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Chapter Text

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 

The first time I killed someone, it felt like the world shifted.

Not the way you think — not like the sky cracked open and lightning struck the earth, though it might as well have. No, it was quieter than that. A stillness settled over me, like the eye of a storm. And then, the storm inside me raged.

I didn't mean for it to happen. I never mean for anything to happen. Not when Tommy Ross took my hand under the gym lights, not when the bucket of blood tipped over, drenching me in everything I'd been trying to leave behind. Certainly not when the power inside me broke free, pulling at the walls, twisting metal, shattering bones.

But they made me do it. They always made me.

I was never meant to be someone. I was meant to disappear, to fade into the background, to be forgotten. That's what Mama always said, her voice a rasp of hellfire and scripture. "Be good, Carrie. Be pure. The Lord sees your sin even if no one else does." She was wrong, though. They saw it. The whole school. Every laugh, every whisper behind my back — they all saw me. And that's why they had to hurt me. Over and over.

Now, no one would ever forget.

When I walked out of that gym, covered in blood, the world didn't feel the same. I didn't feel the same. The girl I was died that night. Maybe she should've stayed dead. I don't know what came back in her place, but I know it wasn't something good. It wasn't something human.

Vought came after. The suits, the smiles, the fake concern. "Carrie White," they said, "you could be someone special. You could be a Supe." That word — Supe — hung in the air like a taunt. Like I was one of them, those monsters parading around in their costumes, pretending to care. They wanted to take me, mold me into one of their own. But I've seen what they really are. I've seen their darkness.

And maybe I belong with them. Maybe I've always been like them.

I feel them watching me now, tracking me from the shadows. Homelander — I've heard the name. They say he's the strongest of them all. A god among men. But he's nothing compared to what I feel growing inside me. Power doesn't come from capes or PR campaigns. It comes from something deeper, something primal. Rage, grief, betrayal.

I wasn't born to be a hero.

I was born to burn the world down.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

The city was a labyrinth of glass and steel, pulsating with the rhythms of a world that never slept. I'd never seen anything like it before. Chamberlain was small, predictable. But here, in the heart of the metropolis, the air was electric, charged with the energy of lives and ambitions colliding. And I was about to make a grand entrance into it all.

Six years had passed since that fateful prom night, and the world I knew had transformed beyond recognition.

Graduating from Godolkin University, a prestigious institution founded by Vought to nurture and train young Supes, I had spent those years learning to harness my powers, control my emotions, and navigate the complex world of superheroes. The memories of my past, though, still lingered, haunting my dreams and shadowing my steps.

But I was no longer Carrie White, the girl who couldn't fit in. I was Supernova now, and my name — or rather, the name Vought had given me — was my ticket into a new world. The name was a farce, an illusion. They thought they could control me, use me as their latest asset. Little did they know, they were playing with fire.

The sky was a deep indigo, the city lights twinkling below like a million stars captured in a cage. I hovered above it all, suspended in the air, the wind whipping through my hair. My senses were heightened, every sound amplified, every light blinding. But this wasn't my first flight. I'd done this before, in dreams, in nightmares.

Tonight, though, was different. Tonight, I was the spectacle. A neon flash in the dark. My superhero costume was a black catsuit with purple thin lines around my shoulders, arms, torso and calves; my hands were covered with my fingers leaving exposed. There was another exposed part at my chest, revealing a brief outline of my breasts with a strap on my neck. My hair was a caramel blonde thanks to the time spent in Vought's very own hair salon — Vought Vanity Lounge — transforming me into their ideal vision of a "superhero." The costume, the hair, the name — it was all part of the carefully crafted image Vought wanted to sell. Supernova was their latest product, wrapped up in a shiny new package, ready to be marketed to the world.

But beneath the glossy exterior, I was still me — the girl who had once been ridiculed, humiliated, and betrayed. The girl who had lost everything on a single night, only to rise from the ashes. Vought didn't know the full extent of my power, or the depth of my anger. And they had no idea just how much control I still had over my fate.

My new handler, and also Madelyn Stillwell's personal assistant, a woman named Ashley Barrett, had made sure I understood the importance of this moment. "You're debuting tonight, Supernova," she'd said with a practiced smile. "The world's going to watch. You've been training for this. Show them what you're made of."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The city was my canvas, and I was the artist. I extended my arms and felt the familiar rush of power. My heart pounded in my chest as I ignited the air around me, a glowing halo forming as energy swirled in my wake. I was a star waiting to burst, a force of nature waiting for release.

The moment was now. I descended, the wind slicing through the air, bringing me down to the center of the city where a crowd had gathered for what was billed as a "historic event" — Vought's latest and greatest showcase. I landed gracefully, my feet touching the ground with barely a whisper of sound. The crowd gasped, their awe palpable. Cameras flashed, capturing every moment of my arrival. I could feel their eyes on me, the mix of wonder and trepidation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice crackled through the loudspeakers, "introducing the newest member of The Seven: Supernova!"

The applause was deafening, a roaring tide of approval and excitement. But as I scanned the crowd, my gaze fell on the familiar faces — not from my old life but from my new one. The Seven were there, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Homelander's piercing deep blue eyes locked onto mine, a smirk playing at his lips.

Many people had said that Homelander was the most patriotic superhero ever. It was true too. He had short, neatly styled blonde hair which was always slicked back. His complexion was fair, with a flawless, almost porcelain-like quality and his body was muscular and athletic build. He wore his blue bodysuit adorned with a golden eagle emblem on the chest and red, white, and blue accents. The suit included a high collar, and the shoulder areas were designed to resemble the American flag, with white stars on a blue background and red and white stripes. He was also wearing red gloves and boots, completing the patriotic theme. His cape is primarily red with a white interior.

He was everything I'd heard: charismatic, terrifying. His presence was magnetic, a gravity that pulled everything around him into his orbit. And yet, I wasn't afraid. I'd seen enough to know that power was a double-edged sword, and I wielded it with a fury that came from deep within.

The performance began. I used my powers with precision, manipulating energy, creating dazzling displays of light and force. I could hear the crowd's cheers, the gasps of astonishment. But beneath it all, I was hyper-aware of the way the members of The Seven watched me, their faces unreadable. I wasn't just performing; I was making a statement.

As the final notes of the performance echoed through the city, I felt a strange calm settle over me. The applause was a distant hum, a reminder of my role in this grand spectacle. I was Supernova, the newest star in Vought's constellation. But I was also something more, something that none of them fully understood.

I caught Homelander's gaze again. His smile widened, a mix of approval and something darker — curiosity. He seemed happy at what I do so far.

As I looked back at my audience, pressure settled on my face. Someone was staring at me. But that was a stupid thought because everyone was staring at me.

But it wasn't just the crowd. Amid the sea of faces, one pair of eyes stood out—fixated, unwavering. His presence was almost imperceptible at first, but as I scanned the crowd, he became harder to ignore. He was different from the rest; his gaze was intense, almost predatory. He wore a black leather jacket that looked too worn, too personal, against the glitzy backdrop of the event. His dark hair, wavy but tousled, caught the light in a way that made him stand out even more.

I had no idea who he was, but something about him made my skin prickle. His eyes were blue—strikingly blue but not as blue as Homelander's, set against his dark hair. There was an edge to him, a rawness that contrasted sharply with the polished veneer of the crowd and the event itself.

Homelander's gaze flickered briefly to this stranger, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes, before returning to me. I felt a prickle of unease, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the show I was meant to be giving. The performance was nearing its end, and I was pulling out all the stops. I could feel the energy coursing through me, the power that I'd harnessed and refined. It was exhilarating, liberating, even as it was exhausting. 

But even amidst the spectacle, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The stranger's eyes were fixed on me, his expression inscrutable. He wasn't clapping or cheering. He was just... watching. It was almost as if he was waiting for something. I tried to push through the distraction, performing a final, dramatic burst of energy that left the crowd gasping in amazement.

As the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into applause, I couldn't take my eyes off him. I had to know who he was. I felt a tug of curiosity, a need to understand why his gaze seemed so charged with intensity.

I was just about to make my way off the stage when Homelander approached, his smile now a fixed, unnerving mask. "Supernova," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "You've done well. Very well. But remember, this is just the beginning."

I nodded, trying to keep my composure. "Thank you."

As he turned to speak to another member of The Seven, my gaze slipped back to the stranger. But he was gone.

As I stood there, the lights still dazzling around me, a lingering sense of curiosity tugged at my mind. The stranger, with his intense gaze and dark, tousled hair, had disappeared into the crowd. For a moment, I felt a pang of frustration. It was as if he had been a mirage—a fleeting vision that left me craving answers.

The crowd continued to cheer, their voices blending into a collective roar. But even as the applause washed over me, I found it difficult to shake the feeling that something significant had just slipped through my grasp. I'd spent years in training, preparing for moments like this, but this encounter was different. It was personal.

Homelander's voice cut through the noise, drawing my attention back to him. His expression was a mix of satisfaction and something darker, a flicker of interest that made me uneasy. "Good job tonight," he said, his tone laden with a subtle, almost imperceptible threat. "But remember, this is just the beginning. There's always more to prove, more to achieve."

I forced a smile, nodding in agreement. "Of course. I'll be ready."

As I moved off the stage, I was met by Ashley, her face a mask of professional satisfaction. "You were spectacular, Supernova. Truly. But remember, we have a lot of plans ahead. Tonight was just the start."

I nodded, my mind still preoccupied with the mysterious stranger. "Thank you, Sable. I'll keep that in mind."

But as I followed her through the backstage corridors, my thoughts were consumed by the image of those piercing blue eyes. Who was he? What did he want? And why did it feel as though he had seen right through me, beyond the facade I had so carefully constructed?

The backstage area was a flurry of activity, with staff rushing about and other heroes mingling. I was guided to a small room where I was to change and debrief. I sat in silence, my thoughts drifting back to the stranger. What was it about him that had unsettled me so deeply?

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror—a face I barely recognized anymore, framed by the glow of stage lights and the remnants of my performance. Supernova. The name felt like a shackle and a beacon, binding me to a role I wasn't sure I could fully embrace.

My mind wandered to the past, to the girl I used to be. Carrie White. She was lost, buried beneath layers of fear and anger. But in that moment, with the stranger's eyes etched into my memory, I felt a flicker of her again—a reminder of the girl who had once yearned for understanding, for connection.

As I sat in the room, my thoughts drifted between the stranger's intense blue eyes and the name I now wore like a mask—Supernova. I had been through so much, clawing my way from the ashes of Chamberlain and Godolkin University, but that girl, Carrie White, still lingered somewhere deep within me. The girl who had been humiliated and broken, only to rise again.

But Supernova was what the world wanted, not Carrie. Vought had made sure of that. My new identity was designed for the cameras, for the spectacle. Yet, tonight, something felt different. The stranger in the crowd, with his watchful, almost predatory stare, had stirred something in me that I hadn't felt in years—a sense of vulnerability and curiosity.

Who was he? And why did it feel like he had seen straight through the polished facade Vought had created?

As I leaned back, trying to push the unsettling thoughts aside, Ashley re-entered the room, clipboard in hand, her expression a mixture of excitement and expectation.

"You did it," she beamed. "The crowd is going wild, and social media's already blowing up. You're a hit, Supernova. Vought's board is going to be thrilled."

I smiled weakly, nodding as she prattled on about media appearances, sponsorship deals, and future collaborations. But my mind was elsewhere, focused on the stranger. There was something about him that I couldn't shake, like a puzzle I needed to solve.

"Ashley," I interrupted, my voice quieter than usual, "did you happen to notice anyone strange in the crowd tonight? A man, dark hair, blue eyes—standing off to the side?"

She blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. "Uh, no. Why? Someone bothering you? We can have security look into it."

"No, it's nothing," I replied quickly, not wanting to make a big deal out of it just yet. "Just curious."

She gave me a skeptical look but didn't press the issue. Instead, she handed me a bottle of water and a schedule for the next day. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be another big day."

I nodded absentmindedly, taking the bottle but barely registering her words. As she left the room, I found myself staring at the reflection in the mirror again. Supernova was the star, the hero the world needed, but Carrie White was still there, lurking beneath the surface. And maybe, just maybe, this mysterious stranger had seen her, too.

I wasn't sure whether to be afraid or intrigued by the possibility. But one thing was certain—he wasn't just a random spectator. He had come for a reason, and I needed to find out what that reason was.

Because in this world of power, deception, and spectacle, nothing was ever truly as it seemed.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐋𝐄𝐎

The sounds emanating from his injured mouth were becoming rather bothersome. It could be tough being the enforcer in The Boys. I did take pleasure in inflicting pain, but tonight, I was feeling particularly impatient with this whiny prick.

Typically, I had the patience of a saint.

I understood the importance of waiting for what my dad, Billy Butcher, desires most. However, when I was seeking answers and the man was too preoccupied with whimpering and sobbing to provide a coherent response, my tolerance wore thin.

"I'm about to put a bullet through your skull," I warned, aiming my Browning Hi-Power gun at him. A smirk escaped me. "I won't hesitate to show you no mercy if you don't cooperate."

"Damn it, man," he sobbed, trembling, blood seeping from his split lip. "I already told you, I don't know anything about this Compound V!"

I crouched in front of him, the barrel of the gun resting just under his chin, lifting his gaze so he had no choice but to look at me. His fear was intoxicating—a high I never quite got tired of, even though this one was wearing thin. The room was dimly lit by a single hanging bulb, its light swaying in rhythm with the pathetic shaking of his body.

"Don't insult my intelligence, mate," I said calmly, enjoying the way his eyes widened with terror as the gun dug in. "You're running with the wrong crowd to pull this innocent delivery man routine."

Sweat beaded on his forehead, running down his temples like he was melting under the pressure. In a way, he was. I could almost see his thoughts racing—lie, truth, lie, truth, which will get me out alive? Poor sod didn't realize he was already a dead man walking.

"Please," he rasped, his breath reeking of desperation. "I just move the product. I swear on my life. I never see it up close. I don't know where it's stored."

I let out a soft sigh, standing to pace around the room. The truth was, I had no patience left for this. I wasn't in the mood for his pointless begging or the inevitable confession of half-truths he'd eventually cough up. I had places to be, plans to make. Vought was up to something new—something bigger than usual—and I wasn't going to waste another minute here while this nobody wasted my time.

From the corner, Kimiko stood silently, her presence a steady reminder that if I wanted, this could be over in seconds. She had a knack for ending things quickly, cleanly. But there was no fun in quick, and no answers, either.

I glanced back at the man, his face already contorted in the realization that there was no way out. His breath came in short, shallow gasps as I walked over, my shadow looming over him like death itself.

"Last chance," I said slowly, deliberately. "You talk now, or Kimiko here makes you into a headline tomorrow."

His eyes flicked to her, widening at the sight of her cold, expressionless stare. Kimiko didn't need threats; her silence was enough.

"There's—there's a warehouse," he stammered, his voice cracking like a damn finally giving way under the pressure. "At the docks. It's where they've been moving the V. They don't keep it long, just enough to ship it out. That's all I know, I swear. Please."

I stared at him, weighing the truth of his words. It wasn't much, but it was something. A lead. And that was enough for me to move forward.

I stood up straight, sliding my gun back into its holster with a smooth click. "Good lad," I said softly, giving him a nod. "See? Cooperation gets you places."

Relief flooded his face, and for a split second, I almost laughed at how quickly he let his guard down.

Without hesitation, I gave Kimiko a quick nod. She moved faster than he could react. A crack echoed through the small room, and his body slumped, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Quick, clean, and over before he could comprehend it.

"Always does the trick, doesn't she?" I muttered, watching the life drain from his eyes. I wiped my hands on my jeans as if the filth of his existence had somehow tainted me, then turned to Frenchie, who had been leaning against the doorway, casually observing.

"Bloody hell, Leo, you have a way with people," Frenchie said with a grin, taking a slow drag of his cigarette.

I shrugged. "Better than your last attempt. Least I got answers."

He flicked his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. "So, the docks, eh? Think this is the real shipment we've been after?"

"Guess there's only one way to find out." I glanced at the lifeless body. "Let's hope this lead doesn't turn out as useless as the last one."

Frenchie gave a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. "Butcher's going to love this."

Dad's been on our asses for weeks, chasing every hint of Compound V we could scrape together. Vought was expanding, finding new ways to push their little blue miracle drug into every corner of the country. But this wasn't just about taking down another shipment. It was about sending a message.

And we weren't just gunning for Vought's dirty little operation. There was something bigger going on—something I could feel in the air. A storm was coming, and right at the center of it, a new player was entering the game.

Supernova.

Her name had been popping up in hushed conversations all over the underground. Fresh out of Godolkin, shiny and new, Vought's latest prodigy. The next big thing. But I wasn't one for celebrity worship. Every Supe had a dirty little secret, and this one... something told me she was worth watching.

"Let's wrap this up," I said, stepping over the body as we made our way out into the cold night air. The city stretched out before us, vast and sprawling, glittering with artificial lights. But somewhere in that mass of steel and glass, Vought was pulling the strings. They thought they controlled everything.

But we were about to pull the rug out from under them.

As we headed towards the van, I caught sight of a billboard in the distance, a brightly lit ad for Vought's new golden girl—Supernova. Her glowing image towered over the city, a perfect picture of strength and beauty, ready to dazzle the world.

But underneath all that shine, there was always rot. Always something dark hiding beneath the surface.

"Let's see what you're hiding," I muttered under my breath.

But first, the docks. Time to get to work.

[]

It was only eleven o'clock at night and it felt like nine. As fucked up as it was, after dealing with a corpse, I was in the mood for a burger from a van. Most people flocked to Vought-A-Burger for their meals, but tonight, I wanted something different. A greasy, no-frills burger from a street vendor would hit the spot.

Frenchie glanced over. "You're seriously thinking about food now?"

I grinned, the thrill of the hunt still lingering. "You'd be surprised what a good burger can do for a mood."

Frenchie shook his head, laughing softly. "You're a strange one, Leo."

As we drove through the city, the neon lights reflected off the wet pavement, casting a colorful glow over the streets. The city was alive, pulsating with energy, and I felt a strange sense of calm amidst the chaos.

Driving through New York can be a pain in the ass so Frenchie parked his van a few blocks away from the main road and we had to walk all the way there.

The sounds of the city filled the air as we made our way through the narrow side streets. The distant honking of cars, the occasional shout from a drunk, and the hum of distant conversations all blended together. It was oddly peaceful, considering what we had just left behind.

Frenchie walked beside me, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, eyes scanning the streets like always. He had that quiet intensity about him—like he was always thinking two steps ahead, but still laid-back enough not to show it. I, on the other hand, couldn't stop thinking about that billboard with Supernova plastered all over it. The way Vought paraded their shiny new toys, like everything was perfect.

But it wasn't. Not even close.

"Burger stand should be just around the corner," Frenchie said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Sure enough, the smell of greasy food hit us before we even saw it. The van was parked up on the sidewalk, a line of customers huddled around it, most of them probably coming from bars or late-night shifts. A small neon sign blinked Johnny's Burgers in flickering red light.

"Perfect," I muttered, stepping up to the back of the line. Frenchie stood beside me, his gaze wandering, but I could tell he wasn't really focused on the people around us. He was thinking about the docks. We both were.

Kimiko had stayed behind to clean up the mess we'd left. She always liked being thorough—no evidence, no questions. She'd meet up with us later, once everything was clear. But the tension still hung between us, unspoken but undeniable.

This mission wasn't just about taking down another shipment of Compound V. It was about getting ahead of whatever Vought was cooking up next. If Supernova was in the mix, she could be dangerous—like all the new Supes who got too full of themselves too fast. But we wouldn't know for sure until we found her dirty little secret.

"Two cheeseburgers with everything," I ordered when we reached the front, slapping some cash down on the counter. The vendor nodded, working quickly, the sizzling sound of beef hitting the grill almost therapeutic. Frenchie leaned in, grinning slightly.

"Can't believe you're getting this excited over some greasy food."

I shrugged. "Simple pleasures, mate. Keeps me grounded."

The vendor handed over the burgers, wrapped in paper and still steaming. I took mine with a grateful nod, taking a huge bite as we started walking back toward the van. The grease and cheese hit me like a punch, just what I needed after a night like this. Sometimes, after all the violence, the blood, and the chaos, a burger was the perfect way to reset.

But, of course, the peace never lasted long.

Ahead of me, there was a crowd of people following a sign to the "MEET THE NEWEST MEMBER OF THE SEVEN!" event. I told Frenchie to stay put after giving him my half eaten burger and I needed to check something out. As I got closer to the small crowd, I noticed it had multiple by hundreds. 

I didn't want to follow them at first but when I looked back at the Supernova ad, my gut was telling me that I should pressed on. Dad once said "if your gut tells you something, you fucking follow it". I kept staring at her smiling face with her caramel blonde hair down, perfectly brushed, and her olive green eyes watching still on the moving crowd. 

She was pretty, don't get me wrong. But there was something off about her. That perfect smile, the flawless skin, the sparkling eyes—it was all too manufactured, too polished. Just another puppet for Vought to parade around. And if there's one thing I'd learned, it's that the shinier the surface, the darker the secrets underneath.

I pushed through the crowd, moving closer to the front. The atmosphere was electric, people buzzing with excitement, holding up their phones, snapping pictures, and whispering about Supernova's "debut." The adoring fans were already sold on her charm, but I wasn't here for the show. I was here to see if my gut was right.

As I got closer to the stage, I saw her. Standing in the spotlight, Supernova herself, dressed in a sleek suit, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She waved at the crowd, all smiles, like she was born for this. The cheers grew louder as she raised her hands, basking in the attention like a queen.

Something about the way she stood there, so composed, so perfect, put me on edge. Maybe it was the fact that she looked too damn comfortable in the role, like she was playing a part Vought had written for her.

I lingered at the edge of the crowd, keeping my distance but making sure I had a clear view of her. She was talking now, her voice amplified through the speakers, thanking the fans for their support, for believing in her. It was all so rehearsed, every word carefully chosen to hit just the right emotional notes. She was good at this.

Too good.

She paused for the briefest moment—barely noticeable to anyone else but me. Her smile didn't falter, and her voice didn't waver, but I caught the flicker in her eyes. That split-second recognition that something was off.

Yeah, she saw me, alright.

It was subtle, but I lived for the subtle. The small shifts, the micro-expressions people don't even realize they're giving away. She knew I wasn't just another starstruck fan. Maybe she didn't know who I was yet, but she could sense I wasn't here for an autograph or to kiss her boots like the rest of these idiots.

Her eyes scanned the crowd quickly, but they kept flicking back to me.

"Thank you for all your support," Supernova continued, her voice carrying through the speakers, smooth as honey. "I couldn't do this without every one of you believing in me. Together, we'll make the world a safer, brighter place."

Safer. Brighter. All the usual bullshit Vought loved to shove down the public's throat. But I wasn't buying it, and something told me, neither was she. There was a game being played here, and she was right in the middle of it.

I edged a little closer, slipping through the crowd, staying just out of the spotlight. I wanted to see how long she'd keep her cool now that she knew she was being watched.

The crowd was eating it up, cheering like she was their savior, but I was focused on her every move. There was something there, some slight hesitation beneath the surface. Her smile was a little too perfect, her body language too practiced. I'd seen it before in others like her—Supes who put on a show for the masses but behind the scenes, they were always hiding something.

Maybe she didn't want to be there. Or maybe she was more dangerous than she looked.

Either way, I needed to know more.

After a few more minutes of saccharine speeches and photo ops, she finally wrapped up the event. Her handlers whisked her away toward the back of the stage, but she glanced back one last time, eyes locking with mine again. This time, there was no mistaking it. 

She knew I was coming for her.

And then Homelander pulled her attention away, and I knew I needed to leave now before I did something stupid like kidnap her in from of at least five hundred witnesses. I went back only to find Frenchie, who was leaning against the van, finishing off my burger with a smirk on his face.

"You French asshole," I let out a fake laugh, annoyed that he finished my burger. 

"So, did you get a good look at the shiny new Supe?" he asked, wiping grease from his fingers. "What's your gut telling you now?"

"She's hiding something," I said, still watching as the crowd walking away, admiring Supernova debut. I also heard a couple of guys commenting how hot she looked and all those twisted fantasies of what they wanted to do with her already. A mixture of rage and jealousy flew in me but I quickly pushed them aside and returned to the main conversation. "I don't know what yet, but I'll find out."

Frenchie chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Of course you will. Just try not to get yourself killed in the process, eh?"

I shot him a look. "I'll do my best."

But deep down, I knew this wasn't going to be a simple recon mission. Supernova was Vought's latest golden child, which meant they were protecting her for a reason. And if she was anything like the other Supes I'd encountered, she had skeletons in her closet—skeletons I was determined to drag out into the light

As we made our way back to the van, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was on the edge of something big. Supernova was more than just a new player in Vought's twisted game—she was a key piece. And if I could figure out what made her tick, what Vought was really hiding behind that perfect smile, we might finally have the leverage we needed to bring them down.

But first, the docks.

I lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly as we drove toward the waterfront. The night was far from over, and something told me things were about to get a hell of a lot more interesting. 

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

The next morning, I woke early, ready in my superhero costume for the day's debrief with Madelyn Stillwell. As Vought's Senior Vice President of Hero Management, it was her job to manage Vought's vast assortment of individual superheroes and their respective teams, including principally the world's foremost, best and greatest superhero team, The Seven. It was also her job to ensure maximum power and profitability for the company – and that's a job she executed with ruthless efficiency.

