints."
Hughie exhaled weakly. "That's a hell of a joke."
"Letting him go isn't mercy," Frenchie added more seriously. "It's suicide."
When Hughie saw he couldn't change their minds, he retreated to a corner of the kitchen and sat down heavily, staring at the floor.
Frenchie shook his head. "He shouldn't have gotten involved."
He meant it. A timid, soft-hearted man with sympathy for his enemies didn't belong in a war against people like The Seven. That kind of hesitation got you killed. By contrast, Ethan—calm, controlled, pragmatic—fit the situation far better.
Preparing the acid didn't take long. Frenchie handled chemical reagents like a chef handled spices. Within minutes, he had a heavy glass container filled with corrosive liquid.
Part of him still preferred the more theatrical option—something explosive and humiliating. But subtlety was safer. The quieter the disappearance, the better.
When the sedative proved unreliable, Ethan reactivated the stun baton and pressed it against the Invisible Man's side. Electricity crackled. The restrained supe convulsed and fell limp again.
They forced the acid down his throat.
The Invisible Man woke mid-process, choking. His eyes widened in terror as the burning sensation spread through his esophagus and into his stomach. He tried to scream, but tape sealed his mouth shut. His body writhed against the restraints as the internal damage began.
The sound that escaped him was muffled, animalistic.
It didn't last long.
—
Hughie fled outside when the screams started. He couldn't bear the noise. The others remained inside, reviewing footage from the earlier interrogation.
The Invisible Man had talked a lot when faced with real fear.
He admitted to spying on civilians for amusement. He confessed to violent acts covered up by corporate PR. He exposed infighting within The Seven, revealed secrets about teammates' personal lives, and described habits that would shatter public perception.
Every hero had dirt.
They transferred what they could.
Frenchie made a call. When he hung up, he rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. "Funds cleared."
During interrogation, they had forced out the Invisible Man's banking credentials. Frenchie's hacker contact had quietly emptied the account through layered transactions, routing the money into accounts that would be nearly impossible to trace.
Butcher grinned. "You beautiful bastard."
He needed the money. Continuing a war against Vought required resources, and he had burned through most of his own. This windfall changed things.
Ethan checked his own notification.
One million dollars.
Not bad.
Inside the freezer, the Invisible Man's movements slowed. The internal corrosion did what bullets never could. Eventually, the body went still.
Disposal came next.
Once dead, the carbon restructuring in his skin weakened. With effort and proper tools, Frenchie and Butcher were able to cut the body into sections. The pieces were sealed inside zinc-lined containers to prevent X-ray penetration.
Homelander wouldn't be able to see through that.
When the dismemberment was complete, Ethan stepped away. He didn't accompany them to the beach to dispose of the remains. That part didn't concern him.
He returned to the safe house alone.
Inside, he closed the door, sat down, and opened the system panel.
At the moment the Invisible Man died, the interface had updated.
[Multiverse Role-Playing System]
[Template Unlock Progress: 12.6%]
[Abilities ▼]
[Destruction Ray: LV2 (9.6%)]
[Superhuman Physique: LV1 (11.1%)]
[Playing Value: 1062]
He had learned how it worked over time. Using abilities increased their progress slightly. Role-playing points were the primary driver. Upgrading a skill from Level 1 to Level 2 required roughly a thousand points. The next level would cost more.
He didn't know how long it would take Vought to locate him again.
Without hesitation, he invested his points into Superhuman Physique.
Heat surged beneath his skin. Muscles tightened. Bones felt denser. The strengthening process lasted less than half a minute, but the change was immediate.
To test it, he retrieved a handgun and pressed the barrel against his palm.
He fired.
The bullet flattened on impact, spinning uselessly before dropping to the floor. There was no swelling, no discoloration. It felt like a mild sting at worst.
He flexed his hand slowly.
Rockets might still be a problem. Heavy artillery too. But the gap had narrowed.
Eventually, he would reach a level comparable to Homelander's durability. Maybe then he would test himself against something bigger.
Meanwhile, across town, Butcher and Frenchie were having a different conversation.
Frenchie tossed a set of car keys onto the table. "So. Are you going to tell me who that guy really is?"
"Who?" Butcher replied casually.
"The one who threatened us," Frenchie said dryly. "I had Shirley check the name and the bank account he used. Clean work. But not perfect. The identity's fake."
Butcher raised an eyebrow. "So he doesn't actually go by that ridiculous name he gave?"
"That's your department."
Hughie, still shaken, looked up. "Wait. He used a fake identity?"
Frenchie laughed incredulously. "He blackmailed you? That's priceless."
He knew Butcher's reputation. Seeing him cornered was almost amusing.
Butcher waved it off. "Doesn't matter. He's got blood on his hands now. Real name, fake name—it's irrelevant."
He leaned back in his chair and glanced toward the door.
"So," he said quietly, "you in or not?"
....
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