In the blink of an eye, the pavement beneath Ethan Pierce's boots shimmered with a faint golden sheen. The gunmen didn't notice it at first. They were too busy emptying their magazines, the deafening crack of gunfire bouncing off the brick walls of the narrow alley. Muzzle flashes strobed against dumpsters and fire escapes, bullets screaming through the air toward him.
Not one of them did a damn thing.
The rounds struck his body, his chest, his shoulders, even his face, and flattened as if they'd hit reinforced steel. Spent casings clattered at their feet while smoke curled from overheated barrels. Ethan stood there smiling, calm and almost curious, like he was observing a mildly interesting science experiment.
Then he moved.
He stepped forward in a blur and closed the distance before the nearest man could even process it. Ethan raised his hand casually, almost lazily, and slapped the side of the man's head.
The skull burst apart like a dropped watermelon.
Bone fragments, blood, and gray matter sprayed across the brick wall in a wet arc. What remained of the man's face hung grotesquely from torn flesh before collapsing to the pavement with a dull, meaty thud.
The remaining four gunmen froze. The alley suddenly felt ten degrees colder. A tremor ran through their spines, and for a moment none of them could breathe. The confident bravado they'd had seconds ago evaporated into something primal and ugly.
Fear.
Ethan kept walking toward them as if the corpse at his feet didn't exist.
One of the men staggered backward, eyes wide, something clicking into place in his mind. Hope flickered there—desperate, reckless hope. He fumbled at his waist, yanked free a grenade, and hurled it with shaking fingers.
"Die, you psycho bastard!"
The metal cylinder spun through the air.
Ethan reached out and caught it.
The man's face shifted from rage to confusion as Ethan glanced down at the grenade in his palm. He squeezed.
Metal groaned under his grip.
Bang.
The explosion tore through the alley in a violent shockwave. Fire and smoke erupted outward, blasting trash cans into the air and shattering windows above. The four remaining gunmen were thrown several yards, slamming hard against brick and concrete.
Their ears rang. Shrapnel sliced into their arms and legs. Blood seeped through torn fabric. But none of them cared about ruptured eardrums or embedded fragments. They scrambled upright, coughing, staring through the thick cloud of smoke at the blast center.
Relief began to creep across their faces.
Maybe that did it.
The smoke rolled and parted.
A silhouette emerged.
Ethan stepped out of the haze, blackened by soot, his clothes shredded into hanging strips that fluttered in the rising heat. He looked like he'd crawled out of a furnace. But his skin—his actual skin—was flawless. Not a cut. Not a burn. Not even a bruise.
The hand that had crushed the grenade was perfectly intact.
"Oh my God…"
One of the men dropped his rifle.
Whatever discipline they had left snapped. They turned and ran, boots slipping in blood, bodies crashing into trash bins as they scrambled for the alley's mouth. They ran like their lives depended on it, because they did.
Against this kind of monster, resistance was meaningless.
Ethan moved.
He didn't rush. He didn't need to.
One by one, he caught them.
Each time, there was a wet crack. A burst of red. Heads split open under his grip like overripe fruit, painting the alley in violent blossoms of blood. Flesh and fragments spattered the pavement. The air filled with the metallic scent of it, thick and nauseating.
When it was over, the alley looked like a slaughterhouse.
Ethan stepped carefully through the carnage, scanning the bodies. He located the camera equipment strapped to one of them—Vought surveillance tech, no doubt. He crushed it under his heel until the lens and circuitry snapped apart.
Then he peeled off the least ruined jacket he could find, wiped it down as best he could, and pulled it on.
He hadn't exactly factored clothing durability into his defensive test. His original outfit was reduced to charred scraps, and a cool breeze brushed uncomfortably against his bare lower half. He wasn't interested in turning this into some kind of exhibitionist spectacle.
A sudden gust of wind swept down the alley.
Ethan's eyes flicked sideways at the faint distortion in the air.
Then the world snapped back into focus.
A man stood there where empty space had been a second earlier.