I arrived at the sleek conference room on the top floor, the glass walls offering a panoramic view of the city below. Madelyn was already there, seated at the head of the table, her expression as unreadable as ever. She motioned for me to sit.

"Good morning, Supernova," Madelyn began, her tone brisk and businesslike. "You did well last night. The public reception was overwhelmingly positive."

I felt a swell of pride at the praise but knew better than to let my guard down. "Thank you, Ms. Stillwell. I'm ready for whatever's next."

Madelyn nodded, her pale blue gaze piercing. "That's good to hear. Today, we'll be focusing on media training. We want to ensure you're prepared for interviews, public statements, and any unexpected questions from the press. Image is everything."

I listened intently as Madelyn outlined the schedule for the day, which included sessions with a PR expert and a media coach. I knew this was all part of becoming a member of The Seven, and I was eager to excel for their sake.

As the meeting concluded, Madelyn handed her a dossier. "Study this. It's a detailed profile on you—your backstory, your achievements, your motivations. It's crucial that you know this inside and out."

I took the dossier, her fingers brushing over the crisp pages. But there were some details that weren't there. "Why isn't the Black Prom mentioned? Or Chamberlain entirely?"

Madelyn's sharp eyes flicked up at me, her expression unchanging. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepling in front of her chest. "The Black Prom and Chamberlain incidents aren't exactly the narrative we want the public focusing on, Carrie."

I tensed. No one had called me by that name since I took on the mantle of Supernova. I was careful, always careful, to keep those memories buried—hidden deep where no one, not even Vought, could exploit them. But Stillwell was never one to miss a beat.

"You see," she continued smoothly, her voice all business, "we've crafted a new story for you. One that aligns with what the public expects from a hero of your caliber. A narrative that fits Vought's brand."

I frowned, glancing down at the dossier in my hands. My "official" backstory was outlined neatly, every detail polished and scrubbed clean. There was no mention of the blood, the terror, or the raw, uncontrollable power that had exploded from me during that terrible night. No mention of my mother, of her religious fanaticism, or the years of torment I endured. It was all too real for Vought, too messy. And messy didn't sell.

"But it's part of who I am," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "It shaped me."

Madelyn's smile was tight. "We know. But shaping a hero isn't just about where you come from, Carrie. It's about where you're going. And where you're going is into the spotlight. We can't have the media digging into... unfortunate incidents from your past. Especially not one as tragic—and violent—as the Black Prom."

I felt my jaw clench, but I swallowed the retort bubbling up inside me. I knew she was right. If the public ever got wind of what I had done, the chaos I had unleashed in that gymnasium... it could ruin everything. Vought didn't want a weapon on the loose. They wanted a star.

"And Chamberlain?" I pressed. "It's as if it never existed."

Madelyn exhaled softly, a rare show of patience. "Carrie, listen carefully. Chamberlain was... a catastrophe. The town is a cautionary tale, one that paints you as a victim of circumstances, sure. But it also casts you in a dangerous light. We can't afford to let people see you as unstable, not with your powers."

I looked down at my hands, my fingers curling into fists. The memory of that night flashed in my mind—the screams, the flames, the blood. And worst of all, the feeling of release. The surge of power that came with it, the intoxicating sense of control. It had terrified me then, but now, there was a small, dark part of me that wanted to feel it again.

But I couldn't let that part of me surface. Not now. Not ever.

"I understand," I finally said, my voice steady.

Madelyn nodded, satisfied. "Good. You're going to be a star, Carrie. You have everything it takes to be the next big name in The Seven. But to do that, you have to let go of the past. It's a liability."

A liability. That's what my past was to them.

I swallowed down the bitterness and nodded. "I'll stick to the script."

"Excellent," Madelyn said, rising from her seat. "You've got media training in an hour. After that, we've set up an exclusive interview with Entertainment Tonight. We'll ease you into the bigger outlets over the next few weeks. Just follow the plan, and you'll be untouchable."

She smiled again, that calculating smile that never reached her eyes, and I could feel the weight of Vought's machine closing in around me. This was what I'd wanted, wasn't it? To be part of The Seven, to stand among the most powerful people in the world. I'd wanted this ever since the ashes of Chamberlain settled and Vought found me—rescued me—from the life I had destroyed.

But there was a cost.

There was always a cost.

As I left the conference room, the dossier clutched tightly in my hand, I couldn't shake the feeling that Vought wasn't just erasing my past—they were erasing me. The girl I used to be, the things I had done, the pain and the power I carried inside... it was all being scrubbed away, replaced by something new. Something shinier. Something that the world could admire, but never understand.

I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders as I stepped into the hallway, the cold, sterile air of Vought Tower filling my lungs. It didn't matter. I had chosen this path, and I would walk it. I would become Supernova. The past would stay buried.

But as I walked through the gleaming corridors, my heart racing with the weight of the mask I was being forced to wear, I couldn't help but wonder...

How long until the real me slipped through the cracks?

My phone buzzed, disrupting my thought, and I took it out from my side pocket. I checked my text messages to see the recent message.

STARLIGHT: How's the meeting with Stillwell? Want to grab lunch together?

I stared at the message from Starlight for a moment, my thumb hovering over the screen. It was strange how something as simple as an offer for lunch felt like a lifeline right now. A chance to escape the suffocating weight of Vought's plans, if only for an hour. I could use the break, especially after the meeting with Madelyn Stillwell. But there was no escaping who I was becoming.

Supernova.

I quickly typed back.

ME: Meeting went fine. Lunch sounds good. Where are you thinking?

Her reply came almost instantly.

STARLIGHT: There's a quiet café a couple of blocks from the tower. Thought we could keep it low-key. Meet you there in 20?

I nodded to myself, relieved that it wouldn't be some flashy, high-profile lunch where I'd have to perform. Starlight was one of the few people who seemed to understand what it was like, the constant pressure of Vought's expectations weighing on your shoulders. She didn't buy into all the glitz and glamor either, which made her someone I could actually talk to. Not that I planned on telling her about Madelyn scrubbing my past clean. That was a burden I had to carry alone.

ME: Perfect. See you there.

I pocketed my phone and made my way out of Vought Tower, keeping my head down as I navigated the lobby filled with tourists and employees. The walls were lined with posters of The Seven, larger than life, reminding everyone who the real heroes were. I caught a glimpse of my own face on a digital billboard outside—Supernova, the next big thing, beaming down at the city. The tagline beneath it read: "The Brightest Light in the Sky."

If only they knew.

The café was small and tucked away from the busier streets, the kind of place you could slip into without being noticed. When I pushed open the door, the comforting smell of coffee and baked goods washed over me. Starlight was already there, sitting by the window with a steaming cup of tea in front of her. She looked up and smiled when she saw me, waving me over.

"Hey," she greeted, her voice warm and genuine. "How are you holding up?"

I slid into the seat across from her, trying to shake off the tension that had been building all morning. "Fine," I lied, giving her a small smile. "Just, you know, the usual Vought routine."

Starlight raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "The 'usual Vought routine' can be exhausting. You look like you could use a break."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "You're not wrong. It's just... there's a lot happening right now."

"Yeah, I get it." She sipped her tea, her eyes thoughtful. "They want us to be these perfect, untouchable figures, but it's not easy. And sometimes it feels like they don't care about who we actually are."

"Exactly," I said, feeling a flicker of relief that someone else understood. "They don't care about who we were before. They just care about what we can do for them now."

Starlight nodded, her expression softening. "I know. When I first joined The Seven, they tried to mold me into something I wasn't. It's like they take everything real about you and twist it to fit their narrative."

Her words hit closer to home than she realized. I thought of Madelyn's cold, calculated smile, the way she had brushed aside my past as if it was nothing more than an inconvenience. It wasn't just about fitting their narrative; it was about erasing everything I had been.

"Do you ever regret it?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended. "Joining The Seven, I mean."

Starlight leaned back in her chair, considering the question. "Sometimes," she admitted. "But then I remember why I wanted to be a hero in the first place. I wanted to help people, to make a real difference. And even though Vought tries to control everything, I still believe I can do some good."

Her words made me pause. Wasn't that why I agreed to this in the first place? To have a second chance, to use my powers for something other than destruction? But how much of myself was I willing to lose to make that happen?

I forced a smile. "Yeah, you're right. We still have a chance to make an impact."

Starlight smiled back, but there was something in her eyes—something knowing. She could see the doubt in me, the same doubt she had once faced herself.

We spent the rest of lunch talking about lighter things—upcoming appearances, training schedules, and the latest gossip about the other Supes. For a while, it was nice to just be normal, to forget about Vought's expectations and the weight of my new identity. But as the conversation wound down, Starlight leaned forward, her tone turning more serious.

"Hey, if you ever need to talk... about anything... I'm here, okay?"

I met her gaze, her sincerity cutting through the usual haze of PR and performance. It was a rare thing, finding someone genuine in this world. "Thanks, Starlight. I appreciate it."

She smiled and stood, tossing some cash on the table for her tea. "Anytime. Let's do this again soon."

As she left, I sat there for a moment longer, staring out the window. The city buzzed with life outside, people rushing to and fro, oblivious to the pressures and lies that held everything together.

I thought of Madelyn Stillwell again, of her cold command to bury my past and become something else—something better. But no matter how much Vought tried to rewrite my story, the truth of who I was would always be there, lurking beneath the surface.

I wasn't just Supernova.

I was still Carrie.

And one day, the world would see both sides.

[]

Further through the afternoon, I was informed by Ashley to go to the training area. I was expecting to see crash mats, punching bags, and climbing frames. But when I arrived, I was surprised to see the training area resembling a movie set. I was also surprised to see Homelander and The Deep with a few people, appearing to be stuntmen. I didn't recall Ashley mentioning them to be there or saying that the training area looked like a movie set.

Homelander greeted me with a grin, his presence commanding as always. "Supernova! Welcome to your next lesson," he said, his tone dripping with a mix of enthusiasm and condescension.

I looked around, confused. "What's going on? I thought I was here for training."

Homelander chuckled. "You are. But not just any training. This is Vought training. We need to make sure you're ready for anything, including working with a team and handling high-pressure situations."

The Deep stepped forward, flashing his trademark smile. "Think of it as a crash course in superhero PR. We're going to run through some scenarios that you might encounter in the field. It's all about making sure you look good and stay in control."

I nodded, but a sense of unease settled over me. The "training" room looked more like a soundstage, complete with green screens, fake buildings, and simulated chaos. It was designed to make us look good, not to test our limits or prepare us for real danger.

Homelander clapped his hands, his smile as sharp as ever. "Alright, let's get started. First scenario: building collapse. Civilians are trapped, reporters are watching, and you need to make a dramatic rescue. But remember—" he pointed at me, "—it's not just about saving people. It's about looking like a hero while you do it."

The Deep snorted. "Yeah, gotta make sure the cameras catch your good side."

I clenched my fists, trying to push down the growing frustration. This wasn't real training—it was a performance. But I knew better than to challenge them. Homelander's authority was absolute, and questioning him wouldn't end well for me.

A voice crackled over the intercom. "Scene one, action!"

Suddenly, the fake building in front of us began to shake, and chunks of Styrofoam debris tumbled down. Stunt actors, posing as trapped civilians, screamed and flailed in carefully choreographed panic.

Homelander shot into action first, hovering in the air with a look of pure confidence. He swooped down, effortlessly pulling one of the actors from the rubble and giving the cameras a perfect view of his heroic expression. I could almost hear the applause that would come once this footage was edited and broadcast to the public.

I hesitated for just a second too long, trying to decide how much of this charade I wanted to participate in. Homelander noticed and shot me a sharp look.

"Come on, Supernova! Show us what you've got."

I gritted my teeth and leapt into the air, my body igniting with a burst of bright energy. I flew toward the "collapsing" building and found one of the actors pinned under some fake debris. I grabbed him, careful to maintain the perfect posture and facial expression as I lifted him free.

"Nice work," The Deep called, giving me a thumbs-up from the sidelines.

But as I set the actor down, something inside me churned. This wasn't heroism. It was a show. A carefully staged, choreographed routine meant to sell Vought's image to the public. There was no real danger here. No real stakes.

Just like the narrative they'd written for me, this was all an illusion. A facade.

As the scene ended, Homelander landed next to me, clapping me on the shoulder with an unsettling smile. "Not bad, Supernova. You've got potential. But remember, it's all about control. You need to look strong, but not too strong. Compassionate, but not weak. There's a fine line."

I forced a smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

Homelander's eyes bore into mine, as if he could see right through my mask. "Good. Because in this business, perception is everything."

The next few hours were a blur of more staged scenarios. Car crashes, hostage rescues, even a fake bank robbery—all meticulously designed to make us look flawless. Homelander was a natural, moving through each scene with effortless charisma, while The Deep played the supportive sidekick.

I followed their lead, playing my part, but every fake rescue felt like another brick in the wall being built around me. The more I performed, the more I realized how far Vought was willing to go to create their version of me.

As the session wrapped up, Ashley appeared, clipboard in hand. "Great job, everyone! We got some amazing footage. Supernova, you're really coming along."

I offered a polite nod, but inside, I felt more disconnected than ever. As the others dispersed, I lingered in the training room for a moment, staring at the fake rubble, the props that stood in for real lives, real pain. It all felt so hollow.

"Hey, you okay?" a voice called out behind me.

I turned to see Starlight standing at the entrance, a concerned look on her face.

"Yeah, just... getting used to all of this," I replied, gesturing around at the fake disaster zone.

She walked over, her expression softening with understanding. "It's tough. They make everything look like a show because, to them, it is. But that doesn't mean you have to lose yourself in it."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Feels like that's exactly what they want. To turn me into someone I'm not."

Starlight sighed. "I've been there. When I first joined, I thought I could keep my identity intact, but it gets harder the more you let them control the narrative. The trick is finding little ways to hold onto who you really are."

I looked at her, surprised by how genuine she sounded. For someone who'd been through the Vought machine, she still managed to hold onto a piece of herself. Maybe I could too.

"Thanks," I said quietly. "I'll try."

Starlight smiled, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You're stronger than you think, Carrie."

Hearing her use my real name brought a sense of grounding I hadn't realized I needed. For a moment, I felt seen—like the person I used to be wasn't completely lost.

As I left the training room that day, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just about being a hero for the cameras. This was about survival—surviving Vought's relentless grip, and surviving the parts of myself I was being forced to bury.

The question was, how much of me would be left when the spotlight finally hit?

Then, I spotted Black Noir standing in the hallway, his imposing figure blending into the shadows. He was motionless, his expression hidden behind his mask, yet his presence was undeniably unsettling. I stopped, unsure of how to react. Black Noir was an enigma, rarely speaking and always observing.

"Hey, Black Noir," I said tentatively, unsure if he would respond.

He tilted his head slightly, acknowledging my presence but remaining silent. I felt a wave of awkwardness but decided to push through it. "I, uh, had a tough training session today. Lots of pressure to look good for the cameras, you know?"

Noir didn't move or make a sound, but something in his posture seemed to shift, as if he were listening intently. I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. "It's strange, balancing the need to save people with the need to look good doing it. I guess that's part of being a hero in this world."

To my surprise, Black Noir slowly raised his hand and gave me a thumbs-up. It was a simple gesture, but it filled me with a surprising amount of reassurance. I smiled, feeling a bit more at ease. "Thanks, Noir. That means a lot."

He lowered his hand and stepped aside, allowing me to pass. I thanked him once more and walked past him.

Training was over. All that was left was the Entertainment Today interview.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

I made my way back to the dressing rooms, my mind still whirling from the day's events. I couldn't help but reflect on Starlight's words—how Vought turned everything into a show and how easy it was to lose yourself in the performance. The fake training session with Homelander and The Deep had left me feeling hollow, like I was slipping further into the role they had scripted for me. And now, the interview loomed ahead, just another act in the ongoing spectacle that was my life as Supernova.

As I pushed open the door to my dressing room, I was greeted by the sight of a full wardrobe, makeup station, and stylist already waiting for me. Ashley stood off to the side, clipboard in hand, barking instructions to a makeup artist about how I needed to "glow" for the camera.

"Supernova! There you are. We've got a tight schedule. The interview is in forty minutes, and they want you looking flawless," Ashley said, barely glancing up from her clipboard.

I nodded, forcing a smile as I sat down in the makeup chair. The stylist immediately got to work, brushing through my hair while the makeup artist applied layers of foundation, concealer, and highlighter to make sure I looked as perfect as possible for the cameras. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, watching as they sculpted my face into something almost unrecognizable—a shining, polished version of myself.

"Alright, here's the rundown," Ashley said, flipping through her notes. "They're going to start with some soft questions, easy stuff to ease the audience into getting to know you. Then they'll dive into your backstory—well, the official backstory Vought approved, of course."

I nodded absently, my thoughts drifting back to the dossier Madelyn had given me. The backstory they wanted the world to believe: an idealistic young woman who discovered her powers in her teens, inspired by a sense of duty to protect the innocent. Nothing about the Black Prom. Nothing about the rage and pain that had driven me to unleash my powers in a way that still haunted me.

"Got it," I said, trying to focus as Ashley continued.

"And remember," she added, her eyes sharp, "this is all about selling you as the new rising star of The Seven. You're the brightest light in the sky. Confident, compassionate, and powerful. Stick to the script, and this will go great."

Stick to the script. It was a phrase I was growing tired of, but I nodded anyway.

Ashley glanced at her watch. "Okay, time to get changed. We're on in thirty."

The stylist handed me my costume—my official Supernova suit. It was a sleek, form-fitting ensemble, designed to radiate both power and beauty, with shimmering accents that caught the light just right. I stepped behind the partition and quickly changed, the fabric clinging to me like a second skin. When I emerged, Ashley gave me a once-over, her critical eye scanning for any flaws.

"Perfect. You look incredible," she said, satisfied.

I stared at my reflection one last time before we left the room. The face staring back at me was flawless, but it didn't feel like mine. It felt like a character I was playing, someone who existed only for the cameras. Supernova. The star.

The walk to the interview set was quick, and before I knew it, I was being ushered into a brightly lit studio, complete with polished furniture and strategically placed plants to give it that perfect, welcoming atmosphere. The host of Entertainment Tonight, a polished, energetic man named Kyle Hartman, greeted me with a wide smile and a firm handshake.

"Supernova! It's an honor to have you here. The public is dying to get to know the next member of The Seven!" he said, leading me to the plush armchair in front of the cameras.

"Thank you for having me," I replied, slipping into my media-trained smile.

As I sat down, the bright studio lights were turned up, and I had to resist the urge to squint. The cameras whirred to life, and Kyle took his place across from me, his enthusiasm practically radiating from his every word.

"Alright, folks, welcome back to Entertainment Tonight! We have a very special guest with us today—the newest and brightest member of The Seven, Supernova!" Kyle announced to the camera, his voice full of excitement.

The camera panned to me, and I smiled, giving a small wave. This was it. The moment Vought had been preparing me for. I felt the weight of the performance settle over me like a well-worn costume.

Kyle turned back to me, his expression warm and inviting. "Supernova, it's been a whirlwind since you were introduced as the latest addition to The Seven. How are you feeling? How has the experience been so far?"

I leaned forward slightly, adopting the perfect balance of humility and confidence. "It's been incredible, honestly. Being part of The Seven is a dream come true. I'm excited to work with such an amazing team and to help make the world a safer place."

Kyle nodded, clearly pleased with the answer. "And what was it like for you when you discovered your powers? It must have been life-changing."

Here it was. The first real test. I took a deep breath and leaned into the script Vought had crafted for me. "It was definitely a huge moment for me. I discovered my abilities when I was a teenager, and at first, it was a little overwhelming. But I knew that I had been given these powers for a reason—to help people, to protect those who can't protect themselves. And that's what drives me every day."

Kyle's smile widened. "That's exactly what we need in a hero. Now, I know the audience is curious—what's it like working with The Seven? Any fun stories you can share?"

I chuckled lightly, slipping into the role of the relatable, down-to-earth hero. "Working with The Seven has been amazing. Everyone is so talented, and there's definitely a lot of chemistry on the team. We have our serious moments, of course, but there's also a lot of camaraderie. I'm still learning the ropes, but they've been really welcoming."

Kyle's eyes sparkled as he leaned in. "And what about Homelander? He's such an iconic figure. How is it working with the leader of The Seven?"

I kept my smile in place, even as I felt a flicker of discomfort. "Homelander is... incredible. He's a natural leader, and it's an honor to learn from him. He's always pushing me to be better, and I really appreciate his guidance."

The interview continued smoothly, each question carefully designed to build up my image as the newest shining star in Vought's pantheon of heroes. I answered every question with practiced ease, sticking to the script, never letting the mask slip.

But beneath the surface, I felt the cracks forming. Every polished word, every carefully crafted response felt like another layer of the real me being buried under Vought's version of Supernova. The girl I had once been, the girl with the raw, uncontrollable power, was slipping further and further away.

As the interview wrapped up, Kyle turned to the camera with his signature grin. "Well, there you have it, folks! The brightest new member of The Seven, Supernova. Keep an eye on her—she's going to do amazing things!"

The cameras cut, and the crew moved in to wrap up. Kyle stood and shook my hand again, still beaming. "Great job! You're a natural."

"Thank you," I replied, my smile never faltering.

But as I left the studio, walking through the halls of Vought Tower once more, the weight of the performance settled over me like a suffocating blanket. I had done everything right. I had followed the script perfectly. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was losing something in the process—something vital.

As I stepped outside into the cool evening air, I took a deep breath, trying to clear my head. But the weight of the mask I was wearing—both literal and figurative—felt heavier than ever.

The world saw me as Supernova, the newest and brightest hero in The Seven. But inside, I was still Carrie, haunted by the past, by the power I had unleashed, and by the fear that one day, no matter how hard I tried to bury it, the real me would break through the cracks. And when that day came, no amount of media training or PR could save me.

But for now, I would play my part. I would be Supernova.

At least, until I couldn't anymore.

And before she could even go back to my room, her phone buzzed and checked it.

HOMELANDER: Come to the meeting room right now. We've forgotten to complete your initiation.

I stared at the text, my pulse quickening. Initiation? What could that mean? The phrasing left little to the imagination, and with Homelander involved, it certainly wouldn't be a simple formality. There was no room for defiance here—not yet, at least. I had to play along, to act as if I belonged in this twisted world. So, I slipped my phone back into my suit pocket and headed for the meeting room.

The tower was quiet, the corridors eerily empty at this late hour. My heels clicked against the polished marble floors, each step echoing louder than it should have. The neon lights of the city filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the walls. As I approached the door, I forced my breath to steady. Whatever waited for me on the other side, I had to be ready.

I pushed open the door to the meeting room and immediately felt a shift in the air. Homelander stood at the head of the long conference table, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, locking onto me the moment I stepped inside. The Deep was there too, seated at the far end, along with Black Noir, whose silence somehow made his presence more unsettling.

Homelander's lips curled into a predatory smile as he beckoned me forward. "Ah, Supernova. Glad you could join us. We've been waiting."

I forced a smile, my heart hammering in my chest. "What's this about?"

"Your initiation," he replied smoothly, his tone light but with an undercurrent of menace. "Every member of The Seven goes through it. It's tradition."

I glanced around the room, searching for clues, for any sign of what was coming. The air felt charged, and I could sense the tension thickening as Homelander slowly circled the table, moving toward me.

"See, joining The Seven isn't just about powers or saving lives," he continued, his voice lowering. "It's about trust. It's about knowing you're one of us, through and through."

He stopped in front of me, his blue eyes boring into mine. "You want to be one of us, don't you?"

My throat felt dry, but I managed a nod. "Of course."

"Good," he said, his smile widening, though it never quite reached his eyes. "Then prove it."

He gestured toward The Deep, who stood up slowly, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "We need to know you're committed, Supernova," Homelander said, his voice taking on a darker edge. "This isn't just a team. It's a family. And family means sacrifice."

I stiffened. This was starting to feel wrong—dangerous, even. But I couldn't back out. Not now.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, keeping my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my stomach.

Homelander's grin widened. "It's simple, really. You see, The Seven is built on unity. Loyalty. We need to know you'll do whatever it takes to protect that unity. To protect us. Even if it means crossing certain lines."

Then, I heard the sound of a zipper going down and my heart sank.

The tension in the room coiled tighter as I heard the unmistakable sound, the reality of the situation crashing down on me. Homelander's grin was a mask of twisted delight, his eyes glinting with a sick satisfaction. The Deep stood there, his smirk disgusting, his body language oozing entitlement. I felt my skin crawl.

I had heard the rumors, whispered behind closed doors, about the so-called "initiation" rituals within The Seven. But this? The confirmation of it all, the tangible threat in front of me—it was worse than I imagined.

"You understand, don't you, Supernova?" Homelander's voice was honeyed, as if he were coaxing a child into doing something harmless. "Sacrifice is essential. We all pay a price to be part of The Seven."

Black Noir stood silently in the corner, his unreadable mask staring at me without offering any hint of emotion. There was no one to appeal to, no ally in the room. It was a power play, plain and simple. They were testing me, seeing how far they could push me—how easily I could be broken.

I swallowed hard, fighting the rising bile in my throat. My mind raced. I had no illusions about what they could do if I refused. This wasn't a simple hazing or a casual flex of power. This was a test of my compliance, my willingness to submit to the twisted demands of the world's most powerful people.

Homelander leaned closer, his breath too close, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Is there a problem, Supernova? You wanted to be one of us, didn't you?"

My heart pounded in my chest, my thoughts a blur. I could feel the pressure mounting—an invisible wall closing in on me, squeezing the air from my lungs. The girl who had once fought to escape the Black Prom, to free herself from the shackles of her own powers, was now trapped again, but this time in a far more insidious cage.

