After making his delivery, Locke noted down Stan's personal number and descended via the fire escape from the top floor of Vought Tower. His steps were light and swift, completely vanishing from Vought's surveillance network.
Only after confirming Locke was truly gone did Stan suddenly let out a sigh of relief. His body trembled slightly as he doubled over, gasping heavily.
He raised a hand to touch his back; his palm came away slick with cold sweat. His dress shirt, clinging to his skin, was already soaked through.
It seemed he wasn't as calm as he had appeared—nor could he face death with the composure he had claimed.
After a moment, Stan pulled out his cell phone and dialed one of his confidants.
"Is Homelander with you?"
Just as Stan was wondering why Homelander hadn't come to gloat, he considered what the man might be up to.
Homelander had intended to mock Stan, having waited too long for this moment, but a message from his old "friend" Billy had immediately shifted his attention.
[Want to know who your father is? I found him. Meet at the old place.]
In the ink-black night sky, the air was violently compressed by a supersonic object. Several umbrella-shaped shock clouds condensed and dissipated in rapid succession. The transient clouds formed by water vapor instantly condensing in the low-pressure zone were direct proof that Homelander had broken the sound barrier.
The air around Homelander, flying at full speed, was compressed into a pale blue shell by his flight speed, several times the speed of sound. He was like an uncontrolled intercontinental ballistic missile, carving a trajectory across the night sky. Even starlight was torn into blurred streaks. Before the sound could catch up, he crashed down like a meteor at the doorstep of Butcher's safe house.
The next second, the immense kinetic energy, delivered at several times the speed of sound, was released the moment it touched the ground. The metal door frame and concrete wall were torn apart like paper. The solid ground in front of the door exploded radially from the impact, finally collapsing into an uneven crater nearly three meters wide and half a meter deep.
Before the gravel and dust could rise, several delayed deafening sonic booms crashed down on the neighborhood one after another. Windowpanes hummed and rattled; even the streetlights in the distance shook.
Under the impact of his kinetic energy, delivered at several times the speed of sound, reinforced concrete crumbled like sand cookies. Beams and columns let out a piercing twisting sound. Half the roof and one wall collapsed, sending broken bricks and wood mixed with smoke and dust exploding upward.
Butcher's hand holding his glass was steady, but he glanced down at the few wooden splinters that had sunk into the bottom of the glass. He pulled a crooked smile from the corner of his mouth and slowly set the cup down on a corner of the table that hadn't yet collapsed.
"I'm still paying the mortgage on this house," he said, looking up at the figure slowly emerging from the smoke. His tone carried his usual blend of mockery and helplessness. "Should I thank you for helping with the demolition costs?"
But these words did nothing to extinguish Homelander's rage.
He stepped onto the rubble, each footstep making the ground tremble slightly. His face was so twisted that his features seemed to press together. His eyes rapidly glowed with a blinding scarlet, and his finger pointed at Butcher's face. His voice, wrapped in ice-cold brutality, roared so loudly that spittle flew:
"Don't think that just because we have an arrangement, you can talk to me like this! If even a single word of what you're about to say is a lie, I swear I'll make you regret the day you were born!"
Facing Homelander's fury, Butcher—who had taken a dose of temporary Compound V—was unimpressed. He replied with a hint of sarcasm:
"Oh, oh, calm down. Look, the wound on your face is about to split open again. Looks like those injuries from Elmira aren't healing so easily."
At the mention of Elmira, the rage on Homelander's face vanished instantly, replaced by a mind filled with the fear of having been inexplicably beaten before.
After all, that man had simply toppled him like he was nothing. Otherwise, Vought would probably be planning his funeral.
"You were there?"
"Of course I was. I saw them beat you. But that's not important. This is."
Butcher pulled a photograph from his pocket, its edges curled and worn. The photo showed Soldier Boy, suspended in a cryo-chamber. Homelander took it, his fingertips pinching the photo paper. He froze, his brows furrowed, his eyes full of confusion.
In an instant, recalling why Butcher had urgently called him, his Adam's apple bobbed. He asked in a low, guarded tone: "You mean... that's him?"
Butcher let out a low chuckle, tilted his chin up slightly, and gave a meaningful nod.
The moment the answer registered, Homelander's face darkened. Suddenly, he seized Butcher by the throat, his knuckles turning white, and slammed the man against the smoking, shattered wall behind him. A harsh roar tore from his throat, constricted with anxiety and fury:
"Where is he?!"
But in the next second, the finger gripping Butcher's throat was slowly pried open by a steady force. His hand was pulled away. Homelander stood frozen, his eyes widening in disbelief.
Butcher rubbed his reddened, constricted neck, the corners of his mouth lifting in something like a smile. He slowly opened his mouth, his tone light, conversational—but then his tone suddenly shifted:
"I heard you teamed up with Neumann to force Stan out?"
Homelander snapped back to the moment. Rage still simmered in his chest; his jaw was clenched so hard his teeth ached. He spat out viciously: "So what?"
Hearing this, Butcher's smile vanished completely. Calculation gleamed in his eyes, along with a hint of cunning—the cunning of a man determined to win.
He took half a step forward, meeting Homelander's gaze without flinching. His voice was low, each word deliberate:
"In that case, let's make a deal."
————————————————————————————————————————————
Meanwhile, Locke, the architect of these schemes, lay in Queen Maeve's private quarters, recounting his deal with Stan to the Wonder Woman lookalike before him.
Queen Maeve's opinion on the matter could be summed up in two words:
"Fucking hell."
She couldn't believe Locke had made peace with her nemesis like that—and even made a deal with the old fox who had spent his life making deals. It was simply insane.
But Locke had no intention of answering her questions. He simply smiled and ate the high-calorie meal Maeve had ordered to replenish his strength.
"Aren't you going to say something?"
After swallowing a chunk of steak, Locke glanced at Queen Maeve and, after keeping her in suspense for half the afternoon, finally said:
"No."
For a moment, Maeve felt she had been completely played. She was about to lose her temper, but considering Locke's nature, she could only storm out of the room in anger.
This was exactly the effect Locke wanted. After Maeve left, he used maximum speed to finish his meal, then unceremoniously lay down on Queen Maeve's bed and fell asleep.