Black. Lean. Dressed in a blue combat suit with sleek lines and reinforced padding. Black goggles covered his eyes. Even smeared in blood and grime, the suit was unmistakable. Ethan had seen the face on billboards, cereal boxes, and energy drink ads.
A-Train.
The speedster glanced down at his shoes and froze.
"Oh, hell no." His voice rose with disgust as he realized he was standing ankle-deep in gore. Red and darker, uglier colors clung to the pristine white of his brand-new sneakers. He lifted one foot, grimacing at the blood and bits stuck to the sole.
"These just dropped this month," he muttered, shaking his leg violently. "I just put these on."
He kicked one of the corpses away in irritation, smearing another streak across the pavement.
Only then did he seem to fully register Ethan.
"Hey, man," A-Train said, tone shifting, forced casual. "Didn't see you there. Wanna tell me what happened?"
His gaze slid past Ethan, scanning for something. Someone.
Then his eyes narrowed.
He took in the shredded clothes, the naked skin beneath, the pile of obliterated bodies.
Understanding dawned.
"Oh, hell no. Who the hell are you?" His voice dropped, sharp and dangerous now.
Ethan tightened the borrowed jacket around himself, adjusted the belt, and studied the speedster with cool curiosity.
Could he kill him?
A-Train stepped closer, agitation creeping in. "Talk to me. Where's the girl? You know who I'm talking about. Where is she?"
There was something else in his tone—panic, buried under aggression. Ethan recognized it instantly. This wasn't just about pride. This was about someone higher up the food chain.
Homelander.
Ethan said nothing.
A-Train's jaw clenched. He slid his goggles down over his eyes and grinned, the expression ugly and eager.
"You think ignoring me is smart?" he snapped. "I'll show you how red your blood really is."
He bent slightly at the knees. Muscles coiled. Every fiber in his body tightened like a drawn bowstring.
The pavement beneath his toes fractured as he launched.
In less than a heartbeat, he vanished, leaving only a shockwave and a blur slicing through the alley.
Time seemed to slow.
From A-Train's perspective, Ethan stood there like a statue. He could see individual strands of hair. The faint ripple of skin from displaced air. He pulled back his fist, grinning.
Then he punched.
Something hit him back.
The world inverted.
A-Train's body shot backward at an even greater speed than his charge. Blood sprayed from his mouth midair as he slammed into a brick wall. The impact caved it inward, cracks spiderwebbing outward in jagged lines.
Bricks crumbled. Dust rained down.
At the far end of the alley, Ethan lowered his fist and brushed soot from his chest.
"Huh," he muttered softly.
A-Train sagged against the shattered wall, every nerve screaming. Through cracked lenses, he stared at Ethan standing there completely unscathed.
His mind struggled to process it.
That was a full-speed punch.
His lips trembled as he drew a shaky breath. Something inside his chest felt wrong. Sharp. Grinding. A rib, maybe two.
If not for the reinforced combat suit and the density of his enhanced musculature, that hit might have crushed his lungs.
"You damn freak…" A-Train hissed, fury overtaking shock.
He ripped off the broken goggles and hurled them aside. Rage twisted his face as he crouched and exploded forward again, cracking the pavement beneath him.
The distance vanished instantly.
He could see the air warping around Ethan's body, the slight shift in expression as the blur closed in.
Ethan didn't see him clearly. Just a flicker. An afterimage.
And he punched again.
Both fists connected at nearly the same instant.
Two thunderous concussions ripped through the alley. The ground split outward in concentric rings beneath their feet, fissures racing across concrete like lightning bolts.
A shockwave blasted outward, kicking up dust and debris that swallowed them in a rolling cloud.
There was a sharp, cracking sound.
A-Train's body flew backward again, smashing into what remained of the wall. His battle suit tore at the sleeves, fabric ripping under strain. Bright red blood welled along his wrist where Ethan's fingers had nearly caught him mid-strike.
Before he could gather himself, two ominous red glows ignited through the haze.
Instinct screamed.
He twisted sideways.
Twin beams of searing heat ripped through the smoke an instant later, carving molten lines through brick where he'd been standing.
The energy was unmistakable.
It was the same kind of heat vision Homelander used.