I glanced at The Deep, who was watching me expectantly, waiting for me to make a choice. His smirk widened, and the loathing that surged through me nearly caused my control to slip. I could feel the heat building in my chest, the familiar hum of my power buzzing under my skin. One wrong move, one wrong word, and the entire room could go up in flames.

But then I remembered what was at stake. I wasn't just some outsider trying to survive in Vought's twisted world. I was in a position now—one with access, with visibility. If I burned it all down now, I'd be giving them exactly what they wanted. I'd be confirming that I wasn't cut out for this, that I was a liability.

So I did the only thing I could. I swallowed my pride, my anger, my disgust, and I forced myself to smile—a brittle, hollow thing. "No problem at all," I said, my voice steady, despite the rage boiling beneath the surface.

Homelander's smile broadened, and he stepped back, giving me space to move forward. "Good girl," he purred.

My skin crawled as I stepped closer to The Deep, the sound of his zipper still ringing in my ears. His grin was insufferable, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his face, to tear him apart with the power I could feel burning beneath my fingertips. But I couldn't. Not yet.

I was playing the long game now, and I needed to survive.

As I approached, my hand trembling with barely contained fury, I locked eyes with The Deep. For a brief moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his expression—something almost like regret or shame. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the smug superiority he always wore like armor.

My heart pounded, my mind screaming at me to stop, to fight back. But instead, I reached up, my fingers brushing against his exposed skin, and I leaned in, playing the part they expected me to play. All the while, I kept the fire inside me contained, banking it down, saving it for the moment when I could truly unleash it.

Homelander watched me closely, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, like a predator who had successfully cornered his prey. This was what he wanted—control, domination, the reassurance that I was just another pawn in his game.

But I wasn't broken. Not yet.

As I stood there, forced into this degrading position, I made a silent vow to myself. I would survive this. I would get through it. And when the time was right, when I had gathered enough strength, enough allies, I would burn it all down.

The Deep's smirk faltered slightly as my fingers curled against him, and for the briefest second, I let a tiny spark of my power seep through—a warning, a reminder that I was far from helpless. His eyes widened, and he took a shaky breath, the smugness in his expression dimming.

Homelander noticed the shift, his smile faltering for the first time. His eyes flicked between us, sensing that something wasn't quite right, but he said nothing. Not yet.

I withdrew my hand, stepping back and forcing a smile. "I think that's enough of an initiation for one night," I said, my voice even.

Homelander stared at me for a long moment, his gaze piercing, as if he were trying to decide whether to push me further. But then, he laughed—a low, satisfied sound. "You did well, Supernova. Very well."

The Deep quickly zipped up, his demeanor shifting from cocky to subdued, as if the brief display of my power had rattled him. Black Noir remained silent, watching from the corner, but I could feel his gaze on me, as if he too had sensed the crackle of tension in the room.

Homelander clapped his hands together, breaking the silence. "Welcome to The Seven, Supernova. You've proven yourself tonight."

I nodded, my smile still in place, though every part of me felt hollow, drained. I had passed their test, but at what cost?

As I left the meeting room, the suffocating weight of the initiation hanging over me, I knew one thing for certain: I wouldn't let them win. Not forever.

One day, the real me would emerge. And when that day came, they'd all pay for what they had done.

But for now, I would play the part. I would survive.

And when the time was right, I would make sure they never saw it coming.

[]

I stood in the middle of a field, the grass cool and damp beneath my bare feet. The sky above her was dark, swirling with ominous clouds. I could hear the distant rumble of thunder, a sound that seemed to resonate deep within me. The air was thick with tension, an electric charge that made the hair on my arms stand on end. I knew this place, this feeling—it was a memory I had tried to bury deep within my mind.

The scene shifted, and I was no longer in the field but in front of my childhood home. The old wooden house loomed over me, its windows dark and empty. I was a little girl again, my heart pounding with fear. My mother's voice echoed in my ears, harsh and unforgiving. "Sinner! The Lord's punishment will rain down upon you!"

I cried out, my voice small and trembling, "I didn't do anything wrong, Mama!"

But my mother's words were relentless, a torrent of religious fervor and condemnation. The sky above darkened further, and suddenly, stones began to fall from the heavens. They pelted the roof, the ground, and my small frame. I tried to shield myself, but the stones kept coming, each one a physical manifestation of my mother's wrath and the world's cruelty.

I felt the sharp pain of the stones hitting my skin, bruising and cutting, but more than that, I felt the overwhelming sense of helplessness. The world was against me, and I was alone, always alone.

I screamed, and the scene shattered, dissolving into darkness. I woke up with a start, my heart racing, my body drenched in sweat. I was no longer the little girl under my mother's oppressive rule, but the fear and pain lingered, a shadow that clung to my soul.

As I sat up in bed, trying to calm my racing heart, I spotted a dark figure standing at the corner of her room. Instinctively, with her mind flexing, a lamp flew overhead and the figure caught it with his hand. Black Noir stepped forward from the darkness, his expression unreadable behind his mask. He held the lamp steady for a moment, then placed it gently back on the nightstand.

I swallowed hard, my pulse still pounding in my ears. "What are you doing here?"

Black Noir said nothing, of course. He never did. His presence was unsettling enough, even in daylight, but here, in the middle of the night, in my private space, it was suffocating. I pulled the covers tighter around me, more out of reflex than actual fear. He hadn't hurt me. Not yet, at least.

He moved closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator that had already trapped its prey but wasn't in a hurry to pounce. I felt my muscles tense, the hum of my powers buzzing just beneath my skin, ready to explode at a moment's notice. The memory of the initiation, of what they had tried to force me into, lingered fresh in my mind.

I was about to speak again when Black Noir raised his hand—not threateningly, but in a way that made me pause. In his gloved palm, he held something small and rectangle shaped: a notepad.

I blinked, confused.

Black Noir held the notepad up for me to see, flipping it open with precise, calculated movements. My eyes locked onto the words written in neat, blocky letters.

"Are you okay?"

It was the last thing I expected from him. For a long moment, I just stared at the words, my mind racing to catch up with the situation. This silent, deadly enforcer—Homelander's loyal shadow—was asking me if I was okay?

I glanced up at him, trying to read something in his expression, but of course, his mask gave nothing away. The room was still, the only sound my own shallow breathing.

After everything that had just happened—the initiation, the nightmare, the weight of Vought's suffocating grip—I didn't know how to answer. Was I okay? No. But did I dare show weakness in front of him? In front of any of them?

I swallowed hard, then nodded. "I'm fine."

Black Noir didn't move. He just stood there, holding the notepad up as if waiting for a more truthful answer. His stillness was unnerving. It was like he could see right through me, like he knew that my words were a lie.

Finally, I sighed, letting some of my guard drop. "No. I'm not okay."

It was the first honest thing I'd said all night. Saying it out loud, admitting it even to myself, felt like a crack in the wall I'd been trying so hard to build around me.

Black Noir didn't react—not visibly, at least—but he flipped the notepad to a new page. He wrote something else quickly, then showed it to me.

"It gets worse."

I felt a chill run down my spine. The words were blunt, but they carried a weight that hit me harder than I expected. Worse than what had already happened? What could be worse than the twisted games Homelander and the others were playing? The degradation, the control, the looming threat that hung over me like a blade?

Black Noir didn't wait for my response this time. He tucked the notepad back into his belt and turned to leave, his movements as silent as ever. He paused at the door, just for a second, as if he were waiting for me to say something more. But I couldn't find the words. I wasn't even sure what I would say if I could.

And then, just as quietly as he'd arrived, he was gone.

I stared at the closed door, my mind spinning. What had just happened? Why had Black Noir—of all people—come to my room in the middle of the night, not to threaten me, but to check on me? To... warn me?

My heart was still racing, but now it wasn't just from fear. It was from confusion. From the sinking realization that I had underestimated just how deep Vought's rot went. Whatever game they were playing, whatever part I had to play, it was going to get worse.

I sat there in the silence for what felt like hours, the weight of Black Noir's unspoken warning pressing down on me. I thought back to the initiation, to the way Homelander had tested me, pushing me to the edge to see if I'd break. I thought about the promise I'd made to myself in that room—to survive, to play the part, to wait for the right moment to strike back.

But now, after this encounter, I realized that I wasn't the only one playing a part. Black Noir, silent and deadly as he was, wasn't just following orders. There was something more going on beneath that mask, something I couldn't quite grasp. And if he was warning me, if he thought things were going to get worse... then I had to be ready.

I had to be smarter. Stronger.

Because whatever Vought had planned, whatever "initiation" they still had in store, I wasn't going to let them break me. Not like they had broken so many others before me.

I lay back down, pulling the covers up around me once more. Sleep wouldn't come easily tonight—if it came at all. But as I stared up at the ceiling, my mind racing, I made another vow.

I would survive this.

And one day, I would make them all pay for what they had done.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

I was sitting in my bed, dawn breaking outside. The events of the night played over and over in my mind, each moment replaying with a sickening clarity. The initiation—the leering smugness of The Deep, Homelander's predatory smile—left a stain I couldn't scrub away, no matter how hard I tried to shove it into the background.

The world outside my window was slowly waking up, unaware of the darkness that seemed to have settled over me, clinging to my skin like a film I couldn't peel off. Yet, amid the disgust, fear, and simmering rage that clouded my thoughts, one image kept resurfacing: Black Noir standing silently in the corner of my room, holding that small, cryptic notepad.

The memory of it felt strangely... different. Not like the nightmare of the initiation, or even the weight of Vought's suffocating expectations. It was quieter, almost surreal. The way Black Noir had appeared, motionless, but somehow communicating more than words ever could. I couldn't shake it—the silent message in that moment.

What had he wanted? He hadn't threatened me. He hadn't tried to harm me. He'd simply shown up, watched, and left as quickly as he'd come, leaving me with more questions than answers.

I threw the covers off and sat up, rubbing my temples as I tried to clear my head. The night had left me restless, and my body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion that wasn't just physical. I needed to find out more. About him. About everything. I couldn't keep stumbling blind through this maze Vought had constructed for me, playing their game, following their script.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and stared at the screen for a moment before pulling up the message from Homelander again:

HOMELANDER: Come to the meeting room right now. We've forgotten to complete your initiation.

The words felt even more chilling now, with the daylight streaming through the windows, as if the sun should have been able to chase away the lingering darkness. But it couldn't. No light could reach the depths of what they were capable of.

I deleted the message. I didn't want to see it anymore.

A knock on the door jolted me from my thoughts. My heart jumped into my throat. I wasn't expecting anyone this early. I tensed, my fingers curling slightly, feeling the familiar thrum of power flickering to life under my skin, ready to defend myself if need be.

"Supernova?" a familiar voice called softly from the other side. Ashley.

I let out a breath and sagged back against the pillows, the tension easing only slightly. "Come in."

Ashley poked her head through the door, a clipboard in hand, her signature look of frantic energy barely concealed behind a professional smile. She stepped into the room cautiously, as if she knew the fragility of the moment and didn't want to break whatever thin thread was holding me together.

"How are you doing?" she asked, her tone lighter than usual, like she was walking on eggshells.

"Fine," I lied, sitting up straighter and forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

Ashley didn't seem convinced, but she wasn't here to dig into my emotional state. "Great. So, I just wanted to go over your schedule for today. We've got a few interviews lined up, a photoshoot later, and Vought has requested your presence at a charity gala tonight."

I barely heard her. My mind was still tangled in the events of last night, the unease gnawing at me like a persistent itch I couldn't scratch.

"Ashley," I interrupted, my voice firmer than I intended. "Can we talk about something else? Something important?"

She blinked, surprised by the shift in my tone. "Of course. What's on your mind?"

I hesitated. How could I ask about Black Noir without sounding paranoid or, worse, putting myself on Vought's radar even more? I couldn't let them know I was suspicious—not yet.

"What do you know about Black Noir?" I asked finally, trying to sound casual, like it was just another question.

Ashley's brow furrowed, and she glanced at her clipboard as if it held the answer. "Black Noir? Not much, honestly. He's very... private." She shrugged. "Keeps to himself most of the time. Doesn't talk. Vought likes him that way, I think. Easier to control the narrative around him."

My pulse quickened. So even Ashley, who seemed to have her hands in everything, didn't know much about him. That only made him more intriguing—and more dangerous, potentially.

"Why do you ask?" Ashley added, her eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity.

I shook my head, brushing off the question. "Just curious. He seems... different from the others."

Ashley tilted her head, considering. "I guess. But hey, maybe that's a good thing. Less drama."

She glanced down at her clipboard again, clearly eager to get back to business. "Anyway, I'll give you some time to get ready. I'll check back in an hour for the first interview, okay?"

I nodded absently, my mind already elsewhere.

"Thanks, Ashley," I said, forcing another smile as she left the room.

When the door clicked shut behind her, I exhaled slowly, sinking back into the pillows. My thoughts swirled, colliding in a chaotic mess of uncertainty and suspicion. I couldn't ignore what had happened last night. Black Noir had been there for a reason, and I needed to find out why.

And maybe—just maybe—he wasn't as loyal to Vought as everyone believed.

That tiny flicker of hope, buried beneath layers of doubt, was enough to keep me going. Enough to make me want to dig deeper, to find out if there was a way out of this nightmare that didn't involve total destruction.

Because if there was even a chance that someone inside The Seven could help me, I couldn't afford to ignore it.

As I got off my bed, my thoughts turned to my mother. I could recall the exact words my mother told me on the worst night of her life: The Black Prom.

"I should have killed myself when he put in me," her mother had said. "We slept in the same bed but we never did. Never again. He said we just... slipped. I believed him. I fell and I lost the baby and that was God's judgment. I felt that the sin had been expiated. By blood. But sin never dies. SIN... NEVER... DIES! At first, it was alright. We lived together sinlessly. Then, one night, I saw him looking at me in that way. I could smell the whiskey in his breath. And we got down on our knees to pray for strength. And that's when he took me. And I liked it... I LIKED IT!"

The memory of my mother's voice echoed in my mind, her words rattling like loose shards of glass. Sin never dies. The phrase cut through me, dragging up feelings I had long tried to bury. My mother, with all her fervor and twisted beliefs, had made me into what I was. Her terror and guilt had seeped into my bones, and now, standing in the stark light of day after the events of last night, I could feel her legacy clinging to me like a shadow.

I pressed my hands to my temples, willing the memory to dissipate, but it wouldn't. The weight of what she'd endured had shaped me, warped me into someone who had always been on guard, always prepared for the worst. I had hoped that by leaving home, by joining Vought, I could escape that past. But last night had proved that the past wasn't something you could run from—it followed you, slinking along in the dark until it found the perfect moment to strike.

Sin never dies.

I shivered, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to push the creeping sense of dread back down. My mother's life had been one of pain and repression, twisted by guilt and fear. And now, here I was, entangled in a world just as corrupt, just as steeped in sin. But I wasn't her. I wouldn't let what had happened last night define me. I wouldn't be a victim of circumstance, or of men like Homelander who thought they could use and discard me like some puppet on a string.

I stood up, forcing the tremors in my hands to steady. If there was any chance—any flicker of hope—that Black Noir's silent intervention meant something, I had to find out. I couldn't afford to be blind anymore. Vought's game was deadly, and I had to start playing with more than just survival in mind.

I glanced at the clock. Ashley would be back soon for the first interview, and I had to get through it without showing the cracks that had formed overnight. Vought couldn't know that I was questioning them, not yet. But I could feel the gears shifting inside me, the once passive acceptance of my role in their world now grinding against something harder, more determined.

In the meantime, I needed to get answers. About Black Noir. About what was really happening behind Vought's gilded curtain. I couldn't afford to wait for things to fall apart. I had to take control.

The faintest sliver of light filtered through the window, catching the edge of the city skyline. The world outside was waking up, oblivious to the turmoil that churned inside me. But I wasn't the same person who had entered that charity gala yesterday. Something had shifted. And if Black Noir had seen something in me worth stepping forward for, then maybe—just maybe—I had more power than I realized.

I dressed quickly, throwing on my Vought-approved outfit for the day, the polished armor they expected me to wear to fit their image. But underneath, I felt raw, like an exposed nerve waiting to react. My skin still crawled from Homelander's touch, the memory of his breath on my neck haunting me. But I wouldn't let it consume me. Not yet.

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized the girl staring back at me. My hair was perfectly styled, makeup flawless, the picture of the superhero they wanted me to be. But behind my eyes was something new—something sharp. The girl who had flinched at Vought's whims was gone. In her place stood someone who was ready to fight back.

Ashley knocked on the door again, and this time, I didn't tense. I didn't hesitate.

"Coming," I called out, my voice steady, controlled. I grabbed my phone, tucking it into my pocket as I moved to the door, ready to face whatever today would bring.

Because I wasn't playing by their rules anymore.

[] 

The day passed in a blur of interviews, rehearsed answers, and smiling for the cameras. Each moment felt more hollow than the last, as if I were watching myself from a distance, going through the motions of being Supernova. The cameras loved the image I presented—the confident, powerful new member of The Seven—but inside, I felt like I was crumbling, piece by piece.

I was good at this by now. The performance. The mask. But it was wearing thin.

By the time the charity gala rolled around, I was running on fumes. I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the shimmering gown Ashley had selected for me, my fingers trembling slightly as I tried to center myself. My reflection stared back at me, polished and perfect, but it didn't feel real. None of this did.

A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts.

I opened it, expecting to see Ashley or another handler ready to usher me to the limo. Instead, Black Noir stood in the doorway, silent and unmoving, just as he had been in my room the night before.

My heart leapt into my throat, and I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep calm. "What are you doing here?"

He didn't answer, of course. He never did. But this time, he didn't need to.

In his hand, he held the same small notepad from last night. He tore off a piece of paper and handed it to me, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was trying to make sure I understood the gravity of the gesture.

I unfolded the paper, my breath catching in my throat as I read the words scrawled in neat, precise handwriting:

"You're not alone."

The room felt like it tilted for a moment, my mind spinning as I tried to process what I was seeing. Black Noir—of all people—was reaching out to me? Telling me I wasn't alone?

I looked up at him, my heart racing. His expression was unreadable behind the mask, but there was something in the way he stood, in the quiet intensity of his presence, that made me believe he meant it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a spark of something other than fear or anger. Something that felt almost like hope.

Black Noir nodded once, a silent acknowledgment, before turning and disappearing down the hallway, leaving me standing there, clutching the note like it was a lifeline.

I wasn't alone. And I considered that a luxury. 

My phone abruptly buzzed with a new message. I took it out from my pocket, expecting another directive from Vought, but instead, it was a message from a friend. 

STARLIGHT: Hey, I heard what happened. Are you okay?

I stared at the message from Starlight, my thumb hovering over the screen. The warmth of her concern cut through the icy numbness I'd been feeling all day. For a moment, I wanted to tell her everything—to unload the nightmare of last night, the sickening initiation, the cryptic appearance of Black Noir. But the words caught in my throat. Trusting anyone in this world, even someone like Starlight, felt dangerous.

I wasn't ready for that yet.

Instead, I typed a quick response, my fingers moving mechanically.

ME: I'm fine. Just a little overwhelmed.

I hesitated before hitting send. A lie, yes, but it was easier than trying to explain the storm raging inside me.

Starlight replied almost immediately.

STARLIGHT: I get it. These people... they can be monsters sometimes. Just know I'm here for you if you need to talk. Anytime.

Her words lingered on the screen, offering a small sliver of comfort. Starlight had been through her own battles with Vought, fighting to retain her humanity in a system that seemed to devour it. Maybe she could help me navigate this, but I couldn't lean on her—not yet. Not when I didn't even know who to trust.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and glanced down at the note from Black Noir again. The words felt heavier now. You're not alone. But what did that mean, really? Was he trying to help, or was this some kind of manipulation? Part of a larger game that I didn't yet understand?

The thought of Black Noir being anything but a loyal Vought enforcer seemed impossible, but there was something in the way he had given me the note—calculated, deliberate. He could have turned me in, reported me to Homelander, but he hadn't. He'd come to me instead.

I folded the note carefully and tucked it into the lining of my dress, keeping it close to my skin. If there was even the slightest chance he wasn't fully under Vought's thumb, I needed to find out more.

A knock came again, breaking my thoughts. This time, it was Ashley.

"You ready?" she asked, her eyes wide and expectant. "The gala's starting, and everyone's waiting. You've got to make an entrance."

I nodded, pushing down the weight of everything inside me. "Yeah. I'm ready."

But as I stepped out into the hallway, the note tucked against my skin and Starlight's message still flashing in my mind, I knew I was no longer playing Vought's game.

I was playing my own.

[] 

The opulence of the Vought charity gala was suffocating. Glittering chandeliers reflected off polished marble floors, casting shimmering patterns that rippled across the room. Celebrities, politicians, and the wealthiest elites mingled, laughing over champagne flutes and whispering secrets behind their hands. Everywhere I turned, I was greeted by flashing cameras and faces too eager to get close.

Ashley led me down the red carpet, her heels clicking in perfect rhythm beside mine, her voice an incessant buzz as she briefed me on the evening's proceedings. I smiled mechanically for the photographers, allowing the shallow adoration to wash over me. My mind was somewhere else—locked on Black Noir's message.

"You're not alone."

I could still feel the note pressed against my skin, like a talisman. But what was I supposed to do with that knowledge? Was it a promise or a warning?

Homelander's voice cut through the din as I entered the ballroom, his all-American grin plastered across his face as he spoke with reporters. He noticed me immediately, his eyes locking onto mine with that unsettling intensity that made my skin crawl. I forced my lips into a tight smile, knowing every move I made was being scrutinized. He waved me over, and for a moment, I hesitated, my feet almost wanting to root themselves to the floor.

"Supernova!" he called out, his voice booming across the room.

There was no avoiding him. I moved through the crowd, Ashley following closely behind, her nervous energy buzzing like static. When I reached him, Homelander greeted me with that too-perfect smile, his hand gripping my shoulder with just a little too much force, his presence overwhelming in every sense.

"Looking good," he said, his voice dripping with false charm. "Ready to make an impression tonight?"

"Always," I replied, matching his smile even though my insides churned.

Homelander's gaze lingered on me, and for a moment, I felt exposed, like he could see through the layers of makeup, the suit, the carefully crafted persona. Like he could see the note tucked beneath my Supernova suit, the message from Black Noir that had sparked the smallest rebellion in me.

Then, suddenly, his eyes flicked away, his smile faltering ever so slightly. I followed his gaze and saw Black Noir standing at the edge of the room, watching us. He was still as a statue, his masked face giving nothing away, but his presence was like a shadow cast over the evening's festivities. Homelander's grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he let go, his smile returning as if nothing had happened.

"Enjoy the night," he said with a wink, stepping back into the crowd of admirers.

I stood there, my pulse racing. Something was happening, something beneath the surface of Vought's glittering veneer. Black Noir was part of it, and somehow, I was too.

As I made my way to the bar, I felt a presence at my side. Turning, I found myself face-to-face with Starlight, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, a faint smile on her lips. Her eyes, though, held a glint of something more—concern, maybe even suspicion.

"Hey," she said softly, her voice cutting through the noise around us. "You okay?"

I hesitated, the urge to confide in her battling with the fear that it was too risky. Could I trust her? Could I trust anyone?

"I'm fine," I said, forcing another smile. But Starlight wasn't fooled.

"You don't have to pretend with me," she replied, her voice low. "I know what it's like... what this place does to people."

Her words hung in the air between us, heavy with the weight of shared experience. She knew. She had been through this, fought her own battles against Vought. But that didn't mean she knew the whole story. Not yet.

Before I could respond, the lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the room. The gala's main event was starting, and all eyes were turning toward the stage where Vought's CEO was about to make his speech. I glanced at Starlight, who gave me a small nod of understanding, as if to say, We'll talk later.

As the CEO droned on about the importance of heroes in society and the noble cause of the evening, my mind drifted back to Black Noir. I scanned the room, trying to locate him, but he had vanished into the shadows. His absence was palpable, like the missing piece of a puzzle I couldn't yet solve.

The gala stretched on, the air thick with false pleasantries and self-congratulation. My role was to smile, to wave, to be Supernova, the rising star of The Seven. But beneath that polished exterior, something darker was growing. Black Noir had reached out to me, and now I had to decide what to do with that. I had to navigate the dangerous currents of Vought without drowning.

Many celebrities, politicians and millionaires came up to me, congratulating me for joining the Seven. Each handshake and word of praise felt more surreal than the last, as if I were floating above it all, watching a puppet version of myself perform for the powerful. The conversations blurred together, empty words exchanged over glittering champagne flutes. I played my part well, but underneath, my mind was racing, trying to make sense of everything. Black Noir's cryptic message, Homelander's tightening grip, and Starlight's knowing eyes — they all swirled together in a chaotic storm that I couldn't quite parse.

Through the haze of small talk and forced smiles, I noticed Homelander again, holding court in the center of the room. His eyes flitted to me from time to time, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. He was watching me closely, more than usual. I wondered if he sensed the shift in me — the growing resolve not to be controlled, the flicker of rebellion that had sparked when Black Noir had handed me that note.

Homelander's attention on me grew more intense as the night wore on. Whenever I smiled at someone, shook hands with another celebrity, or even laughed at a joke, I could feel his eyes burning into me. His jealousy was palpable, like a dark cloud hanging over the event. It wasn't just suspicion — it was possessiveness. He didn't like me getting too much attention.

I felt it most when I was speaking with a politician, a senator who had taken a particular interest in Vought's power over the government. He was all charm and smooth words, and I played along, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Homelander stiffen. He was too far away to hear our conversation, but it didn't matter. He didn't need to. He was used to being the center of attention, and right now, I wasn't giving it to him.

The evening dragged on until, finally, the event began winding down. People were slowly filtering out of the ballroom, heading to their luxury cars and private jets, while I lingered by the bar, pretending to nurse a drink. The weight of the night was pressing in on me, and all I wanted was to get away from this suffocating charade.

But just as I thought I could slip away unnoticed, Homelander appeared at my side.

"Supernova," he said smoothly, his smile sharp but hollow, "I didn't get a chance to talk to you much tonight."

I tensed, feeling the force of his presence like a physical weight. "It's been a busy night," I replied, keeping my voice light. "Lots of people to meet."

"Yeah," he said, his voice dropping to something darker, more intimate. "I noticed." His eyes flicked over me, taking in every detail of my appearance, but there was something in his gaze that felt... territorial. "I need to talk to you about something."

I nodded, already knowing I didn't have much of a choice. "Sure."

His smile widened, though it never reached his eyes. "Meet me in my office. Right after this."

My stomach twisted into a knot, but I forced a calm smile. "Okay."

With that, he walked away, leaving me standing there in the dimly lit ballroom, the buzz of the gala fading into the background. I watched him go, dread gnawing at my insides. This wasn't just a friendly conversation. Homelander had seen something tonight, sensed something — my shift in attitude, the attention I was getting, maybe even the growing rebellion inside me — and now he was going to make sure I remembered exactly who held the power.

I glanced around the room one last time, searching for any sign of Black Noir or Starlight, but both were gone. I was on my own.

Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself and headed toward the elevator that would take me to Homelander's office. 

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 | 𝐋𝐄𝐎

The smell of saltwater hit me as soon as we got close to the docks. The waterfront was quiet, the usual hustle of unloading cargo long gone, leaving behind only the rusting skeletons of cranes and shipping containers stacked like tombstones. It was the kind of place people like to forget existed, where things happened in the dark—things that weren't meant for daylight.

Frenchie parked the van a good distance away, where we had a clear view of the warehouse the guy had mentioned before Kimiko had snapped his neck. It was a squat, unassuming building, blending in with the rest of the industrial sprawl. The perfect place for Vought to move something as dangerous as Compound V without anyone noticing.

"Looks quiet," Frenchie said, squinting through the windshield, scanning the area like a hawk. "Too quiet."

"Yeah," I muttered, lighting another cigarette. "It usually is before all hell breaks loose."

We sat in silence for a moment, each of us lost in our own thoughts, preparing for what came next. I was thinking about Supernova, about the way she had clocked me in the crowd. She might not know exactly who I was, but it was only a matter of time before she found out. Vought didn't like loose ends, and right now, I was dangling in their sightline.

The flicker of my lighter illuminated my face for a second before I exhaled the smoke, watching it dissolve into the cold night air. The docks had that eerie stillness, the kind that wraps around you and makes your skin crawl. But I'd been in worse places. More dangerous places.

Frenchie tapped the steering wheel absentmindedly, glancing toward the rear of the van. "Kimiko's ready," he said quietly. I didn't need to look. I knew she was there, already in that headspace she went to before things got messy. Frenchie always talked about her like she was a weapon—silent but deadly—and he wasn't wrong. If things went south, Kimiko would clean it up without a word.

"Alright, let's not drag this out," I said, flicking the cigarette into a nearby puddle. "We go in quiet, check the place out, and if we find the V, we blow this operation to hell. Simple."

Frenchie grinned, pulling his jacket tighter around him. "Simple, like always, eh?"

The three of us slipped out of the van, sticking to the shadows as we made our way toward the warehouse. The wind from the waterfront carried the distant sounds of the city behind us, but out here, it was like another world—isolated, cut off from the noise. Just how Vought liked it.

Kimiko led the way, her footsteps barely making a sound on the gravel. She moved with a fluid grace, almost like she was gliding, her senses sharp, always on alert. I followed a few paces behind, scanning the surrounding area, while Frenchie brought up the rear, hands resting lightly on his modified guns, just in case.

As we approached the side of the warehouse, I could see the faint glow of security lights casting long, sinister shadows. The entrance was guarded, but nothing too heavy—two men, maybe more inside. These weren't Vought's high-tier enforcers, just low-level grunts, probably hired to stand around and look menacing.

I signaled to Kimiko with a quick nod, and without hesitation, she disappeared into the dark, moving like a ghost toward the guards. I could barely track her as she closed the distance in seconds. There was no sound, no struggle—just two bodies crumpling to the ground before anyone could react. Clean.

I motioned for Frenchie to follow me as we moved toward the door, keeping low. I checked the guards—both out cold. "Nice work," I whispered, stepping over them and pressing my ear to the door. Nothing. It was quiet inside.

"Shall we?" Frenchie whispered, sliding up beside me, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He loved this part—the tension before the storm, the adrenaline that came from not knowing what was waiting on the other side.

I nodded, carefully turning the handle and pushing the door open just enough to slip inside. The warehouse was dimly lit, rows of crates and shipping containers stretching out in front of us like a maze. Overhead, the high ceiling loomed, casting everything in long, dark shadows. It looked abandoned, but I knew better than to trust appearances.

We moved through the aisles, weaving between stacks of containers, our eyes sharp for any sign of movement. Kimiko had already disappeared into the dark again, scouting ahead. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of metal as the wind rattled the warehouse.

Frenchie signaled toward a stack of crates near the far wall. "There," he whispered. "Those could be the shipments."

We crept closer, my heart pounding in my chest, my fingers twitching at the holster on my side. As we reached the crates, I crouched down, running my hand along the edge of one. Frenchie pulled out a small crowbar from his bag and quietly wedged it under the lid, prying it open with a soft crack.

Inside, nestled in layers of packing material, were small vials filled with a glowing blue liquid. Compound V. Exactly what we'd been hunting.

"Jackpot," I muttered, feeling the familiar surge of satisfaction. But something felt off. Too easy.

"Should we take it all or—" Frenchie started, but I cut him off, holding up a hand.

"Wait."

I scanned the room, my gut telling me there was something more going on here. Vought wouldn't just leave this unguarded, not if they were moving this much product. This felt like bait.

Before I could voice my concerns, there was a sharp clang from deeper inside the warehouse—like metal on metal. Frenchie froze, his eyes meeting mine. "You heard that, oui?"

I nodded, already moving toward the sound, staying low and keeping my hand on my gun. Kimiko had vanished somewhere in the shadows, but I knew she'd find whatever was making that noise. Or whoever.

As we approached the back of the warehouse, the sounds grew louder—footsteps, soft but hurried. Someone was moving cargo, and they didn't care about being quiet anymore.

I signaled for Frenchie to fan out, and he nodded, slipping into the shadows as I edged closer to the source of the noise. My heart raced as I rounded the corner, and there, in the dim light of the warehouse, I saw them.

A group of workers, about five or six, loading the last of the Compound V into a black van parked at the rear of the building. They were dressed in nondescript clothes, the kind you'd forget after one look. But these weren't ordinary dock workers. Their movements were too quick, too precise—Vought's people, no doubt about it.

I cursed under my breath. If that van got out of here, the V would be gone, and we'd be back to square one.

Before I could make a move, Kimiko appeared from the shadows, her eyes locked on the workers, ready to strike. I held up a hand, signaling for her to wait. We needed to be smart about this.

Just as I was about to step forward, a figure emerged from the dark corner of the warehouse.

My heart dropped. Black Noir, Vought's silent assassin, stood there like a living shadow, motionless, but with an intensity that radiated from him. His black, armored suit gleamed in the faint light of the warehouse, his face obscured by that smooth, expressionless mask. You could never tell what Noir was thinking—not that it mattered. He was Vought's clean-up man, and if he was here, it meant we'd just walked into a trap.

Frenchie cursed softly under his breath, his grip tightening on the handle of his gun. "Not him, mon dieu. We are in trouble."

Kimiko hadn't moved, her gaze fixed on Noir like a predator sizing up another. I could feel the tension rolling off her in waves, her body coiled, ready to spring. She wanted to take him on, I could tell. But this wasn't the time for that. Not yet.

Noir didn't speak—he never did—but his presence was enough to send a clear message: we weren't walking out of here without a fight.

"Leo," Frenchie whispered, "what's the play?"

I took a slow breath, thinking fast. The Compound V was still being loaded into the van behind Noir, and we couldn't let that shipment leave. But Black Noir wasn't someone we could just take head-on and hope for the best. Not without getting ourselves killed—or worse, captured. And Vought wouldn't show us mercy if they got their hands on us.

"We split up," I whispered back. "Frenchie, take Kimiko and flank him. I'll head for the van and make sure that V doesn't get out of here."

Frenchie nodded, but Kimiko didn't move. Her eyes were still locked on Noir, every muscle in her body tense. I could tell what she was thinking—she wanted to be the one to take him down. But this wasn't about pride or revenge. We needed to be smart.

"Kimiko," I said softly. "Not yet."

Reluctantly, she tore her gaze from Noir and glanced at me, giving a barely perceptible nod. Then, without another word, she melted back into the shadows, disappearing from sight. Frenchie followed her lead, moving silently, his eyes never leaving Noir.

I waited until they were out of sight before making my move, slipping around the crates toward the van. The workers were still loading the last of the vials, oblivious to what was unfolding in the warehouse. I stayed low, creeping along the edge of the containers, my heart pounding in my chest. One wrong move, and I'd have more than just the workers to deal with.

As I got closer to the van, I could hear the faint hum of its engine, still running, ready to bolt the moment the last crate was loaded. I had to act fast. But just as I was about to make my move, I heard the sound of metal striking metal—followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground.

Kimiko had made her move.

I glanced back toward where Black Noir had been standing, just in time to see him and Kimiko locked in combat. She was fast, faster than I'd ever seen her move before, her fists striking out in a blur of motion. But Noir was just as quick, blocking her blows with ease, his movements precise and calculated. They were evenly matched.

Frenchie had slipped into the fray too, firing off shots from the cover of a stack of crates, but Noir dodged them with an almost effortless grace. It was like watching a dance—one that could end in blood at any moment.

But I couldn't focus on that. I had a job to do.

I darted toward the van, yanking open the driver's side door and pulling the startled driver out before he could react. He hit the ground with a grunt, scrambling to get up, but I was already inside, throwing the van into gear. The workers shouted in confusion, rushing toward the van, but they were too late. I floored the gas, the tires screeching as the van lurched forward.

The crates still inside rattled, the vials of Compound V glowing faintly in the rearview mirror. I had no time to be careful—if we didn't get this shipment out of here, Vought would just keep coming. And next time, they might send someone worse than Black Noir.

As I sped toward the warehouse exit, I caught a glimpse of Kimiko and Noir still locked in combat. She was relentless, her movements almost a blur, but Noir was holding his ground, his every strike perfectly timed, perfectly calculated. I wanted to help, to jump into the fight and pull her out, but I knew better. She'd never forgive me for that. Kimiko needed this fight—and she might just be the only one who could win it.

Frenchie was running alongside the van now, firing off shots to cover my escape as I barreled toward the warehouse doors. I hit the brakes just long enough for him to dive into the passenger seat before I gunned it again, the van roaring as we sped out into the night.

"We did it!" Frenchie shouted, breathless, glancing back at the crates. "We got the V!"

But I wasn't celebrating yet. Not until I knew Kimiko was safe.

"Call her," I ordered, my voice tight with worry. "Now."

Frenchie fumbled with his phone, dialing quickly. "Come on, come on, pick up..."

The line rang once, twice—then clicked.

"Kimiko?" Frenchie said, relief flooding his voice. "Are you alright?"

I couldn't hear the response, but Frenchie's expression told me enough.

"She's still alive," he said, turning to me. "And Noir is gone. She made it out."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, my hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. "Good," I muttered. "Now let's make sure Vought never gets this shipment back."

But then, a sudden jolt halted the van. The van lurched violently, the tires screeching as it came to a sudden, jarring halt. My heart leapt into my throat.

"What the hell?" Frenchie shouted, bracing himself as the van rocked from side to side. I slammed on the brakes, trying to regain control, but something had locked us down. We weren't moving an inch.

In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of something dark—something fast—moving behind us.

"Mon dieu..." Frenchie breathed, his eyes wide.

It was Black Noir. He'd caught up to us.

I cursed under my breath, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Of course, he wasn't going to let us get away that easily. Not with the Compound V in the back of the van. His silent, unstoppable figure loomed closer, methodical, every movement deliberate, like he knew he had all the time in the world. He reached the rear of the van, his hand gripping the edge of the bumper with ease, and with terrifying strength, he began to pull us back.

"He's stopping the van with his bare hands!" Frenchie yelled, panic creeping into his voice.

I could feel the tires straining, the van groaning under the pressure of Noir's grip. We needed to move, now, or we'd be torn apart—or worse, dragged back to Vought.

"Get ready!" I growled at Frenchie, slamming the van into reverse.

"What?" he started, but before he could finish, I floored the gas, sending the van careening backward toward Noir. If he wanted to pull us in, I'd make him regret it. The van shuddered, metal crunching against something solid—Noir's body—but the impact barely slowed him down. He held on.

Frenchie scrambled, reaching for the crowbar in the back seat. "He won't let go, we need to—"

Suddenly, Kimiko emerged from the shadows, running at full speed toward us, her face a mask of fury. With one leap, she vaulted onto the roof of the van, landing with a solid thud that reverberated through the metal.

She was going after Black Noir again.

I watched in the rearview mirror as she launched herself at him with the kind of ferocity only she could muster, her fists flying, aiming to dislodge his iron grip on the van. For a moment, it seemed like she had him—Noir staggered under the barrage of her strikes, his body shifting, his hand slipping just enough for the van to lurch forward.

"Go!" Frenchie screamed.

I didn't need to be told twice. I gunned it, the tires squealing as the van shot forward, breaking free from Noir's grasp. The rear doors rattled violently, but they held. Kimiko wasn't so lucky.

I glanced in the mirror and saw her tumbling off the van, hitting the ground hard and rolling into a crouch. For a brief second, I considered stopping, going back for her—but she raised her hand, signaling us to keep going.

"Go," Frenchie said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "She can handle herself. She's giving us a chance."

I clenched my jaw and focused on the road ahead. Kimiko knew what she was doing. If we didn't get the Compound V out of here, everything she fought for would be for nothing. She'd catch up. She always did.

We sped through the docks, the dark shapes of rusting cranes and shipping containers blurring past us. Behind us, the warehouse and Black Noir faded into the distance, but I knew it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

"Where do we go?" Frenchie asked, his voice trembling slightly.

"We get to Mother's place," I said, my mind racing. "Lay low until we figure out how to destroy this stuff for good."

Frenchie nodded, but I could see the worry in his eyes. We had the Compound V, but we'd also made an enemy of Vought's deadliest weapon. Black Noir would keep coming, and next time, we might not be so lucky.

As the city lights came into view on the horizon, I lit another cigarette, trying to calm the storm in my chest. I knew Kimiko would find us. She always did.

But the real question was—how long before Black Noir did too?

My voice was the only thing filling the van's tense silence as we sped away from the docks. Frenchie's hands gripped the dashboard, still trembling from the close call with Black Noir. We had the Compound V, but that felt like the easy part. It wasn't the first time we'd managed to steal something big from Vought, but it was the first time it felt like we were running out of time.

"Mother's Milk will know what to do," I said, flicking the cigarette out the window. "He always does."

Frenchie glanced at me, his face tight. "You're trusting MM with this shipment? You know how he feels about the V, non? He hates this stuff more than anyone."

"He'll hate it less if we find a way to destroy it," I muttered. "Besides, he's family."

Family. I hated the word, but it was the truth. MM had practically raised me after Dad disappeared into whatever hell Vought had cooked up for him. We'd been brothers long before MM learned about his connection to the Boys, and long before I found out the man who left me behind was still very much alive, playing hero-slayer with MM and the others.

Butcher. Billy Butcher. My old man.

I hadn't seen him in years—not since I was sixteen—and when I did, it wasn't exactly the reunion I'd hoped for. The last time I saw him, he'd been covered in blood, Vought's blood, and I was pretty sure he hadn't even recognized me.

He probably wouldn't care either.

Frenchie broke the silence, eyes flicking to the side mirror. "Kimiko... She'll be alright, yes?"

I nodded, even though I wasn't sure. Kimiko was strong, faster than any of us, but Black Noir? That was a different beast. Still, I couldn't think about that now. She'd made her choice. She always did.

"I'm counting on it," I said, my voice harder than I meant.

We were heading toward the Flatline Building, a safe house we'd used before—off the grid, well-stocked, and fortified. It was the only spot I could think of where we could regroup and figure out how to destroy the Compound V. The van rumbled down the empty streets, the city a blur around us. I could feel Vought closing in, their invisible hand already reaching out to snatch the V back.

Butcher would love this. He always wanted a full-frontal assault on Vought, and now, here we were, halfway to giving them exactly what they wanted—a reason to hunt us down like dogs.

[]

The Flatline Building was just as we left it—silent, dark, and tucked into the forgotten corners of the city. I killed the engine and we sat there for a moment, the only sound the ticking of the cooling van.

"Let's go," I said, stepping out and slamming the door behind me.

The front door creaked open, and there stood Mother's Milk, looking like he hadn't slept in a week but still strong as hell, his imposing figure filling the doorway. He wore his usual grimace, the one that said he was disappointed in the world, but willing to fight it anyway.

"You got balls showing up here with that shit in your van," he said, crossing his arms.

"Nice to see you too, MM," I muttered, brushing past him into the house. Frenchie followed close behind, his shoulders hunched like he was expecting a lecture.

"You sure bringing that here was a good idea?" MM asked, shutting the door behind us. "You know Vought's gonna be all over this place the second they figure out where you're hiding."

"We didn't have much of a choice," I replied, heading straight for the living room and collapsing onto the couch. "We couldn't let the shipment leave the docks. They'd just keep making more Supes."

MM's brow furrowed as he glanced out the window, ever the sentinel. "And what's your plan now, Leo? You just gonna sit here and wait for Vought to come knocking?"

"We destroy it," I said, leaning forward, my hands clasped between my knees. "Burn it all. Make sure they never use this batch of V."

He raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly do you plan to do that? This isn't just some backyard meth lab you can set on fire and walk away from."

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could say a word, the front door slammed open, and in walked Butcher.

He was a storm in human form, his black trench coat swirling around him as he stepped inside, his eyes landing on me immediately. It was like the air in the room shifted, the tension snapping to attention.

"Well, look who decided to show up," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thought you'd run off and gotten yourself killed."

"Not yet," I muttered, glaring at him. "Nice to see you too, Dad." 

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Still calling me that, huh? Even after all these years?"

I stood up, squaring off with him. "Yeah, well, it's hard to forget when the guy who ditched me shows up outta nowhere to play hero killer."

Butcher's face hardened, the familiar scowl settling in. "I didn't ditch you, Leo. I did what I had to do."

"Oh, right, 'cause everything you do is justified, right?" I shot back, the anger boiling over. "You left me. Left me to deal with all of this on my own, while you ran off to hunt Supes."

MM stepped between us, his hand on my shoulder. "That's enough, Leo. We don't have time for this. We need to focus."

Butcher crossed his arms, staring me down like I was just another obstacle in his path. "You brought the Compound V here. Now we've got a target on our backs, and every supe-loving prick in the city's gonna be coming for us. You really think burning it's gonna solve anything?"

"Got a better idea?" I snapped.

Butcher's grin was sharp, dangerous. "Yeah, I do. We use it."

My blood went cold. "You're insane."

He stepped closer, his eyes locked on mine, the same fire burning behind them that I used to see when I was a kid—the fire that scared the hell out of me. "We give Vought a taste of their own medicine. Take their Compound V and make our own army. Fight fire with fire."

I shook my head, backing away. "No. That's not the answer."

"And you think hiding away and hoping the world magically fixes itself is?"

"It's better than becoming the thing we're fighting!" I shouted.

Silence fell over the room, heavy and oppressive. Frenchie shifted uneasily, MM stood with his arms crossed, and Butcher—well, Butcher just stared at me like I was the idiot.

"You're wrong, Leo," Butcher said quietly. "The only way to win this is to become what they fear most."

I didn't know what to say. He'd always been like this, always thinking he had the answers, always thinking his way was the only way. But that wasn't me. I couldn't do it. I couldn't become him.

"I'm not you, Dad," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm not turning into the thing I hate."

His grin faded, replaced by a look I hadn't seen in years—disappointment.

"Maybe you should be, son," he said, before turning and walking out of the room.

I stood there, staring after him, the weight of his words sinking in. But I couldn't do it. I wouldn't become him, no matter how much he wanted me to.

Mother's Milk stepped forward, his hand on my shoulder again, but this time it was comforting. "You don't have to be him, Leo. We'll figure this out, together."

I nodded, grateful for MM's steady presence, but deep down, I knew this was far from over.

Black Noir was still out there. Vought was still out there. And now, I had Butcher breathing down my neck, pushing me toward a path I wasn't sure I could walk.

But I wasn't alone. I had MM. I had Frenchie. And I knew, somewhere out there, Kimiko was still fighting, still with us.

We'd find a way. We had to.

Then, I came across a family photo with a cracked glass over it. It stood on a messy desk and I picked it up to take a closer look.

It was my family photo. There was Butcher and my mother, Becca, and the recently turned sixteen-year-old me with Terror, our family's English bulldog — go figures for telling everyone your dad was British.

My finger traced the crack over the glass, splitting right down the middle of my mother's face. The happy moment frozen in time felt like a cruel joke now. The life I used to have—before everything went to hell, before Butcher became the monster he swore to destroy—felt like a distant dream. I swallowed hard, putting the frame back on the desk.

MM watched me from the corner of the room, his eyes softened with understanding, but he didn't say anything. He knew when not to push, and right now, words wouldn't make any of this easier.

"You ever wonder how we got here?" I asked quietly, still staring at the photo. "How everything just went so wrong?"

MM sighed, taking a seat on the couch. "Every damn day. But we don't get to dwell on it, Leo. We've got work to do."

I turned to face him. "But what if we're just... perpetuating the cycle? We fight them, they fight us. Maybe Dad's right. Maybe the only way to stop it is to break the rules, play dirty."

Mother's Milk leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Butcher's not wrong about everything, Leo. Sometimes, you've gotta get your hands dirty. But there's a line. A line you don't cross. Once you do, there's no coming back."

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words. He was right. There was always a line, and I wasn't sure where mine was anymore. But I wasn't ready to let go of who I was—not yet.

"We destroy the V," I said firmly, pushing back the uncertainty gnawing at me. "We take it out of play. No army, no more Supes. We hit Vought where it hurts."

MM gave a short nod of approval. "Alright, then. But we need to be smart about this. Vought isn't just gonna roll over."

Frenchie perked up from his spot near the window. "I might know a way to, how do you say... make sure it burns, for good."

I raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. "There's a chemical mixture, a little trick I learned in Marseille. It reacts with Compound V, turns it into something highly unstable. One spark, and poof! No more V."

MM shot him a skeptical look. "You sure this is gonna work?"

Frenchie shrugged, still grinning. "It worked before. On a much smaller scale, of course. But we could tweak it, make it work on a larger batch."

I exchanged a glance with MM. It was a long shot, but it was a plan. And right now, a plan was all we had.

"Alright," I said, standing up. "Let's do it. We'll make sure Vought never uses this batch. And then, we figure out our next move."

MM rose to his feet, clapping a hand on my back. "We'll get it done."

Frenchie was already gathering his things, muttering about the chemicals he'd need. As he worked, I felt a strange mix of relief and anxiety. We had a plan, but it was dangerous. If we were caught, if Vought found us before we could finish the job...

I pushed the thought away. There wasn't room for doubt, not now.

As I headed toward the door, something stopped me. I looked back at the cracked family photo one last time. There was a time when I believed in the idea of heroes. When I thought my dad was one of them. But now, I knew better. The world wasn't black and white. There were no real heroes, just people trying to survive the mess.

"Let's end this," I muttered under my breath, stepping outside into the night.

The fight was far from over, but I had something Butcher never would. I still had hope. And as long as I held on to that, I knew we stood a chance.

But before we could even get to our van, it exploded. The blast knocked us off our feet, the shockwave slamming into me like a freight train. The heat from the explosion seared across my face, and I hit the pavement hard, my ears ringing from the deafening roar.

I groaned, struggling to get my bearings as I pushed myself up on my hands and knees. My vision was blurred, but through the haze, I could make out the twisted wreckage of the van, flames licking up into the night sky. Whatever we had left inside was gone. All of it.

"Frenchie! MM!" I coughed, tasting smoke and ash in my mouth. I could barely hear my own voice over the ringing in my ears.

A shadow fell over me.

I looked up, blinking through the smoke, and my blood ran cold.

Black Noir stood there, unmoving, his silhouette outlined by the fire behind him. He was like a ghost, his face hidden behind that impenetrable black mask, his entire presence radiating silent menace. I'd seen him before, fought him before, but he was never any less terrifying.

"Noir," I muttered, trying to get to my feet. My body screamed in protest, but I couldn't afford to stay down. Not now.

Behind me, I heard MM groan as he pulled himself up, shaking off the dust. Frenchie was on his feet too, swaying slightly but alive.

"Get inside!" I barked, my voice hoarse. "Now!"

We stumbled back toward the building, my mind racing. How the hell had he found us so fast? Vought must have known something, maybe they tracked the van. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was surviving.

Suddenly, through all the chaos, I remembered something. "The V!"

My heart raced as the realization hit. The Compound V was still inside the building, and if Black Noir got his hands on it, we'd be done for.

I shot a glance at MM, who had his hand on his side, wincing as he tried to stand upright. Frenchie was by his side, muttering curses in French, his eyes wide with panic. They were both in rough shape, but there was no time to waste.

"We've got to get to the V before he does," I said, the urgency clear in my voice.

Black Noir didn't move, but I could feel his eyes locked on me through that eerie, featureless mask. He was waiting, calculating. He was always one step ahead, silent, deadly, and relentless.

MM was breathing heavily, but he managed to nod. "We need to split up. Keep him off balance."

Frenchie looked between us, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "We're sitting ducks out here."

"I know," I replied, "but if we don't move now, it's over."

Just as I finished speaking, Noir sprinted forward with blinding speed. One second he was standing still, the next he was charging straight at us. I barely had time to react before he was on us, a blur of black leather and terrifying precision.

MM tried to throw a punch, but Noir ducked under it and slammed his fist into MM's gut, sending him crashing into the wall of the building. Frenchie lunged forward, knife in hand, but Noir easily sidestepped the attack, grabbing Frenchie by the throat and throwing him across the pavement like he weighed nothing.

I ran toward the door of the building, my only thought to get inside and protect the Compound V. As I reached the threshold, I heard footsteps behind me, and instinctively ducked just in time to avoid Noir's strike. He was fast—faster than anyone I'd ever faced.

I kicked backward, hitting him in the leg, but it barely fazed him. He grabbed the back of my jacket and threw me through the doorway, my body slamming into the wooden floor of the Flatline Building's lobby. Pain exploded through my ribs, but I forced myself to get up. If I stayed down, I was dead.

I scrambled to my feet and sprinted toward the stairs. I could hear Noir's footsteps behind me, steady and deliberate. He wasn't in a rush—he didn't need to be. He knew he'd catch me eventually.

As I reached the second floor, I saw MM stumbling in through a side door, blood running down the side of his face. He held up a hand, signaling for me to keep moving.

"I'll slow him down," MM growled, pulling a length of steel pipe from the rubble.

"MM, don't!" I shouted, but it was too late. Black Noir appeared at the top of the stairs, his dark figure casting a long shadow down the hallway. MM swung the pipe with all his strength, but Noir effortlessly blocked the blow with his forearm, then delivered a bone-crunching punch to MM's chest, sending him flying backward.

Rage flared up inside me, but there was nothing I could do for MM right now. I had to get to the V.

I ran deeper into the building, hearing Noir's footsteps echoing behind me. My lungs burned, my muscles screamed, but I kept pushing. The storage room was just ahead, the door slightly ajar.

I burst into the room and slammed the door behind me, bolting it shut. The V was in a heavy metal case in the center of the room, exactly where we'd left it. Frenchie's chemical concoction was there too, stored in smaller containers beside it.

I grabbed the case and dragged it toward the far end of the room, my mind racing. We had to destroy it now. We couldn't wait. If Noir got his hands on this, it was over—not just for us, but for everyone.

Suddenly, the door behind me rattled. Noir was there. I could hear the wood splintering under the force of his blows. I needed to move faster.

"Come on, come on," I muttered, fumbling with the chemical mixture Frenchie had prepared. I uncapped one of the bottles, the smell acrid and sharp.

I felt a hand gripping my neck, yanking me backward with an iron grip. Black Noir had broken through the door faster than I anticipated. I kicked and struggled, but it was like fighting a machine. His hand was crushing my throat, lifting me off the ground as if I weighed nothing. I gasped for air, my vision starting to blur at the edges.

I thought it was over.

"Oi!"Butcher's voice cut through the chaos like a gunshot.

Black Noir's grip on my throat loosened just enough for me to gulp in air, and in that split second, I saw him — Butcher, standing in the doorway, fists clenched by his side.

"Let 'im go, you masked prick," Butcher growled, stepping into the room with slow, deliberate strides. His eyes locked on Noir with a look I hadn't seen in years. It was a look of pure, unfiltered rage.

Noir hesitated for a fraction of a second, then hurled me across the room like a ragdoll. I slammed into the far wall, pain exploding through my body as I crumpled to the ground. Through the haze of agony, I could hear Butcher's voice, sharp and mocking.

"Yeah, that's right. Eyes on me, you wanker."

I tried to push myself up, but everything hurt. My vision swam, but I managed to focus enough to see what was happening.

Without a second thought, Black Noir grabbed the case with the V and jumped out of the window. Shards of glass exploded outward as Black Noir crashed through the window, taking the case of Compound V with him. I could only watch in stunned silence as his dark figure disappeared into the night, like a shadow melting into the city. The roar of the wind and the distant wail of sirens filled the air, but it all felt muffled, distant, like I was underwater.

Butcher didn't move. He stood by the window, fists clenched at his sides, breathing heavily as he stared into the night where Noir had vanished. His jaw tightened, and I could see the fury simmering beneath the surface.

I finally managed to push myself up, my whole body protesting with sharp pains and dull aches. I staggered to my feet, clutching my ribs, and leaned against the wall for support.

"He's gone," I croaked, my voice raw and strained.

Butcher didn't turn to look at me. His eyes were still locked on the shattered window, like he could will Noir to reappear if he stared hard enough. "Bloody bastard," he muttered under his breath.

"We lost the V," I said, wincing as I took a step forward. "He's got it now."

Finally, Butcher turned, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Not over yet," he said quietly, his voice dangerously calm. "Not by a long shot."

Mother's Milk stumbled into the room, holding his side, blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Everyone alright?" he asked, his voice gruff but steady. He glanced around the room, taking in the shattered glass and the destruction with a weary sigh.

"Frenchie?" I asked, my heart sinking at the thought.

"I'm fine," came Frenchie's voice from the hallway, followed by the sound of him limping into the room. His face was battered, but he managed a weak smile. "Well, more or less."

I exhaled a shaky breath, the weight of what just happened crashing down on me. "We were so close," I muttered, rubbing a hand over my face. "Now Noir has the V, and Vought..."

Butcher interrupted, his voice cutting through my thoughts like a knife. "This ain't over, Leo. We know where he's taking it. Vought'll be scrambling to secure it, and that gives us time."

"Time for what?" MM asked, his voice edged with frustration. "We're down, Butcher. Noir just wiped the floor with us, and now they've got the upper hand."

Butcher finally tore his gaze from the window and fixed his eyes on MM, his expression hard. "They might have the V, but we still know things they don't. We've got leads. And we've got something they don't—me."

MM let out a low, humorless laugh. "And what exactly do you think you're gonna do? Take down Vought single-handedly?"

Butcher smiled, but it was cold, predatory. "Not single-handedly. I got something else in mind." He eyed me for a brief second before turning to the rest. "I thought our new recruit would be doing the flirting with a Supe."

I knew who he was talking about. Hughie Campbell, the newest recruit for the Boys. He joined after his girlfriend was killed in a freak accident caused by a Supe. Butcher had recruited him for the rage, the drive for revenge. And now, I realized Butcher was planning something even more dangerous, something that went beyond just revenge. But why did he looked at me and said that?

"Butcher, what are you saying?" Frenchie asked.

"I spotted my boy in the crowd where everyone gets a little sneak peek at the new bird," Butcher explained. "And I must say, you've definitely got your old man's gaze."

But how was he there? Was he watching me watching Supernova? The room fell into a tense silence after Butcher's cryptic words. My mind raced, trying to piece together what he was implying. My old man's gaze? What the hell did he mean by that?

Butcher's eyes flicked to me, holding my stare for a second longer than I was comfortable with. He knew something, something I wasn't seeing yet. I could feel it, a creeping suspicion that whatever game he was playing, I was already a part of it whether I liked it or not.

"You're sayin' I've got eyes on Supernova?" I asked, my voice low, trying to wrap my head around the sudden shift.

Butcher chuckled darkly, crossing his arms. "Not just eyes, mate. You're doing what Hughie's been doing, getting in close. You're already in her orbit, working your charm."

I stared at Butcher, struggling to process his words. "Dad, you're saying I should stalk her?"

Butcher's grin widened, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Not stalk, Leo. Infiltrate. You're already close, so you might as well leverage that position. We need eyes on the inside, and Supernova's the key."

I shook my head, disbelief and anger clashing within me. "You want me to use her? To get close just to get intel?"

"It's not just about getting intel, Leo. It's about survival," Butcher said, his voice cold and calculating. "Vought's not gonna stop until we're all buried. You know that. This is war."

I clenched my fists, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. "She's not like the others. She's different."

"Maybe she is, maybe she ain't," Butcher shrugged. "But different or not, she's part of their world. If you don't play this right, she'll tear you apart just like the rest of 'em."

I turned away, my thoughts swirling, feeling the weight of his plan settle on my shoulders. It was wrong. Everything about it felt wrong. But I couldn't deny the truth in his words. Vought had us cornered, and Supernova—no, Star—was my way in. I'd never seen her as just a tool, though. She was... different.

Butcher's voice echoed in my head: You're already in her orbit.

I caught myself thinking about the last time I'd seen her, that quiet moment when she'd smiled, her eyes soft, the world around us seeming to fade. For the first time in a long while, I hadn't felt alone.

And there was something else too. The pull I couldn't explain. I was drawn to her, like a planet circling its sun.

I sighed heavily and muttered, "I'm not you, Dad. I'm not gonna use her like that."

"Use her, or don't. But make your move, son. Because if you don't, someone else will."

His words stuck with me, even as he turned and walked away. I glanced out the broken window, the night air cooling my face, and caught a glimpse of the stars overhead. One in particular, brighter than the rest, caught my ey

Little star.

I smiled despite myself, whispering the name under my breath. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

And as much as I fought it, I knew deep down, I was already falling.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the familiar, sleek corridors leading to Homelander's office. I stepped out, my heart pounding with each step I took toward the ominous doors. Everything in Vought Tower screamed power, control—just like him.

As I approached his office, my mind raced. I had to be careful. Homelander wasn't just dangerous; he was unpredictable, prone to sudden bursts of anger hidden beneath that carefully manufactured charm. The smallest misstep could set him off, and after tonight, I wasn't sure how close I was to crossing that line.

I reached the door, my hand hovering over the polished handle for a moment before I pushed it open.

Inside, Homelander was standing by the massive windows that overlooked the city, his back to me. The city lights glittered far below, but the room itself was dim, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor. He didn't turn when I entered. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the city below and the soft click of the door closing behind me.

"Do you know what I hate most about these galas?" His voice cut through the silence, low and almost conversational. "They're so... fake. People pretending to care, to love us. It's all just for show. And you know that, don't you?"

I hesitated. "Yeah, I know."

He turned then, his eyes locking onto mine with that unnerving intensity. There was no smile this time, no mask of politeness. Just raw, focused power. "But sometimes, people forget who's really in charge. They start to think they have... options."

He took a step closer, his gaze never wavering. "You're not getting... ideas, are you? Trying to make alliances that don't involve me?"

My pulse quickened, but I forced myself to stay calm. "No, Homelander. Of course not."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer until he was right in front of me. His presence was suffocating. "Because I saw you tonight. You were... distracted. Talking to a lot of people. Laughing. And Black Noir... he doesn't usually reach out to people, does he?"

There it was. He knew something. Maybe not the whole story, but enough to be suspicious. I needed to play this carefully.

"I was just doing what we always do at these events," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Mingling, building relationships for Vought. That's what you wanted, right?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing my words. "Yeah. That's what you're supposed to do. But there's a difference between playing the part and forgetting your place."

The tension in the room thickened. Homelander wasn't just looking for reassurance; he was making sure I understood the hierarchy—his hierarchy.

"Have I ever told you how Black Noir and I became friends?" Homelander asked, seemingly changing the topic slightly.

I shook my head. "I don't believe you have."

Homelander chuckled softly, but it was devoid of any warmth. "Oh, it's quite the story," he said, turning his back to the city again, his silhouette framed by the cold, distant lights of New York. "You see, Black Noir and I—we go way back. Back when things were simpler. Just us, the early days of Vought... when the world was ours for the taking."

He paused, pacing slightly now, as if lost in the memory. "But the thing is, even then, Noir knew his place. He's silent, sure, but loyal. Never questioned anything, never thought about stepping out of line. He understood who calls the shots."

I wasn't sure what he was talking about. As far as I was concerned, I was doing everything by the book, following rules and do my job.

"See, the thing about Black Noir," Homelander continued, his voice dropping an octave as he stopped pacing and turned to face me again, "is that he's like a ghost. Always watching, always listening. But he knows better than to act on his own. He knows that stepping out of line has... consequences."

My mouth went dry. The weight of his words bore down on me like a vice, squeezing my chest. There was a message hidden in his rambling, and it wasn't hard to decipher: Noir's loyalty was unshakable, and anyone who thought otherwise was a fool. This wasn't a history lesson. This was a warning.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing for a response that wouldn't raise any more red flags. "I know that, Homelander. Black Noir has always been... reliable. I trust him just like I trust you."

A flicker of something crossed his face—something that might have been amusement or approval, though it was impossible to tell with him. "Trust. That's an interesting word, isn't it?" His eyes narrowed, and he began to slowly circle me like a predator stalking its prey. "Trust is what keeps everything running smoothly. You trust me, I trust you... and Vought trusts us to keep their little empire intact."

He stopped in front of me again, his face inches from mine, close enough that I could feel the cold radiating off him. But I got the feeling there was more to it than a warning.

"What's it really about?" I inquired. "Did I do something wrong at the gala? Where I was talking to the guests, shaking hands, smiling at them—"

Homelander cut me off with a sharp wave of his hand, his expression tightening into something dangerous. "No, no," he said, his voice eerily calm. "You didn't do anything wrong, technically. You followed the script perfectly. It's just that tonight..." his hand rose slowly up, his fingers and thumb clenched against his palm. A small smirk crept across his face and lowered his hand once more. "Wasn't really about you."

Confused by his sudden response, I replied, "Well, of course it's not, it's a charity event."

Homelander chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "No, no, you misunderstand. The charity, the event, all of that is just for show. Vought needs to keep the public happy, make them feel like they're part of something bigger." His grin widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "But tonight, it was more like... a test."

I stiffened at the word, my mind racing. A test? What kind of test? Was he talking about me, or something else entirely?

"See, Supernova, sometimes I like to watch. Not just what people say, but what they don't say. How they move, who they talk to when they think no one's watching." He paused, his eyes scanning me like a predator assessing its prey. "Tonight, I wanted to see how well you'd handle the pressure, being the new rising star in The Seven, the bright, shiny Supernova."

His voice was light, almost playful, but there was an undercurrent of menace that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. This whole conversation had been a setup, a trap designed to gauge my reactions, to see if I would slip.

"And?" I asked cautiously. "Did I pass?"

Homelander stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, he said, "You did fine. Just wishing you weren't... Oh, what's the expression about attention seeking?"

"Stealing the spotlight?" I offered cautiously, feeling like I was walking a tightrope.

"Exactly," Homelander said, his smile widening. "You don't want to shine too brightly, Supernova. You're new, after all. You've got potential, but you're still just learning how things work here. I don't want you thinking too highly of yourself yet. You'll get your moments in the sun, but only when I decide it's your time."

I didn't like what he was saying. I took a deep breath and stepped a little closer to him. "What do you when you decide it's my time? Surely, it would be Vought's decision, right?"

Homelander's smile faltered for a moment, his gaze sharpening. "Vought's decision? Oh, that's cute. But you see, the reality is a bit different. Vought's decisions are often influenced by those who have the real power. I decide when it's your time to shine, not Vought. They may have their say, but at the end of the day, it's my judgment that counts."

I felt a chill at his words. This was more than a simple power play; it was a stark reminder of who held the reins of control in this twisted hierarchy. His dominance wasn't just about strength or abilities—it was psychological warfare, a constant reminder of his authority.

"And if I were to overstep my boundaries?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at me.

In an instant, Homelander's hand lashed out, his large strong palm seized my throat, his lips curling as he lifted me up to his height, suspending her off the ground. Instinctively, I clawed at his hand, hoping that my nails would freed me from his grap.

Homelander didn't flinch, despite how deeply my nails bit into his skin. The edges of my vision darkened as my body depleted of oxygen, steadily emptying from my lungs while stars burst across my eyes.

Snarling, he swung me around and pinned me to his desk, pinning me down with my back facing him.

I gasped for breath, my vision swimming as I was slammed against the cold, hard surface of the desk. My heart raced furiously in my chest, and my limbs felt like lead. I tried to push away, but Homelander's grip was unyielding, his strength overpowering in a way that left me feeling utterly helpless.

His breath was hot and heavy against my neck, and I could hear the low, menacing rumble of his voice. "You think you're special, don't you? You think you can just waltz into this world and have everything handed to you?"

I struggled beneath him, my fingers scrabbling at the edges of the desk, but it was like trying to move a mountain. "Please," I choked out, my voice barely audible. "Let me go."

Homelander's grip tightened and before I could get myself up, he pressed his body against me hard.

My breath came in ragged gasps as Homelander's weight pressed down on me, pinning me against the desk. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, a stark contrast to the cold, hard surface beneath me. His grip was like iron, unyielding and merciless.

"You think you can just play the part and walk away unscathed?" His voice was low, almost a growl, and I could feel his anger seething through every word. "You think this world is a stage where you get to perform and then retreat behind the curtain? This is real, and I'm real."

I tried to shift, to get some leverage, but it was futile. My movements were sluggish, weighed down by his overwhelming presence. My face was pressed into the polished wood of the desk, and every breath was a struggle, each inhale a painful reminder of the tension in the room.

"Please," I whispered again, the word barely escaping my lips. "I—I don't understand. Why are you doing this?"

Homelander's grip on my shoulders loosened slightly, but only to allow him to maneuver more effectively. "You don't get to question me," he said, his tone icy. "You're here because you need to understand something. You're in a world of power and danger, and if you don't learn how to navigate it, you'll be consumed by it."

The pressure on my back increased, and I felt a sharp pang of pain. I could feel the edge of the desk digging into my ribs, each breath coming more shallow as I fought to maintain some semblance of composure. The room seemed to close in around me, the walls pressing in as my vision narrowed.

"Do you know what happens to those who can't keep up?" Homelander continued, his voice a dangerous whisper. "They get left behind. Or worse. You think you're above that? That you're special?"

I tried to shake my head, but my movements were stifled. I was caught between fear and the need to defy him, a conflict that made my chest ache. "No," I managed to croak. "I'm not special. I'm just trying to—"

Homelander cut me off by shifting his weight, pressing down harder. Then I felt one of his hands trailing down my back and gripped my hips. I felt a jolt of panic as his hand gripped my hips, the sensation making my skin crawl. The cold, calculating nature of his touch seemed to amplify my fear, as if his mere presence was a tangible force that sought to dominate and break me.

"You need to understand," he said, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "This isn't just about playing a part. It's about survival. In this world, power is everything. And right now, you're in the presence of someone who controls that power."

His words were chilling, a stark reminder of the power dynamic at play. Every instinct in me screamed to fight back, to resist, but my body was pinned, immobilized by his overwhelming strength. I tried to focus on my breathing, trying to steady the tremors coursing through me.

Homelander's grip tightened on my hips, his touch both invasive and possessive. Then, I felt his hips slowly grinding against me.

I felt a surge of panic as Homelander's body pressed against me, his movements deliberate and invasive. The sensation of his hips grinding against mine was both humiliating and terrifying. My mind raced, trying to find an escape, but I was trapped, overwhelmed by his strength and the sheer force of his presence.

"Stop," I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper as I struggled to break free from his hold. The cold, hard surface of the desk dug into my stomach, and each shift of his body sent waves of dread coursing through me.

Homelander's grip on my hips remained unyielding, and his breathing was steady, almost calculated. "You need to learn," he said, his tone cold and devoid of empathy. "You need to understand your place in this world."

His words were a harsh reminder of the power imbalance between us, a brutal assertion of his dominance. I tried to focus on the small glimmer of hope that he might relent, but the reality of my situation was overwhelming.

Every inch of my skin felt exposed, and I could feel the sweat on my forehead mixing with the cold sweat of fear. My eyes darted around the room, searching for anything that might help me, but the sleek, modern furnishings were unforgiving in their starkness.

Homelander's movements were methodical, almost mechanical, as if he were performing a ritual of control. I could feel the pressure of his body increasing, making it harder to breathe, to think. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat that matched the urgency of my thoughts.

"Right, Supernova? This could be quick and painless. A little lesson to teach you to respect your superiors. A reminder of who's fucking in charge here."

He bashed my face against the desk, the impact leaving me stunned and disoriented. My vision blurred as pain exploded in my head, and my breath came in ragged gasps. The sharp edge of the desk pressed against my face, and every breath I managed to take felt labored and shallow.

Homelander's grip on my hips didn't relent as he ripped at my uniform. The fabric tears, the loud ripping noise sending another shot of horror into my system as his excited breathing escalated.

"No!" I shouted as he torn at my underwear next.

I flinched as the sound of tearing fabric filled the room, the sensation of Homelander's grip on my hips becoming unbearably invasive. Each tear of the material sent a fresh wave of panic through me. I struggled to keep my mind from spiraling into utter despair, but the pressure and humiliation were overwhelming.

His breath was hot and heavy against my neck, the force of his body pressing into me creating a brutal reminder of his dominance. The room seemed to spin around me, each second stretching out into an eternity of dread.

He unfastened his tight pants, the bite of his zipper coming undone his only response. Rivulets of tears streamed down my cheeks as I felt his flesh against my backside. I tried to twist again, but one punch to the back of my head deterred me, my world exploding. Pain had been a constant companion for my whole life, and it was returning to me now again. My mind felt as if I could run a mile, yet my body physically couldn't stop this man from defiling me.

"Please," I gasped, barely able to form the word. "Please, stop this."

Homelander's grip tightened, his response cold and indifferent. "You think a few words will change anything? You're here to learn a lesson, Carrie. One that will stick with you."

In one thrust, he buried himself inside me, and I screamed. Loud and piercing, the pitch matching the shrill ringing in my head.

I tried to crawl away from him, my nails digging into the wood and anchoring me as I tried to pull herself out from beneath him, but he dragged me back, my fingers trailing the desk. Homelander grunted and then growled as he repeatedly drove himself inside me.

"Just give in," he muttered, his voice low and unfeeling. "It'll be over faster if you stop resisting."

There was nothing I could do to stop him, and my mother's words of my conception lingered in my head again. How could my own mother liked something like this? Whatever feelings my mother had that night was nothing what I was feeling. Instead of a twisted sense of pleasure, it was a profound, overwhelming dread that seemed to consume every corner of her being, leaving me powerless and paralyzed.

He slammed into me a few times before pulling out and finishing on me. Ribbons of his seed spurted across my back, and I couldn't help but gag. He growled, his palm crashing into the side of her face.

"Fucking bitch," he muttered, ignoring her. I gagged again, the feel of his essence seeping into her flesh nauseating.

Homelander's grip suddenly loosened, and for a moment, I thought I might have a chance to break free. But instead of letting me go, he simply repositioned himself, his hand sliding away from my hips only to grip my shoulders with the same unyielding force.

"Remember this moment," he said, his voice cold and unfeeling. "Remember who holds the power here. And remember that you have a choice: respect and obey, or face the consequences."

With that, he finally released me, stepping back and allowing me to crumple to the floor, gasping for breath. I lay there, trembling, my body aching and my mind reeling from the assault.

I was so angry, so distraught from what he just did that I react. As soon as I was on my feet, though my legs felt weak and unsteady. I send my fist flying into his nose. Homelander howled in response, gearing up to charge at me, but controlled himself. Funny how he could control his temper but couldn't control his sexual urges.

Homelander, his nose dripping with blood, walked to the door and opened it, glancing back at me with a look of contempt. "Clean yourself up and get out," he said dismissively. "We're done here."

I stumbled towards the door, feeling the weight of his words like a physical burden. As I passed him, I caught a glimpse of his cold, calculating expression—one that promised more torment if I didn't heed his warning.

The door closed behind me with a final, echoing click, and I was left alone in the dimly lit corridor. I leaned against the wall, struggling to steady my breathing and regain my composure.

My Supernova uniform was completely torn from the back like I was about to get ready to be whipped for a punishment. I felt more vulnerable than ever. I thought about Cinderella when her stepsisters torn her gown that her mouse friends worked so hard to make (I watched it at Godolkin with a few students for movie night). The memory felt painfully ironic now.

The hallways of Vought Tower were eerily silent as I walked down the corridor. Each step echoed, amplifying my sense of isolation. I felt exposed, raw, and her mind raced with the implications of what had just happened. I had struck Homelander—an act of sheer desperation and defiance. I had never felt more terrified or more empowered.

As soon as I found my door to my room, I immediately opened it and slammed it shut without hesitation, leaving me completely alone.

"Sin... you are living in sin," her mother's voice echoed in my head, a haunting reminder of the strict, oppressive upbringing she had tried to escape.

I sank to the floor, my back against the cold wall, and wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to make myself as small as possible. The room felt like it was closing in on me, the shadows growing longer and more oppressive.

I guessed that was what Black Noir meant when it will get worse.

I glanced around the room, my gaze falling on the cracked mirror on the far wall. My reflection stared back at me, bruised and broken, but there was a flicker of defiance in my eyes. I clenched my fists, feeling the surge of my powers simmering just beneath the surface.

"Mama's right," my reflection said to me, my voice ethereally soft. "Sin is all around you, inside you. You must repent."

I closed my eyes, the familiar words striking a chord of guilt and shame within me.

"No," I whispered back, my voice quivering. "It's not my fault..."

The voice responded. "And the contrary is in thee from other women in thy whoredoms, whereas none followeth thee to commit whoredom—."

"I'm not a whore!" I yelled, covering her ears. "He—!"

I couldn't finish the sentence. The shame and guilt choked my words. My mother's condemning voice was louder than ever, blending with the oppressive silence of the room. My powers flared, causing the cracked mirror to vibrate, its fractures expanding with each pulse of my anger.

The lights flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. I felt the familiar tingle of energy coursing through my veins, a reminder of my latent abilities. The room began to tremble slightly as I lost control for a moment, but I quickly took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. The last thing she needed was to draw more attention to herself.

And I just learnt that the hard way through Homelander.

I headed for the bathroom and stripped off my torn Supernova suit.

In the bathroom, I turned on the shower and let the hot water cascade over me. The steam enveloped me, offering a brief respite from the icy numbness that had settled in my bones. As I stood beneath the scalding stream, I scrubbed furiously at my skin, trying to wash away the remnants of the night. The hot water did nothing to erase the visceral sense of violation or the burning shame that lingered despite my efforts.

My mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear. Homelander had left me bruised and shattered, both physically and emotionally. His power, his dominance—it was a stark reminder of how fragile my place in this world was, despite my own abilities. The balance of power here was something I had underestimated, and the consequences of that miscalculation were painfully evident.

The cold glare of the bathroom's fluorescent lights reflected off the cracked tiles, illuminating the deep scratches and bruises marring my skin. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my expression a mix of anger, humiliation, and determination. The sight of my disheveled hair and tear-streaked face was a cruel mockery of the image I had tried to project—the bright, shining Supernova.

I clenched my fists, my knuckles whitening as I tried to contain the fury bubbling within me. I thought of everything I had been through to get here, the sacrifices and struggles, only to face this brutal reality. The image of Homelander's sneering face was seared into my memory, a constant reminder of the power he wielded with such terrifying ease.

After some time, the hot water turned lukewarm, and I stepped out of the shower, shivering despite the warmth. I wrapped myself in a towel and made my way back to the main room, my movements slow and heavy with exhaustion.

As I dressed in my nightwear and looked at what was left of my uniform, the torn and bloodied remnants of the night, I felt a profound sense of resolve. Homelander's cruel lesson had made it clear that survival in this world required more than just playing the part—it required strength, strategy, and a willingness to confront the darkest aspects of this corrupted power structure.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. The physical pain would heal, but the emotional scars would take longer. I knew I needed to find a way to navigate this treacherous environment, to avoid falling victim to the whims of those more powerful than me.

In that moment of solitude, I resolved to learn from this harrowing experience. I would need allies, strategies, and perhaps even secrets of my own if I wanted to survive and ultimately confront the ones who wielded power with such cruelty.

The memory of Homelander's warning echoed in my mind: respect and obey, or face the consequences. As much as I hated to admit it, there was some truth to his words. But the thought of submitting to his tyranny filled me with a fierce resistance. I would not allow myself to be broken.

I had to be smarter, stronger. And if I had to endure and fight to reclaim my dignity and my place in this world, then that was exactly what I would do.

[]

My Supernova uniform was fixed by professional designers as if the last night had never happened. The costume was exactly as it was, no torn whatsoever, a stark contrast to the chaos I had experienced. It was as though Vought's machinery had erased the evidence of my defiance, making my previous actions seem like a bad dream.

The uniform's pristine condition only served as a bitter reminder of the reality I had to face. As I donned the repaired suit, I felt an almost tangible weight on my shoulders, a symbol of the facade I was expected to maintain. The gleaming fabric was meant to convey strength and confidence, but beneath it, I was struggling to piece myself back together.

The morning's light filtered through the blinds, casting a sterile glow over my room. The grandeur of Vought Tower seemed to mock my turmoil with its unyielding opulence. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. The world outside the walls of this room was unforgiving, and every move I made had to be calculated.

I had a series of meetings and public appearances lined up for the day, each one a performance I needed to execute flawlessly. As I prepared for the first engagement, the usual entourage of stylists and assistants swarmed around me, adjusting my suit and perfecting my makeup. Their presence was a small comfort, a reminder that I was not alone in this chaotic world, even if their role was more about maintaining an image than offering genuine support.

The day passed in a blur of scripted smiles and carefully orchestrated interactions. Each encounter was a reminder of the duality of my existence: the public persona of Supernova, the shining hero, and the private person grappling with pain and fear. The dissonance between these identities was growing harder to manage, each public appearance becoming a battle to keep the facade intact while my inner turmoil threatened to unravel. 

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

"You should really have a night," A-Train said. "I know a great club."

I looked at him, caught off guard by the casual suggestion. After everything I had been through, a night out was the last thing on my mind. But A-Train's grin was infectious, and the way he leaned back in the chair, so relaxed, as if nothing in the world could faze him, made it hard to say no.

"You look like you could use a break," he added, his voice smooth, like he was selling me the idea more than offering it. "C'mon, all work and no play? You'll go crazy in this place."

He wasn't wrong. I had been wound so tightly lately, constantly on edge, navigating the minefield that was Vought and its twisted power dynamics. I had spent so much energy putting on the façade of Supernova, keeping my emotions locked down, trying to move past the horror of Homelander's lesson. Maybe a night out, a distraction, was exactly what I needed.

"Okay," I said, surprising myself as much as him. "One night."

A-Train's grin widened. "That's what I'm talking about! We'll hit up this Supe nightclub I know. It's exclusive, just the right crowd, you know? Good music, good vibes, no stress. I'll text you the details."

Before I could second-guess my decision, he was gone, the door closing behind him with a faint click, leaving me standing there, wondering what I had just agreed to.

I stood there for a moment, replaying the conversation in my head. A night out in a Supe nightclub with A-Train seemed like the last thing I needed, yet the promise of "no stress" was tempting. After everything that had happened, maybe some time away from Vought Tower—away from Homelander—would help me clear my head.

As I stared at the closed door, still unsure of my decision, the sound of heels clicking against the marble floor caught my attention. I turned to see Starlight and Queen Maeve approaching. Their presence was a welcome sight; Starlight's radiant glow and Maeve's powerful, confident stride filled the room with a sense of calm and strength that I had been desperately missing.

"Hey, we heard A-Train stopped by," Starlight said, her voice light but tinged with concern. "What's going on?"

I shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. "He's dragging me to some Supe nightclub tonight. I don't know, maybe I just need a break."

Maeve raised an eyebrow, her sharp eyes catching the slight hesitation in my voice. "A night out with A-Train? Are you sure that's a good idea? He's not exactly known for his... stable decision-making."

I sighed, leaning back against the wall, feeling the weight of the last few days pressing down on me. "Honestly, I don't know. But after everything with Homelander... I just need to get out of here for a while. Clear my head."

Starlight exchanged a glance with Maeve before stepping closer, her expression softening. "What happened between you two?"

The memory of Homelander raping me in his office played in my head. It only happened last night and it felt like a lifetime.

The weight of Starlight's question hit me like a freight train. I hadn't spoken about it. I hadn't allowed myself to think too much about it, afraid that if I did, it would become too real. But there it was, the memory I had been trying so desperately to bury, resurfacing with a vengeance. Homelander. His cold eyes. His cruelty. The violation.

I felt my throat tighten, a familiar burning sensation creeping up, threatening to take control. My hands started to tremble, but I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms to stop the shaking.

"Nothing," I muttered, my voice barely audible. "It's nothing. I just... need to get out of here."

Maeve and Starlight exchanged another look, this one more serious, more knowing. They weren't buying my attempt at deflection, but they didn't press me on it either. Not yet. Instead, Maeve stepped forward, her tone gentle but firm.

"You don't have to pretend everything's okay," she said. "Not with us."

I swallowed hard, trying to hold it together. "It's... complicated."

Maeve sighed, her eyes softening. "Yeah, it usually is."

Starlight came closer, her voice gentle but steady. "Whatever it is, you're not alone. We're here. If you want to talk, if you want to get away—whatever you need."

I nodded, even though the words didn't quite sink in. I wasn't ready to talk about it. I wasn't even sure I could. How do you explain something like that? How do you put into words the kind of violation that leaves you hollow, broken?

"I appreciate that," I whispered, forcing a small smile that I knew didn't reach my eyes. "Maybe tonight I just need to forget for a little while."

Maeve looked at me, her gaze unwavering, and for a moment, I saw something in her eyes—a flicker of recognition, of understanding. Like she had been through something similar, something that had shattered her too. She gave a small nod, as if silently acknowledging the weight I was carrying.

"All right," she said. "But we're not letting you go to that club with A-Train alone. We'll stick by you."

Starlight smiled softly, her light radiating warmth and comfort. "Yeah, we'll make it a girls' night. No pressure, just fun. If you want to leave, we'll leave. If you want to stay, we'll stay."

It was a relief, having them there with me. I didn't have to explain everything, didn't have to force myself to put on a brave face. They understood enough to know that I wasn't okay—and that was enough for now.

[]

The club was loud, the bass from the music vibrating through the floor and into my bones. Neon lights flashed across the room, illuminating the crowd of Supes and elites, all of them wrapped in the kind of untouchable arrogance that only power could bring.

A-Train was already there when we arrived, lounging in a VIP booth with a few other Supes I didn't recognize. He waved us over with a grin, his energy high and carefree, oblivious to the turmoil swirling beneath my calm exterior.

"Ladies!" he shouted over the music. "I knew you'd make it!"

Maeve slid into the booth with a smirk, eyeing the half-empty bottles of expensive liquor scattered across the table. "You start the party without us?"

A-Train just laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "Always."

Starlight sat beside me, her presence grounding, as if she could sense my unease. The lights, the noise, the overwhelming atmosphere—it was all too much, too soon. I could feel the tension building in my chest, the urge to get up and leave growing stronger with every passing second. But I stayed, clinging to the idea that maybe if I could just pretend for a while, if I could lose myself in the music and the crowd, the pain would fade, if only for a little while.

I grabbed a drink, hoping it would help dull the edges of my thoughts. Maeve was talking to one of the Supes across the table, her usual dry wit cutting through the noise, while Starlight leaned in closer to me, her expression soft with concern.

"You okay?" she asked quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the music.

I nodded, taking a sip of my drink. "Yeah. Just trying to relax."

She didn't push, just nodded in understanding, her hand resting lightly on my arm in a gesture of silent support. It was enough. For now, it was enough.

But as the night wore on, I found it harder and harder to maintain the façade. The lights, the people, the reminders of who I was supposed to be—Supernova, the rising star, the hero—became suffocating. I wasn't her, not tonight. I wasn't strong, or confident, or untouchable. I was barely holding on.

At some point, A-Train disappeared into the crowd, lost in the chaotic rhythm of the night, and I found myself alone in the booth with Starlight and Maeve. The music pounded in my head, the flashing lights blurring my vision. I needed air. I needed space.

"I'm going outside," I muttered, standing up abruptly.

Starlight looked at me, concern flashing in her eyes, but she didn't stop me. "I'll come with you," she said, standing up to follow.

Maeve glanced at the two of us, her expression unreadable. "I'll stay here. Make sure A-Train doesn't do anything stupid."

Starlight nodded, and we left the club together, stepping out into the cool night air. The noise and chaos of the club faded into the background, replaced by the quiet hum of the city streets. I inhaled deeply, the fresh air doing little to calm the storm inside me.

I walked through the crowd , the pulsating lights and overwhelming noise fading into the background as I headed for the exit. Starlight followed closely, her quiet presence a reassuring comfort. The air outside hit me like a cool wave, refreshing but sharp, and I took a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs. It felt like the first real breath I'd taken all night.

We stood in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the city filling the void left by the club's thumping music. I could feel Starlight's gaze on me, patient and understanding, but she didn't push. I was grateful for that. I wasn't sure I had the words to explain what I was feeling, or if I even wanted to.

Just as I began to feel the tension in my chest start to ease, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting a text from A-Train, maybe something about where he had disappeared to. But the number didn't belong to him. Or any of the Seven for that matter.

UNKNOWN: I left a gift outside your room at Vought.

My stomach dropped. I stared at the message, reading it again to make sure I wasn't imagining things. A gift? From someone I didn't know?

Starlight noticed the change in my expression. "Everything okay?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with concern.

"I don't know," I muttered, my fingers tightening around my phone. "I just got a text. From someone... I don't know who. They said they left something outside my room at Vought."

Her brow furrowed. "That's weird. Are you going to check it out?"

I hesitated. My gut told me something was off, but curiosity—or maybe a need for some kind of distraction—won out. "I think I should. I need to know what it is."

Starlight nodded, her eyes steady on mine. "Do you want me to come with you?"

I considered it for a moment, the weight of the unknown pressing down on me. I wasn't sure what I was walking into, but I wasn't ready to face it alone. "Yeah. Let's go."

[]

The hallways of Vought Tower were eerily quiet as we made our way to my room. The usual buzz of activity was absent, the late hour turning the building into a cold, empty shell. The fluorescent lights hummed above us, casting long shadows on the polished floors.

When we reached my door, I spotted it immediately—a single sunflower with a note attached to it. The petals were vibrant, almost unnaturally yellow against the sterile backdrop of Vought Tower's polished floors. I crouched down, heart thudding in my chest, and gently pulled the note free. The paper felt cold in my hand, and my fingers trembled as I unfolded it.

In neat, almost too-perfect handwriting, the note read:

"I'll be seeing you soon, little star."

I stared at the words, a chill running down my spine. My mind raced, trying to figure out who would send this and what it meant. The sunflower seemed too innocent, too delicate—out of place in this world of power, violence, and betrayal. But the message... that was anything but innocent.

Starlight leaned in, her brow furrowed. "What does it say?"

I handed her the note, my grip tightening. I didn't know why, but it felt personal.

"'I'll be seeing you soon, little star,'" I read aloud, my voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken menace. My chest tightened as if an invisible hand was slowly squeezing the life out of me.

Starlight's face darkened. "That's... creepy. Do you think it's someone from Vought?"

I shrugged, unable to tear my eyes away from the sunflower. "I don't know. Maybe. But it doesn't make any sense. Why now? And why me?"

Starlight folded her arms, her jaw set. "You need to tell someone. Maeve, at the very least. This isn't something to ignore."

I stood up slowly, the flower still clutched in my hand, unsure of what to do next. "Tell them what, though? That someone left a flower and a vague, threatening note? Vought will probably just sweep it under the rug like everything else."

We stood in silence, looking at each other, my green eyes at her deep brown eyes. But then, a thought came to my mind. What if it was a friendly gesture? I turned the sunflower over in my hand, trying to shake off the sense of dread creeping up my spine. Maybe it was just a weird, overly dramatic fan—Vought loved their theatrics, after all. Maybe I was overreacting, letting the trauma of everything I'd been through color my perspective. But as I traced the edges of the note again, that pit in my stomach refused to settle.

Starlight glanced around, as if expecting someone to jump out from the shadows. "I don't know, Supernova... this doesn't feel right. Even if it's just a fan, it's still strange."

I nodded slowly, taking a deep breath to steady myself. "Maybe you're right. I'll talk to Maeve about it. She'll know if—."

The door to the hallway clicked open, and I froze. Out of the shadows stepped The Deep, striding toward us with that signature swagger and a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. His eyes glimmered with amusement as he took in the scene before him—me clutching a sunflower, Starlight standing protectively at my side.

"Well, well, well," The Deep said, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "Looks like someone's already got a secret admirer. Didn't expect that from the new girl."

I tensed, the heat rising to my face. Starlight shot him a sharp glare, clearly not in the mood for his games. "Not now, Deep."

But The Deep ignored her, his focus entirely on me. "First week at Vought, and you're already getting gifts? Gotta say, I'm impressed." He glanced at the flower in my hand, his grin widening. "Looks like someone really likes you."

His words brought back a flood of memories, memories I had tried to keep buried since the moment I had arrived at Vought. My "initiation" with The Deep, me giving him a handjob, the way Homelander watched when he made it clear what I had to do to be part of this twisted world. I could still feel the weight of it, the humiliation, the anger that had settled deep inside me ever since.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay composed. The Deep was fishing — no pun intended — for a reaction, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not now.

"I'm not in the mood, Deep," I said, my voice steady but cold. "Go bother someone else."

He chuckled, clearly unfazed by my rejection. "Touchy, touchy. Relax, I'm just messing with you." He winked, as if we shared some inside joke, but all it did was turn my stomach.

Starlight stepped forward, her stance protective. "She said leave it. Don't you have something better to do?"

The Deep finally backed off, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. I'm just saying, Supernova—better keep an eye on those admirers of yours. Vought's a big place, and not everyone plays nice."

With that, he turned and sauntered off, leaving me with the bitter taste of his words hanging in the air. His smug laughter echoed down the hall, and I could feel Starlight bristling beside me, her hands curling into fists.

"You good?" she asked, her voice softening as soon as he was out of earshot.

I nodded, though the tension in my chest hadn't dissipated. "Yeah. I'm fine. I'm just tired."

I wasn't tired in a sleepy way. Just tired from everything—Vought, the games, the constant pressure to keep up appearances. The never-ending expectation to be "Supernova," this perfect version of myself that I didn't even recognize anymore. But I couldn't tell Starlight that. She already had enough to worry about, and I wasn't ready to admit just how close I was to breaking.

"I get it," she said softly, her hand resting on my arm for a moment. "This place... it can wear you down, even when you're trying to do the right thing."

I smiled weakly, appreciating her attempt at comfort, but it didn't ease the gnawing dread in my chest. The note in my hand felt heavier now, like it held the weight of something much bigger, something I wasn't ready to face.

I opened the door to my room. "Night, Starlight."

"Anne," she said.

"What?" I questioned.

"My real name is Anne."

I stared at her in surprise, the confession hanging in the air between us.

"Anne?" I repeated, the name feeling unfamiliar and oddly intimate.

Starlight—Anne—nodded, a faint, almost sad smile on her lips. "Yeah. I just thought you should know. If we're going to be in this together, I want you to know who I really am."

It was a small gesture, but it meant something. In this world of facades and masks, knowing someone's real name felt like a moment of genuine connection.

"Thank you," I said softly. "It's nice to know. Well, in that case, my real name is Carrie."

Anne nodded, her eyes reflecting understanding. "Carrie. It's good to finally meet you, then."

I managed a faint smile, feeling a bit of the tension ease from my shoulders. It was odd how just knowing someone's real name could bring a sliver of normalcy into this chaotic world.

"Alright, Anne," I said, "thanks for being here tonight."

She smiled back, a touch of warmth reaching her eyes. "Anytime. We're in this together, remember?"

I closed the door behind me, the quiet of the room enveloping me as I sat on the edge of the bed, still clutching the sunflower and the ominous note. The message's threat loomed over me, a reminder that even in a space that was supposed to be safe, I was never truly alone.

The events of the evening replayed in my mind—the club, the unsettling text, The Deep's taunts, and Anne's unexpected confession. Each piece seemed to fit into a larger, more disturbing puzzle I wasn't yet ready to solve.

With a sigh, I set the flower and note on the nightstand, the image of The Deep's smirk still fresh in my thoughts. I pulled the covers over myself, trying to push aside the anxiety that clawed at the edges of my consciousness.

As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change, something I couldn't yet anticipate. The note had been more than a strange gesture—it was a signal, a sign that someone, somewhere, was watching and waiting. And as much as I wanted to ignore it, the threat of it hovered over me like a dark cloud.

Sleep came reluctantly, my dreams filled with shadows and fragmented images of Vought Tower, the nightclub, and the mysterious note. I woke up feeling unrested, the weight of the message and the events of the night pressing heavily on me.

In the morning, I knew I couldn't ignore it any longer. I had to confront the situation head-on, even if it meant stepping further into the dangerous game that Vought had forced upon me. I needed answers, and I needed to be ready for whatever might come next.

As I prepared for the day, I made a mental note to speak with Maeve and Anne about the note. It wasn't just about the flower or the cryptic message—it was about ensuring my safety and understanding the threat that lurked in the shadows of Vought Tower.

With renewed determination, I steeled myself for the day ahead. The game was far from over, and if I was going to survive it, I needed to be vigilant, ready to face whatever challenges came my way.

And as I left my room, I glanced back at the sunflower and the note one last time, the words echoing in my mind: "I'll be seeing you soon, little star."

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 | 𝐋𝐄𝐎

I already knew the name of my little star. On the first try.

Carrie.

It rolled around in my mind like a secret only I was allowed to keep. Frenchie had been right—his hidden camera and microphone, tucked away in the petals of that sunflower, had worked like a charm. I'd caught a quick look between her and Starlight—now knowing her name was Anne—and The Deep, that smug asshole.

Frenchie's idea had been simple: plant the sunflower with the hidden tech, and wait. The rest was just a matter of patience and careful observation. I had to admit, the man knew his craft. His devices had provided clear audio and video, capturing every moment and every word with precision. It was all laid out in a neat file on my laptop, the footage playing out like a stage production of deceit and discomfort.

As I watched the recording of the confrontation in the Vought Tower hallway, I found myself leaning forward, hanging on every word. The way Anne had looked at the note, the tension in her voice—she was clearly rattled. And The Deep's arrival had only added to the pressure. His taunts and condescension were as predictable as ever, but he served his purpose: to unsettle her.

I watched Carrie entering her room, through that camera, standing there, unaware that I was listening in. The way she said her real name... so soft. So vulnerable.

It felt intimate. Personal. Too personal.

I replayed the footage for the fifth time, leaning back in my chair, one hand rubbing absently at my jaw. There was something raw about hearing her voice when she thought she was alone, when she wasn't performing for anyone. The walls she put up for the world, for Vought, they were down when she said her own name—her real name. Not "Supernova" or any other fake persona. Just Carrie.

I watched her face on the screen, a close-up from the sunflower cam. Her expression, her eyes. There was a subtle sadness in them, a kind of weariness she was careful to hide from everyone else. But not from me. Not anymore.

I could feel a strange warmth blooming in my chest as I watched her. It was as if I had crossed an invisible line between us. Her world, her real world, was no longer closed off to me. Knowing her name... it wasn't just a piece of information. It was like holding a piece of her.

I imagined whispering it to her, letting the name fall between us in the darkness. How would she react if she knew? If she realized that I had this secret, that I had slipped into her life in ways she couldn't even imagine?

God, it was intoxicating.

I leaned forward, pausing the video on her face, my finger hovering just above the screen. There was something about her—something that pulled at me in ways I hadn't anticipated. She wasn't like the others. She wasn't just another suit to be manipulated. There was depth to her, layers I wanted to peel back one by one until I understood every inch of her.

And then, my thoughts turned dark as The Deep invaded my mind, taking my focus away from my little star.

The Deep. That arrogant, slimy bastard. Watching him on the screen, the way he slithered through that hallway like he owned the place, my blood started to boil. He had no right to even look at her, let alone taunt her. The way he smirked, like he had some kind of claim over her—over Carrie — made my hands clench into fists.

I could barely stand to watch him, but I forced myself to. Every second of his smug performance was fuel. He thought he could just waltz in and make a joke out of her discomfort, make her feel small and powerless like he always did. But that was where he was wrong. Because my little star wasn't small. She wasn't powerless. And I'd be damned if I let someone like him make her feel that way.

I paused the footage, my gaze locked on The Deep's face, frozen in mid-laugh. A flash of anger surged through me, but I swallowed it down, forcing myself to stay calm. I had to be smarter than this. I couldn't afford to let my emotions take control—not now. Not when I was so close.

Instead, I sat back, breathing deeply, my mind already working on the next step. There had to be a way to use this. The Deep had no idea what he was walking into—he was too blinded by his own ego to notice the subtle changes happening around him. And that, of course, would be his downfall.

He wasn't the real problem, though. Not yet. Right now, my focus had to stay on Carrie. The way she reacted to the note, to the flower... it told me more than words ever could. She was afraid. Maybe not of me directly—not yet—but of the world she found herself in. The walls were closing in on her, and she was struggling to hold herself together.

And that? That was my opportunity.

I closed the laptop and stood, pacing the small room. The plan was simple, but it needed to be executed perfectly. Every move I made from here on out had to be precise. One wrong step, and it could all unravel. Carrie would see through me, or worse, Vought would.

But if I played it right, if I could get close enough... she would come to me. She would need me. And once that happened, once I had her trust, I could finally show her the truth. The real truth. The truth that none of them—the Seven, Vought, Homelander—wanted her to know.

I glanced at the sunflower sitting on my desk, its petals glowing faintly in the dim light. The note I had written, the one that had stirred something deep inside her, was still folded neatly next to it. "I'll be seeing you soon, little star."

And I would. Sooner than she thought.

But before I made my next move, I needed to know more. Frenchie's tech had given me a glimpse, but it wasn't enough. I needed to understand her — her routines, her thoughts, her fears. I needed to get inside her head, to anticipate her every move. Only then could I be sure that I could control the situation, that I could guide her toward the inevitable.

I grabbed my phone, pulling up the encrypted app Frenchie had set up for us. It was time to check in, to make sure everything was in place.

"Any new updates?" I typed, my fingers moving quickly over the screen.

A moment later, the reply came through: "Not yet. But she's been spending more time with Maeve and Starlight. Might be worth looking into."

Maeve. Another complication. She was dangerous, not just because of her power, but because of her sharp instincts. She could see through people in ways others couldn't. If I got too close to Carrie too soon, Maeve would pick up on it, and everything could fall apart. I had to be cautious with her.

Starlight, on the other hand—Anne—she was easier. She was too trusting, too optimistic for her own good. The last I heard, Hughie was going on a few dates with her and tried to get easy access to Vought's events. He would deal with her, so I wouldn't worry about her too much.

But Maeve... I'd have to be careful with her. She was watching Carrie closely, like she knew something was off, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. That was fine. I could work around her. I'd done it before, and I could do it again.

I sent a final message to Frenchie, my instructions clear and direct. "Keep an eye on her. Let me know if anything changes."

Then, I sat back, letting my mind drift to the next phase. I was close. So close I could almost taste it.

Carrie had no idea what was coming. She had no idea that I was already inside her world, her mind, and soon... her heart.

She'd see me as her savior, the one who could pull her from the mess of Vought, from the lies and the manipulation. She'd see that I was the only one who truly understood her, the only one who could protect her.

And when that time came, when she finally realized that no one else could save her but me... well, that was when she'd be mine.

Completely.

Forever.

[]

The next morning, the glow of anticipation still clung to me as the first light streamed through the blinds. I had barely slept, my mind buzzing with plans, with the thought of Carrie, with the certainty that I was on the edge of something bigger than either of us could comprehend. Today, things would move forward. The wheels were already in motion; it was just a matter of steering them in the right direction.

I sat up, stretching out the stiffness from another night in the chair. The laptop was still open, the paused image of Carrie staring back at me. Her face in that vulnerable moment, framed by the soft glow of the hidden camera, was all I could think about. That look of unease, the subtle crack in her usual polished armor—it made her real. She wasn't just another puppet for Vought, just another souped-up media darling with a costume. She was Carrie, and I was the only one who knew her like this.

I closed the laptop, the hinge clicking shut with finality. Today had to be perfect. No room for error.

Watching from the camera, I saw Carrie speaking to a woman named Ashley who worked closely with the PR team at Vought. Ashley was always frantically running around, trying to control the chaos that seemed to define every day in the tower. It was clear that Carrie was being pulled in two directions—her public persona and the private struggle she kept hidden. Her real self, the one she had revealed in that small, fleeting moment, was already being suffocated by Vought's demands.

As I watched them speak, Ashley's gestures were animated, desperate to keep things on script, to keep Carrie in line. But there was something about Carrie's body language that told me she wasn't fully on board. She was nodding, playing along, but her eyes betrayed her—a flicker of hesitation, of resistance. It was subtle, but I saw it. She wasn't as lost in Vought's web as they thought.

That was good. It meant there was still time to guide her, to show her the truth. She was already questioning things, even if she didn't fully realize it yet. That small crack in her facade would be my way in. All I had to do was keep pushing, keep planting those seeds of doubt, and soon, she'd come to me willingly.

I got up and dressed, every movement deliberate as I prepared for the day. I didn't need to be at the tower yet—my role in all of this was still from the shadows—but I had to be ready. At any moment, something could shift, and I needed to be there to catch it.

The phone buzzed on my desk, pulling me from my thoughts. I picked up my phone and saw the text.

FRENCHIE: She's going to be at the PR meeting with Ashley and Starlight later. I'll have eyes on it.

Perfect. It was another opportunity to observe her, to see how she interacted with the others, how she navigated the pressure. More importantly, it was another chance for her to slip, for her true self to surface, even if just for a second. I typed back quickly.

ME: Keep me posted. I want everything.

I grabbed my jacket, throwing it over my shoulders as I stepped out into the hallway. The tower loomed in the distance, its polished facade gleaming in the early morning sun. It was a symbol of everything I hated—of the lies, the control, the manipulation—but it was also where my little star was trapped.

For now.

I walked the city streets, my mind racing with possibilities, with the next steps I needed to take. Carrie would be at the meeting soon, playing the part they had crafted for her, but I knew she was already slipping. The tension in her voice from the night before, the way she had said her real name in the privacy of her room—it was all leading to this.

As I made my way through the city, blending into the crowd, I couldn't help but smile. Today was the day things would start to shift. Carrie's carefully constructed world was beginning to crumble, and I was there to make sure it fell in exactly the right way.

And once it did, once she realized that no one else could protect her from the chaos closing in, she would turn to me.

Because I wasn't just watching her anymore.

I was becoming her answer.

Her everything.

My phone buzzed again. I glanced down at the screen.

FRENCHIE: She's in the building. PR meeting starts in 15.

My heart kicked up a beat, excitement flooding through me. This was it. Another step closer. Every move, every calculated observation, was leading us toward this inevitable conclusion. I typed quickly.

ME: Good. Keep me updated.

I pocketed my phone and continued walking.

The PR meeting was bound to be another puppet show orchestrated by Vought. They would parade Carrie and Starlight in front of a camera, making sure their images aligned perfectly with whatever narrative the corporation wanted to push today. Ashley would make sure they hit every bullet point, every rehearsed line, and smile on cue.

But Carrie's heart wasn't in it. I could tell from the way she had spoken to Ashley earlier, her hesitancy barely hidden behind those practiced smiles. She was growing tired, fraying at the edges. And once that weariness became too much to bear, she would need someone to catch her when she fell. I was already there, waiting in the wings.

As I neared the Vought Tower, I paused to glance up at its imposing structure. So much power consolidated in one place. So many lies propping it up. And inside, my little star was being drained by it, piece by piece.

But not for much longer.

I took a detour, heading into a nearby café that provided the perfect view of the tower entrance. I grabbed a seat in the back corner, keeping my head low but my eyes sharp. The flow of people in and out of the building was constant, a blur of suits and security, but I wasn't concerned with them. I only had eyes for her.

My phone buzzed once again.

FRENCHIE: They're heading into the main conference room now. She's playing along, but it's tense.

I could picture it: Carrie, sitting at a long, polished table, surrounded by PR reps and corporate vultures. Starlight by her side, Maeve likely watching with her sharp, knowing gaze. And Ashley, frantically pacing around the room, trying to keep everything under control.

Another message followed.

FRENCHIE: She's got that look again—the one from the hallway.

My pulse quickened. That was the crack I was waiting for.

Carrie wasn't breaking yet, but she was close. Closer than anyone in that room realized. They all thought they could control her, bend her to their will, but they didn't know what I knew. They hadn't seen the vulnerability I had witnessed, the way she said her name when no one else was around.

That was the real her, and she was slowly slipping through their fingers.

I ordered a coffee, not because I needed it but because I had to play the part of the casual observer. To anyone looking, I was just another guy having his morning coffee. But in reality, I was two steps ahead of everyone inside that tower.

I sipped the coffee, my mind already drifting to the next stage of my plan. I needed to push things further, to widen the gap between Carrie and Vought. To make her feel like she had no one left but me.

And I would do it subtly, just like I had been doing from the start. No sudden moves, no overt threats. Just a steady, unrelenting presence in her life. Until one day, she would realize she couldn't escape me—not that she'd want to by then.

My phone buzzed again.

FRENCHIE: They're wrapping up the meeting. She's headed back to her suite.

I smiled, setting down my coffee. Perfect. Another crack, another step closer to her coming to me.

I typed a quick response.

ME: Good work. Keep watching. I'll handle the rest.

Then, I stood up, tossing some cash on the table and heading back out into the street. The sun was climbing higher now, casting long shadows across the pavement. But I was patient. I knew how to wait.

Soon enough, the shadows would fall completely.

And Carrie would be mine.

[]

As Carrie made her way to Capes for Christ, a Vought-affiliated organization that used religion as another tool to shape public perception, I watched from the shadows. The plan was delicate now, every step I took needing precision. She would walk into a room full of smiling faces, people playing at faith and morality, spouting the same rehearsed lines about good and evil, and none of it would be real. Just like Vought's image, it was all smoke and mirrors. But Carrie? She was caught in the middle of it, struggling to find her place in a world that demanded she be someone she wasn't.

I followed her from a safe distance as she left the tower, slipping into the backseat of a black SUV that was waiting for her. The car, sleek and anonymous, blended in with the rest of the city traffic. But I knew where she was headed. The Capes for Christ gathering was just another PR stunt in a series of endless attempts to keep the Supes in check, but it was also a prime opportunity for me to get closer.

Carrie didn't know it yet, but I was guiding her path. Every step she took, every decision she thought was her own—it was all part of the plan. I knew she was searching for something real, something authentic to hold onto. The crack I'd seen in her earlier, the way she said her real name in that quiet moment, was proof of that. She was desperate for something more, something beyond the lies Vought fed her. And I could be the answer she was looking for.

The SUV disappeared into traffic, but I had anticipated the route. It would be a straight drive to the Capes for Christ center, a modern, glass-paneled building near the heart of the city. It wasn't hard to keep tabs on her; I had eyes everywhere. Frenchie's tech, combined with my own surveillance, ensured that I knew her every move.

While Carrie made her way to the event, I took a detour. My footsteps were quick, measured, as I made my way to a vantage point that would allow me to watch her arrival. The Capes for Christ center loomed ahead, a shining testament to Vought's influence. A crowd was already gathering at the entrance, reporters and cameras flashing, waiting for their moment to capture the Supes in all their glory.

I blended into the background, just another face in the sea of bystanders. My gaze was fixed on the entrance as Carrie's car pulled up. The door opened, and she stepped out, greeted by a wave of flashing lights and microphones thrust in her direction. She smiled—a perfect, practiced smile—but there was a stiffness in her posture, a subtle unease that I could see clear as day. She hated this.

The crowd surged forward, reporters shouting questions, their voices blending into a chaotic chorus. Carrie, ever the professional, answered with grace, delivering the lines she'd been given. But I wasn't watching her words. I was watching her eyes, searching for that flicker of doubt, that crack in the surface that I knew was there.

And then I saw it. Just for a second, as she turned to walk into the building, her mask slipped. Her smile faltered, her eyes darkened, and for a brief moment, I could see the weight she was carrying, the strain of trying to be someone she wasn't.

She was breaking.

I lingered just long enough to make sure she disappeared inside before moving away from the crowd. The pieces were falling into place, and soon enough, Carrie would realize she couldn't keep up the facade any longer. She'd see through the lies of Vought and the false comfort of places like Capes for Christ. And when she did, I'd be there to offer her something real.

But I needed to be patient. This wasn't something I could rush. Carrie was smart, cautious, and if I pushed too hard, too fast, she might retreat. No, I had to be subtle, careful. Like a wolf stalking its prey, I'd circle her world, getting closer and closer until there was no escape.

I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Frenchie.

ME: She's at Capes for Christ. Keep tracking.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and turned away from the crowd, my mind already working through the next steps. There would be more chances to observe, more opportunities to exploit the cracks in Carrie's armor.

But as I looked back at her, I noticed something else about Carrie. She was waving at the crowd and the fingers on her left hand was clawing at her leg.

The gesture was small—so subtle that it would be easy to miss if you weren't paying close attention. But I noticed it, the way her left hand curled and clawed at her leg as she waved to the crowd with her right. It wasn't part of the act, not something she'd been trained to do. It was instinct, a reflex born out of tension and anxiety she couldn't fully suppress.

She was holding on by a thread.

The corners of my mouth tugged upward in a slow, deliberate smile. That gesture—her clawing at her leg—told me more than a thousand words ever could. She was fraying. The pressure from Vought, the relentless expectations, the constant surveillance of the public eye—it was all getting to her. She was cracking, and when she finally snapped, I would be there, waiting.

But not yet. Not today. There was still work to be done.

I slipped away from the Capes for Christ event unnoticed, blending back into the shadows of the city. My mind was buzzing with plans, strategies, and the growing certainty that I was getting closer to what I wanted—closer to her. Carrie might still be playing her part for now, but I could see the strain. Soon, she'd have no choice but to abandon the lie she was living.

As I walked, I thought about my next move. The little sunflower camera had worked perfectly, giving me a glimpse into her world, but I needed more. Frenchie's tech was useful, but it was time for something more personal, something that would bring me even closer to Carrie. Something that would bind us together, so tightly that she'd never be able to break free.

I needed to see her. Not through a screen, not from a distance. I needed to feel the electricity of her presence, to look into her eyes and see the storm brewing there.

That would be the next step—making my way into her life, into her orbit. But it had to be done delicately. I couldn't afford any missteps now, not when I was so close. I pulled out my phone and sent a final message to Frenchie for the day.

ME: Continue monitoring. I'll handle the next phase personally.

I tucked the phone away and continued down the city streets, my mind already crafting the next move. Carrie had no idea what was coming. She didn't realize that she was being guided, pushed ever so gently toward me. Toward the truth.

Because that's what I was, wasn't it?

The truth she needed. The truth she was too afraid to face.

I would free her from the prison of lies she was trapped in. And once she saw me for what I truly was—the only person who could understand her, who could protect her—she'd come to me willingly. I could already see it, feel it. That moment when everything fell into place, when Carrie would look at me and realize that she was finally home.

And once she did?

She'd be mine.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

The Capes for Christ event was every bit as suffocating as I had expected. Inside the towering glass building, the walls gleamed under the artificial lights, casting everything in a pristine, sterile glow. Giant banners hung overhead with slogans like "God's Work, Powered by Vought!" and "Faith and Strength in Every Hero." The air smelled faintly of incense, mixing with the ever-present undertones of money and power.

My stomach twisted as I stepped inside, her footsteps quiet on the marble floor. It was my first time at the event and seeing all the people in their religious rave brought me back to my childhood...

I had always thought Christian Summer Camp would be a peaceful escape from home, a place where I could find friends and perhaps, for once, a sense of belonging. But from the moment she stepped off the bus, it was clear that this summer would be anything but tranquil.

My fellow campers were quick to spot an easy target. Shy, quiet, and pious, I seemed different, and different was always a magnet for cruelty. The first prank seemed innocent enough: they hid all my underwear. I laughed it off, thinking it was some kind of initiation. But when I found a snake in my shoe the next morning, and my bunk was short-sheeted, the laughter started to feel forced. The jokes weren't ending—they were only escalating.

Things got worse on the hiking trip. I had fallen behind, desperate to relieve herself in the privacy of the bushes. But in my rush, I made a terrible mistake. I grabbed the wrong leaves—poison ivy. By the time they returned to camp, my skin was inflamed, and the kids wasted no time in giving me a new name. "Scratch ass," they chanted whenever I passed, their cruel laughter echoing through the cabins.

I tried to keep her head down, but they never let up. Even during the swim in the lake, they found ways to torment me. At first, it seemed like a game—ducking my head underwater, splashing around—but then they wouldn't let me come up for air. Panic set in. I tried to push them off, my arms flailing, my lungs screaming for oxygen. When I finally broke the surface, gasping for air, they stood around laughing, still chanting that same cruel nickname. 

I retreated further into myself, praying quietly at the camp chapel whenever I could. I tried to join in the other activities, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they'd accept me if I kept playing along. But no matter what I did, the insults and the pranks continued. "Old praying, fart face Carrie," they'd jeer, never missing a chance to humiliate me.

By the end of the week, my spirit was shattered. I couldn't take it anymore. With red, swollen eyes from nights spent crying, I begged to go home. The camp reluctantly agreed, sending me back on the bus a week early. When I arrived at the station, my mother stood waiting, her expression stern. I had hoped for comfort, for understanding—but instead, I was met with disapproval.

My mother said nothing as we drove home. Upon arriving, I was sent to the closet, the place where I'd always been sent to "pray away my sins." Hours passed as I knelt on the hard floor, praying not just for forgiveness, but for strength. Strength to endure, strength to be heard, and strength to find my own voice in a world that seemed determined to silence me...

My fingers twitched, instinctively curling into a fist as I moved further into the room, but I forced myself to relax. Stay calm, Carrie. Don't let them see you crack.

The space was already filling up with guests—churchgoers, donors, and fans. All eyes turned to her as she entered, the room momentarily pausing to acknowledge the arrival of another celebrity Savior. It was always the same. The adoring glances. The hushed whispers. The expectation that she'd be a symbol of hope, a walking embodiment of faith.

But I didn't feel like any of those things. Not today. Not anymore.

I moved through the crowd, smiling, nodding at familiar faces, my mask firmly in place. Each step felt heavier than the last. I was aware of every camera in the room, every set of eyes watching her, judging me. It was suffocating. The weight of it all threatened to crush me.

In the center of the room stood Ezekiel, the golden boy of the Capes for Christ movement. Tall, muscular, and draped in his signature white suit, he radiated a false kind of holiness, the kind that had always made me uneasy. His smile was wide, too wide, like it was painted on, and his eyes gleamed with the self-assurance of someone who believed they had God's personal blessing. He was more than a preacher—he was a performer, a showman with a cross in one hand and a Vought contract in the other.

As I approached, his eyes lit up in recognition, and that unnervingly perfect smile stretched even wider. "Supernova! God bless you!" he called out, his voice booming over the crowd. The guests turned their attention toward us, the weight of a hundred gazes falling squarely on me again. My pulse quickened, but I forced myself to smile, to play the part.

"Thank you, Ezekiel. It's great to be here," I said, my voice steady but empty.

He closed the distance between us, arms outstretched like we were old friends. When he pulled me into an embrace, I felt trapped in the crook of his elbow, like a caged animal. He smelled like expensive cologne and something else—something metallic, like desperation masked by power. "We're so blessed to have you, Supernova," he said, guiding me toward the center of the room, where a small stage had been set up beneath an enormous stained-glass window depicting angels holding aloft the Vought logo. "Your presence will surely inspire all of us."

I nodded stiffly, my eyes darting around the room. Everywhere I looked, there were banners and posters with my face plastered on them, next to words like "God's Chosen," or "The Faithful Defender." The weight of it made my skin crawl. I wasn't any of those things. I was just another product, another lie packaged and sold by Vought to keep the public in line.

"Let's give a big welcome to our sister in Christ, Supernova!" Ezekiel's voice boomed as he led me to the stage, the crowd erupting into applause. The sound echoed in my ears, too loud, too bright, like it was pushing against the edges of my mind. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, the panic clawing at the back of my throat. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be any part of this.

But there was no turning back now.

I stepped up to the podium, staring down at the microphone in front of me. A script had been prepared for me, neatly typed out on the paper waiting at the stand, but I didn't even glance at it. The words felt foreign, meaningless, like they belonged to someone else.

I swallowed hard, looking out at the crowd. They were all waiting, their eyes filled with hope and reverence, their hands clasped together in prayer or resting in their laps. They wanted me to be something I wasn't, something I could never be. A hero. A savior.

But I wasn't any of those things.

"I..." I started, but my voice cracked. I cleared my throat, gripping the edges of the podium, my knuckles turning white. "I'm honored to be here tonight."

My voice sounded hollow, even to me. I could feel the weight of Ezekiel's eyes on me, his smile still plastered on his face, but there was an impatience in his gaze, a flicker of something darker. He was waiting for me to deliver the message he wanted, the message Vought wanted.

I opened my mouth again, but nothing came out. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating. I could feel the panic rising in my chest, my fingers twitching at my sides. I was back at camp again, back in that cold, dark closet, praying for strength, praying for a way out.

I had thought I'd escaped that place, that I'd left that scared little girl behind. But standing here, under the blinding lights, with all these people expecting me to be something I wasn't, I realized I hadn't escaped anything. I was still trapped. Trapped by Vought, by this image they'd created for me, by the lies I had to live every day.

My fingers on my left hand dug into my leg as I continued this charade. I could feel the sharp sting of my nails pressing through the fabric of my suit, grounding me in the moment, keeping me from completely unraveling. My heart was racing, my chest tightening as the silence hung heavy over the room. All these people, all their expectations, weighed on me like chains, and no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I could get through this, I knew it wasn't true.

I wasn't their hero. I wasn't their savior.

I was just me—the same girl who had once knelt in the closet, begging for strength, and now found herself lost in a world that didn't care about who she really was, only what she could do for them.

The lights were too bright. The room was too loud, even in its silence. I looked down at the paper on the podium, the words blurring together, meaningless. My mind raced, searching for something, anything, to say. Something that would make this all feel real, make it feel like I was still in control.

But then I heard his voice again—Ezekiel. He stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm but deceptively gentle.

"Supernova, we know that your faith has always been a guiding light for you, just as it is for all of us here tonight," he said smoothly, taking the microphone from its stand. His eyes glinted with something like frustration, but it was masked with the same fake warmth he always wore. "And that light, given to us by God, is what keeps us strong. Isn't that right?"

The crowd erupted into applause again, the sound roaring in my ears like a crashing wave, drowning out my thoughts. My lips moved into a smile, but it was mechanical, a reflex, something to keep the illusion alive. I nodded, my heart sinking deeper into the pit of my stomach.

Ezekiel turned his attention back to the crowd, his voice rising in a practiced crescendo. "We are blessed to have such heroes among us! Blessed to have someone like Supernova, who shines God's light into the darkest corners of this world!"

More applause. More cheers.

It felt like I was suffocating all over again.

I had to get out of here.

Before I could even process what I was doing, I stepped back from the podium. The edges of my vision were blurring, my pulse thundering in my ears. I barely registered Ezekiel's voice calling out to me, his smile faltering for just a moment as he tried to keep the crowd's attention on himself.

I didn't care. I just needed to breathe.

I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the questioning looks, the whispers that followed me as I made my way toward the exit. I didn't stop. I didn't even look back. My whole body was trembling by the time I burst through the glass doors and into the cool night air.

For a moment, everything was still. The crisp air hit my face, clearing some of the fog in my head. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, letting the silence of the night wash over me. No cameras. No expectations. Just the distant hum of the city.

I leaned against the side of the building, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. My hands were shaking. My entire body felt like it was on the verge of collapse. I'd almost lost it in there. I'd almost let them see the cracks.

And that would've been unforgivable.

The mask I wore—this polished, perfect version of myself that Vought had created—was the only thing keeping me afloat in this world. If I lost control, if I let anyone see what was really going on inside me, it would all come crashing down. I would lose everything.

But standing out here, with the cool breeze brushing against my skin, I couldn't help but wonder—was that such a bad thing?

Was it so wrong to want to tear the whole thing apart? To burn down the lie they'd built around me and start again, free from their expectations?

The thought scared me. But it also stirred something deep inside, something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Freedom.

Before I could dwell on it any further, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fumbled for it, already dreading what I would see.

ASHLEY: Great job tonight. Keep up the good work. Next event: Charity Gala, Friday. Be ready.

I stared at the message, my hand tightening around the phone. It was just more of the same. More demands. More pressure. More lies.

Memories of that night of a charity event, being in Homelander's office as he violated me on his desk. I could still remember his words echoing eerily in my head.

"You think you're special, don't you? You think you can just waltz into this world and have everything handed to you?... In this world, power is everything. And right now, you're in the presence of someone who controls that power... You need to understand your place in this world... Remember who holds the power here. And remember that you have a choice: respect and obey, or face the consequences..."

My chest tightened again, but this time, instead of pushing it down, instead of forcing myself to stay calm, I let it rise. The frustration, the anger, the helplessness—it all surged to the surface, and before I knew it, the wall cracked.

I froze, staring at the crack in the wall, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The power coursing through me felt dangerous, wild—like it was slipping out of my control. I hadn't meant to do it. I hadn't meant for any of this to happen. But the anger, the pain, it was too much to contain anymore.

I took a deep breath, trying to pull myself back from the edge. But even as I forced myself to calm down, the urge to let it all go was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. For so long, I'd held it together. I'd worn the mask they gave me, played the role they wanted me to play. But I was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of being someone I wasn't.

The city lights flickered in the distance, the hum of traffic filling the silence around me. For a moment, I allowed myself to just be — to feel everything without pushing it away. The anger. The fear. The longing for freedom. It was all there, swirling inside me like a storm.

I couldn't keep doing this. I couldn't keep letting them control me.

The phone buzzed in my hand again, pulling me from my thoughts.

ASHLEY: Don't forget, you have an interview tomorrow morning. Be at the studio by 9. We'll need to go over talking points.

My hand clenched into a fist, the phone groaning under the pressure. Every time I thought I might get a moment to breathe, they were there, reminding me of the cage they'd built around me. No matter what I did, no matter how much I tried to escape, they always found a way to pull me back in.

And I was tired of it.

A voice in the back of my mind whispered that it didn't have to be this way. That I could walk away, leave it all behind. But I knew that wasn't true. Not entirely. Vought didn't let people walk away. They owned you, body and soul. And if you tried to break free, they'd make sure you paid for it.

Just like Homelander had reminded me that night.

My stomach churned at the memory, my hands shaking as I shoved the phone back into my pocket.

[]

Friday came, and I found myself standing in my room of the Vought building, staring up at its gleaming towers as the sun dipped below the skyline. The charity gala was tonight, and I was expected to be there, smiling for the cameras, shaking hands with donors, playing the role of their perfect hero.

But every fiber of my being was screaming to turn around and walk away.

Inside the building, the preparations were in full swing. I could see the staff bustling about through the massive glass windows, setting up tables, adjusting the lights, making sure everything was picture-perfect. Vought didn't do anything halfway, especially when it came to events like these.

I could imagine Ashley inside, barking orders at some poor assistant, making sure every detail was just right. And I could picture Homelander, probably rehearsing his speech in front of a mirror, making sure every line was delivered with the right amount of charisma and faux sincerity.

And then there was me. Standing on the sidewalk, my mind racing with everything that had happened since the Capes for Christ event. The anger, the fear, the overwhelming sense that I was trapped in a life that wasn't my own—it had been building inside me like a pressure cooker, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep it contained.

I wasn't sure I wanted to.

The memory of cracking the wall still haunted me. The power I'd felt in that moment, wild and uncontrollable, had scared me. But a part of me had also felt alive, more alive than I had in being with the Seven. It was a reminder that despite everything, despite the mask I wore, there was still something inside me that hadn't been beaten down. Something that refused to be silenced.

But the thought of walking into that building, of putting on the mask again, felt like a death sentence. I didn't know how much longer I could keep pretending. How much longer I could keep letting them own me.

As I stood there, lost in thought, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn't want to look at it. I knew it was probably another reminder from Ashley, another demand on my time, on my soul. But I forced myself to pull it out anyway.

ASHLEY: Gala starts in an hour. Be here early for prep.

The words blurred together as I stared at the screen. My chest tightened, my hands trembling slightly. The pressure, the expectations, the weight of everything—it was too much.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the whole building down. I wanted to disappear, to be free of all of this.

But I couldn't.

Not yet.

With a deep breath, I shoved the phone back into my pocket and walked out of my room. But before I could even reached for the door, my phone buzzed again. I was expecting Ashley to harass me to get to prep now. But it wasn't her or either of the Seven.

UNKNOWN: Do you like my gift?

It clicked to me. This unknown person was the one who must have left a sunflower and a note attached to it at my door.

"I'll be seeing you soon, little star."

The cryptic message sent a chill down my spine. I had no idea who was behind it, but the timing felt too perfect to be a coincidence. Was someone watching me? Stalking me? My mind raced through a thousand possibilities, but none of them settled into something clear. The one thing I knew for sure—it wasn't anyone from Vought.

The sunflower, the note, and now this message... It felt personal, calculated. As if they knew the cracks I'd been trying so hard to keep hidden. Whoever it was, they were playing a dangerous game.

The doorknob turned and I immediately put my phone in my pocket. My door opened and Madelyn Stillwell walked into my room without my permission.

"Hi, Carrie," she greeted me by my real name. "Were you heading to get prep?"

"I was just on my way now," I managed to reply.

"Oh, okay. I just need to tell you something about tonight." She closed the door behind her, her gaze sharp as she approached. There was always something unnerving about her, the way she held power so casually, as if it were just another accessory to her pristine, corporate persona. Her smile was thin, practiced, and entirely without warmth. "Stan and I have been discussing about a potential future for Supes in the military."

Supes in the military? How did this got something to do with the charity gala or me?

"And a very important guest will be coming to the gala," she continued.

"Who?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Madelyn paused for a moment, letting the tension build as she studied me. "Lieutenant Colonel Derek Hayes," she finally said, her tone dropping slightly as if the name carried a certain weight. "He's part of the Pentagon's new initiative to integrate superheroes into active military operations. Vought is very interested in making sure we establish the right... connections."

I swallowed hard, already knowing where this was going. "And what does this have to do with me?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

Madelyn's smile widened, though it didn't reach her eyes. "We need him on our side, Carrie. He's the kind of person who could make or break our plans for military contracts. And as one of the most marketable heroes we have, you're the one who's going to make sure he feels... comfortable."

A cold feeling settled in my stomach. "You want me to flirt with him."

"Flirt, charm, do whatever it takes to make sure he sees Vought—and you—in a favorable light," Madelyn said smoothly. She stepped closer, her eyes locking onto mine. "You're good at this, Carrie. You know how to play the game. Just keep him interested, keep him talking. Make him feel special. And if he asks about you personally... be open to it."

The disgust hit me like a punch to the gut. I fought to keep my expression neutral, to keep the anger bubbling beneath the surface from exploding. I was a product to them, a tool, a piece of the larger puzzle. It wasn't the first time they had asked something like this of me, but it didn't make it any easier.

"Is that an order?" I asked, my voice tight.

Madelyn's eyes softened slightly, her tone shifting just enough to make it seem like she cared. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, Carrie. We need this. Vought needs this. And I know you can handle it." She placed a hand on my shoulder, a gesture meant to be reassuring but only made me feel trapped. "This could mean big things for your future with the company."

My future. As if I had any say in what that looked like.

I forced a smile. "Of course. I'll do what I can."

Madelyn's grip tightened for a fraction of a second before she let go, her eyes gleaming with approval. "I knew you would. You've always been one of our best. Just remember—tonight is about making connections, building bridges. You'll know how to handle him."

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving me standing there, the weight of her words settling like a stone in my chest.

I stared at the door after she left, my mind racing. Flirt with the lieutenant. Keep him happy. It was all part of the job, right? Just another role I had to play. But this time, it felt different. Darker. More suffocating. And as I made my way to the door, my phone buzzed again.

UNKNOWN: Don't worry, little star. I'll be watching. And if that lieutenant does anything to you, I'll chop his hands off and mail it to you.

A shiver crawled up my spine as I read the message. Whoever this person was, they were clearly unhinged—and yet, a twisted part of me found some sick comfort in their words. But it was dangerous, too. This wasn't just some anonymous admirer. This person was making threats, getting inside my life, inside my head.

I clenched my phone tightly, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. The pressure was unbearable. Between Vought's constant demands and this mysterious stalker, I felt like I was being suffocated from all sides.

But there was no time to dwell on it. I had to get downstairs, put on my mask, and pretend like everything was fine. Like I wasn't one wrong move away from losing control completely.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

With a steadying breath, I smoothed out my Supernova costume and forced my legs to move, walking out of the room and into the hallway. The elevator ride down was agonizingly slow, each floor ticking by like the countdown of a bomb. I stared at my reflection in the mirrored walls, trying to summon the version of myself that Vought wanted—the version that could smile on command, that could make men like Lieutenant Colonel Hayes feel important and powerful.

When the doors finally slid open, the grand lobby of the Vought building was bustling with activity. Security, event coordinators, and staff were everywhere, all rushing around to make sure the gala went off without a hitch. I spotted Ashley across the room, talking animatedly with one of the PR people, but I wasn't ready to deal with her yet.

Instead, I took a moment to gather myself, scanning the room for any sign of the lieutenant. I couldn't help but wonder how this night would go. Would he be just another sleazy suit who saw me as nothing more than a pretty face with superpowers? Or was there something else lurking behind his military rank?

Either way, I would have to endure it. That was the job.

As I headed toward the main event hall, my phone buzzed again, and I froze in place. Another message.

UNKNOWN: You look stunning tonight. He won't be able to keep his eyes off you.

My heart pounded in my chest as I read the message. I hadn't even stepped into the room yet, and this person was already watching me. I scanned the crowd, looking for any suspicious faces, but everyone seemed busy with their own tasks. No one stood out. No one looked out of place.

I shoved the phone back into my side pocket, trying to keep my expression neutral as I walked through the massive double doors into the gala. The room was breathtaking, with chandeliers casting a warm glow over the elegant décor. Tables were set with fine china, and a string quartet played softly in the background. It was a picture-perfect event, just as Vought liked it.

I spotted Madelyn across the room, deep in conversation with Stan Edgar, CEO of Vought International, and several high-profile guests. And then I saw him—Lieutenant Colonel Derek Hayes. He was standing near the bar, surrounded by a small group of people, laughing and sipping on a glass of whiskey.

I took a deep breath and started walking toward him, my heart pounding in my chest. Play the game, I reminded myself. Be what they need you to be.

But as I approached, the lieutenant's eyes locked onto mine, and a slow smile spread across his face. He stepped away from the group, moving toward me with a confident stride. He was handsome in a rugged, military sort of way, with close-cropped hair and sharp, calculating eyes. But there was something about his presence that made my skin crawl.

"Supernova, isn't it?" he asked, his voice smooth and warm. "I've heard a lot about you."

I forced a smile, tilting my head slightly. "All good things, I hope."

"Of course," he replied, his gaze lingering on me a second too long. "Vought has quite the investment in you. And from what I can see, they chose wisely."

I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, assessing, calculating, like I was just another piece of military hardware. My smile tightened, but I kept it in place. "Glad to know I meet your standards, Lieutenant Colonel."

He chuckled, the sound deep and practiced. "Call me Derek. No need for formalities tonight."

I nodded, trying to keep the small talk going, trying to stay in control. "So, Derek, what brings you to a Vought gala? Looking for new partnerships?"

His expression darkened ever so slightly, just for a flash, before the easy smile returned. "Something like that. Vought and the military have a lot of mutual interests. And, well, I'm always interested in meeting the talent." He raised his glass, as if toasting me.

I clinked my glass against his, feeling the cool press of the champagne flute. "Cheers to partnerships then."

His smile widened, but before he could say more, I felt a presence beside me. I turned to see Madelyn Stillwell approaching, her smile sharp as ever, her gaze flicking between the lieutenant and me.

"Supernova," she said smoothly, her voice laced with approval. "I see you've met Lieutenant Colonel Hayes. I trust you're making a good impression?"

"Absolutely," I replied, my tone light. "The lieutenant and I were just discussing Vought's... potential."

Madelyn's smile deepened. "Good. Derek, we value our military partnerships. I'm sure you and Supernova will find a lot to discuss." She gave me a look that was both commanding and approving, like a puppet master pulling strings, then turned her attention back to the room, already moving on to the next conversation that needed managing.

As soon as she was gone, Derek leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Madelyn runs a tight ship, doesn't she? But then again, so do I."

I could smell the whiskey on his breath as he spoke, the scent sharp and unsettling. "I imagine the military isn't much different from Vought," I said, trying to steer the conversation back to neutral ground.

"Oh, it's different," he replied, his eyes locking onto mine again. "In my line of work, we don't just deal with contracts and PR stunts. We deal with power—real power. And the people who know how to wield it." There was a subtle edge in his voice, something almost menacing beneath the polished surface.

I felt a chill run down my spine. "And you think Vought doesn't understand that kind of power?"

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Vought understands some things. But there are levels to this game, Supernova. You'll see, in time."

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again, and I glanced down at it, my breath catching in my throat.

UNKNOWN: He's closer than you think. Watch your back.

I forced myself to stay calm, my heart racing in my chest. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, trying to shake off the growing sense of unease. Was this person watching me, even now? And who were they referring to—Derek, or someone else?

I looked back at the lieutenant, who was watching me with a curious expression, as if he could sense that something was off. "Everything okay?" he asked, his voice still smooth but with a note of genuine curiosity.

"Just a work message," I lied, my smile returning. "You know how it is—duty calls."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced but letting it slide. "Well, I hope work doesn't take you away too soon. We were just starting to get to know each other."

I forced another laugh, playing the part I was supposed to play. "Don't worry, Derek. I'll be around for a while. So, what do you want to know?"

He grinned, leaning in a little too close for comfort. "Oh, I've got a long list of things I'd like to know about you, Supernova."

There it was—the shift. The thin veneer of professionalism was gone, replaced by something more predatory. My stomach churned, but I kept my face neutral. 

"Well," I said, keeping my voice light, "I'm afraid some things will have to stay a mystery. Gotta keep the mystique alive, right?"

He chuckled, clearly amused by my attempt to deflect, but his eyes remained sharp. "I like a challenge."

My phone buzzed again. I glanced at it briefly, hoping it wasn't another cryptic message from my mysterious stalker. But this time, it was from Ashley.

ASHLEY: Need you by the stage for photos. Now.

I exhaled quietly in relief. An out. "Looks like I'm needed elsewhere," I said, offering Derek a polite smile. "Duty really does call this time."

He studied me for a moment, his gaze flicking to my phone and then back to my face. "Of course. Don't let me keep you."

I turned to leave, but he caught my wrist gently, his fingers barely brushing my skin. "But we'll talk again, won't we?"

I pulled my hand back, maintaining my composure. "I'm sure we will."

With that, I walked away, forcing myself not to look back at him. My skin still tingled where he had touched me, and I hated the feeling—hated how he could get under my skin so easily. But more than that, I hated that he was right. We would talk again. Because this was the game, and I had no choice but to keep playing. 

As I made my way to the stage, weaving through the crowd, I could feel eyes on me—not just Derek's, but others too. It felt like I was walking through a sea of predators, all waiting for the right moment to strike. And in the middle of it all, I was the prize.

I reached the stage, where Ashley was waiting with a frantic expression. She pulled me into position next to a few of the other Supes for the photos. As the cameras flashed, I plastered on the smile I had perfected—bright, confident, untouchable. The image Vought had spent years crafting.

But as I stood there, surrounded by the glamour and the lights, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

The cryptic messages, the strange way Derek had acted, the way Madelyn seemed to be maneuvering everyone like pieces on a chessboard—it all felt like the lead-up to something bigger. Something dangerous.

And I didn't know how long I could keep pretending that I was in control of any of it.

[]

It was a quick photoshoot and the cameras finally stopped flashing. Ashley's grip on my arm tightened slightly as she ushered me away from the stage, her eyes scanning the room for any potential trouble.

"Great job out there," she said with forced cheerfulness. "But we need to keep moving. There are a few more guests you need to meet."

I followed her through the crowd, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that had settled in my stomach. The gala was in full swing, but the atmosphere felt charged with an undercurrent of tension. I spotted Derek again, his gaze following me with an intensity that was hard to ignore.

With Madelyn's order playing in my mind and my promise to talk with him again, I walked back to him. As I approached Derek again, his expression shifted to one of practiced charm, though I could sense the underlying intensity. He made a small gesture, inviting me to join him in a quieter corner of the room, away from the prying eyes of the crowd.

"Back for more?" he asked, his voice low and smooth.

I nodded, forcing a light laugh. "It seems so. I didn't get a chance to thank you for the kind words earlier."

He leaned against a nearby pillar, his eyes never leaving mine. "How about we go somewhere private? The music's getting louder."

I hesitated, glancing around the room. The gala was still in full swing, but Derek's suggestion felt more like a command. There was something about the way he was looking at me that made me uneasy, though I tried to maintain a casual demeanor.

"Somewhere private?" I repeated, forcing a smile. "And where might that be?"

Derek's smile took on a darker edge, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "There's a quiet lounge area just off the main hall. It's usually reserved for VIPs who need a break from the noise."

I weighed the options quickly. It was clear that Derek was determined to continue this conversation away from prying eyes. Though the idea made me uncomfortable, avoiding him entirely might only make things more awkward.

"Lead the way," I said, trying to keep my tone light.

Derek's eyes gleamed with a mix of satisfaction and something else I couldn't quite place. He gestured for me to follow him, and I trailed behind as he wove through the crowd, his presence commanding attention wherever he went.

We reached a set of double doors marked with a discreet "Private" sign. Derek opened one of the doors and held it for me, his gesture polite but his eyes still intense. I walked through, entering a quieter, dimly lit room with plush seating and a few scattered tables. It was a stark contrast to the bustling gala outside.

"Please, have a seat," Derek said, indicating a comfortable-looking sofa.

I sat down, trying to ignore the way his gaze seemed to follow my every move. Derek took a seat next to me, though he left a little distance between us. It was an oddly formal gesture that only heightened the sense of discomfort.

"So," he began, leaning slightly forward, "what exactly do you do around here? What's your superpowers?"

I forced a light laugh, trying to maintain an air of confidence. "I'm sure you've heard all the basics from Vought. Super strength, flight, telekinesis and also telepathy."

Derek's eyes narrowed slightly, his interest clearly piqued. "Wow, that's very impressive. But there's always more beneath the surface, isn't there? The public persona is one thing, but the real you—that's what intrigues me."

His tone was unsettling, making the room feel even smaller. I shifted uncomfortably, reminding myself to stay composed. "And what exactly are you hoping to find beneath the surface, Derek?"

He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Let's just say I'm curious. I've heard that the members of the Seven either worked hard to get in or they were discovered? How you get in?"

"Well, I went to Godolkin University and... worked my way up through various tests and endorsements. Vought wanted someone with both raw power and a marketable image. I suppose I fit the bill," I finished, attempting to keep my tone light despite the growing discomfort.

Derek's gaze didn't waver. "That took a lot of hard work and dedication. How did you keep it up with all this?"

The question felt personal, probing in a way that made me uneasy. I forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach my eyes. "It's all part of the job. Everyone has a role to play, right?"

Derek leaned back, his eyes scanning the room as if considering his next move. "True, but sometimes, the role can become all-consuming. Don't you ever wonder what it would be like to step outside that role? To just be yourself?"

I struggled to keep my composure. "Everyone has to keep up appearances in some way. It's not always easy, but it's necessary."

Derek's smile widened slightly, though it was more of a smirk now. "I see. Well, sometimes it's nice to take a break from the pretense, even if just for a moment."

The air between us felt charged, the conversation taking on a more personal, almost intimate tone. I could feel the weight of his scrutiny, and it was making me increasingly uncomfortable.

My phone buzzed once more. I glanced at it briefly, noting that it was another message from the same unknown number.

UNKNOWN: He's not who he seems. Be careful.

A shiver ran down my spine as I read the message. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, my mind racing. Was Derek involved in something more sinister than just a predatory flirtation? And who was sending these warnings?

I forced myself to focus on Derek, who was now studying me with a mixture of curiosity and something darker. "I should probably get back to the event," I said, standing up.

"No, just stay here," he said, pulling me back to the couch, his arm around my waist.

I tensed as his arm rested around my waist, the unexpected contact sending a jolt through me. My mind raced with conflicting thoughts—this could be another maneuver in his game, or it could be something more serious. I tried to keep my voice steady, despite the unease gnawing at my insides.

"Derek, I appreciate the conversation, but I really do need to get back," I said, attempting to remove his arm from my waist.

He tightened his grip slightly, his voice dropping to a low, almost seductive tone. "Come on, Supernova. Just a few more minutes. I promise it'll be worth your while."

I looked into his eyes, searching for any hint of genuine interest or just a mask for something more sinister. "I don't think—"

"Relax," he interrupted softly. "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. I'm just trying to get to know you better. Isn't that what everyone wants? To be understood?"

There was something chilling about his words, a sense of manipulation that I couldn't ignore. My gut told me to leave, to get out of this room and back into the safety of the gala, but I also knew I couldn't make a scene. Not yet.

I took a deep breath, forcing a polite smile. "Alright, but just a few more minutes."

He seemed satisfied with my response and leaned back, his arm still around me but his demeanor now a bit more relaxed. The tension in the room remained palpable, however, and I could feel the pressure of his gaze.

"So," Derek said, trying to sound casual, "what's it like living under the spotlight? I imagine it's not as glamorous as it seems."

I tried to keep the conversation going, hoping to deflect the intensity of his gaze. "It has its ups and downs, like any job. There's a lot of pressure, but it's worth it in the end."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Pressure can be a heavy burden. But sometimes, the right kind of pressure can reveal a lot about a person. Don't you think?"

The cryptic nature of his comment made me uneasy, and I could feel the weight of the unknown warnings and Derek's scrutinizing gaze bearing down on me. I glanced at my phone again, but there were no new messages.

"I suppose," I replied cautiously, "though I'd prefer not to dwell too much on it."

Derek's eyes gleamed with a mixture of intrigue and something darker. "It's fascinating how you maintain your composure. Most people would crumble under the kind of scrutiny you face."

Before I could respond, his hand rested against my thigh and he kissed my neck. The touch was unexpected and sent a shiver through me. I stiffened, struggling to maintain my composure. My mind raced, and I could feel the room closing in, the stakes escalating. A single thought came to my mind in a form of Madelyn's voice: "Flirt, charm, do whatever it takes to make sure he sees Vought—and you—in a favorable light... if he asks about you personally... be open to it."

Derek's unexpected touch sent a wave of discomfort through me. I stiffened, trying to maintain my composure despite the unsettling sensation of his kiss against my neck. I forced a smile, hoping to mask the turmoil inside.

"Derek," I said, attempting to keep my voice steady, "I really need to get back to the gala."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark and intense. "Why need to go back? Are they worry about you?" He grabbed my hand firmly, his grip more insistent. "I promise you, just a few more minutes, and then you can return to the gala."

His proximity was suffocating, and I could feel his breath against my skin. The room seemed to close in, and every instinct told me to get out, but I had to play this carefully. If I made a scene, it could have unintended consequences.

"Derek, please," I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. "I really need to return to my duties. This is important."

His eyes flashed with something I couldn't quite decipher, a blend of frustration and desire. He moved even closer, his hand sliding from my thigh to my hip, his touch almost possessive. "You're important too, Supernova. Maybe more than you realize."

I felt a chill run down my spine as he leaned in again, his lips brushing against my ear. "I have my own interests, and I think you might find them... enlightening."

The suggestion in his voice made my skin crawl. I needed to end this interaction before it escalated further. He fiercely held my me and I could feel his fingers tightening around my wrist. Panic surged within me, but I forced myself to stay calm. The room was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the gala outside, and I had to find a way to extricate myself from this increasingly uncomfortable situation.

With a decisive move, I yanked my wrist from his grip and stood up abruptly. "Derek, I've really had enough. I'm leaving."

His eyes flared with a dangerous glint, and he stood up, blocking my path. "You can't just leave. Not like this."

I squared my shoulders, trying to muster the confidence that had become second nature to me. "I can and I will. I'm not your plaything, Derek."

His expression shifted from alluring to menacing. "Do you really think you can just walk away from this? From me?"

Before I could respond, he grabbed the back of my head and pinned me to a pool table, my back facing him. I struggled against Derek's grip, the hard surface of the pool table pressing into my back. My mind raced, trying to think of a way out of this escalating situation. His breath was hot against my neck, and he started to grind his hips up against me.

The intensity of the moment left me feeling trapped and vulnerable. As Derek's body pressed against mine, I fought against the panic rising in my chest. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear the muted sounds of the gala outside.

"If he asks about you personally... be open to it," Madelyn's voice echoed in my head.

If I wanted to be on her good side, then I'll do it.

"Wh-What do you want to do?" I managed to asked.

Derek's grip tightened, his voice a low growl in my ear. "I want you, beneath me, completely under my control. I want you to stop pretending, stop the game, and give in."

His words were like poison, seeping into the small cracks of my carefully maintained composure. The pressure of his body against mine was suffocating, and I felt trapped in a situation spiraling out of my control.

Madelyn's voice, calm and completely under my control. I want you to stop pretending, stop the game, and give in."

His words were like poison, seeping into the small cracks of my carefully maintained composure. The pressure of his body against mine was suffocating, and I felt trapped in a situation spiraling out of my control.

Madelyn's voice, calm and calculating, echoed in my mind again: "Be open to it."

The words repeated in my mind like a command, twisting around the fear that had gripped me. Madelyn's orders had always been clear—charm, flirt, and maintain the façade no matter what. But this was different. Derek's presence was overwhelming, his grip too tight, his intentions dark and predatory. There was nothing charming about this, nothing I could flirt my way out of.

I could feel his breath on my neck, his body pressed firmly against mine, and the weight of his control bearing down on me like an oppressive force. My powers hummed just beneath the surface, a reminder that I could easily stop this—send him flying across the room with a flick of my wrist, or reduce the pool table to splinters with a thought. But doing so would mean breaking the delicate balance I'd been ordered to maintain.

Madelyn's voice was there, cold and calculating, urging me to stay calm, to give in just enough to keep the situation under control. But how much was too much? How far was I expected to go for the sake of Vought's image?

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Derek," I said, trying to sound as controlled as possible, "you don't need to do this."

His hand slid from my hip to my zipper, his grip tightening as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against my skin. I could feel the panic rising within me, but I forced myself to stay calm, to think. Madelyn's voice was a distant echo now, drowned out by the reality of what was happening.

"Derek," I said, my voice firmer this time. "Stop."

He didn't listen. His fingers tugged at my zipper, his other hand still pinning me down. Every instinct screamed at me to fight back, to use my powers, to send him flying through the wall. But I knew what that would mean—the scandal, the questions, the consequences. I couldn't afford that, not here, not now. But I also couldn't just let this happen.

My mind raced. I needed to play this smart, to stay in control, even when everything felt like it was slipping away. But the next thing I knew, I felt him grabbing my throat, his grip tightening as he leaned in closer, his eyes filled with a dark desire that made my skin crawl. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating, and I could feel my powers surging just beneath the surface, begging to be unleashed. My vision blurred slightly as I struggled to breathe, the pressure of his hand cutting off my air.

In that moment, everything slowed. Time itself seemed to stretch out, giving me a moment of clarity amidst the panic. I had been trained for situations like this, trained to maintain composure under pressure. But no amount of training could have prepared me for this kind of violation.

I closed my eyes, searching for something, anything, to anchor myself. A way to maintain control without losing everything I had worked so hard for. Then, amidst the chaos in my mind, I heard a faint voice—my own, strong and unwavering, cutting through the fog.

You are Supernova. You are more than this.

With a burst of energy, I reached deep inside, calling upon my telekinesis. It was subtle at first, a slight tremor in the room, the faintest movement of objects around us. Derek didn't notice, too focused on his own twisted desires. But I felt it—the raw power surging through me, ready to be unleashed.

"Derek," I said, my voice cold and steady despite the grip on my throat. "Let. Me. Go."

For a moment, he faltered, something in my tone breaking through the haze of his desire. But only for a moment. His grip tightened, his face contorted with frustration. He wasn't going to stop, not of his own accord.

Fine, I thought. Then I'll make you.

With a single thought, I unleashed a pulse of telekinetic energy. It wasn't enough to hurt him, just enough to shove him back, to create space between us. He stumbled, his grip on me loosening as he was pushed backward, his eyes wide with surprise.

I took the opportunity to stand up, backing away from him quickly, my body trembling with the aftermath of both fear and adrenaline. Derek regained his balance, his eyes dark with anger now.

"You little—" he started, stepping toward me again.

But this time, I didn't let him finish. I lifted my hand, and with it, I lifted him off the ground, suspending him in midair with my telekinesis. His eyes widened in shock as he realized what was happening.

"Don't," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

For a moment, Derek struggled against the invisible force holding him, but it was futile. I held him there, dangling like a puppet, his power stripped away. The anger in his eyes turned to fear, and he finally seemed to realize that he had pushed too far.

"I could end you," I continued, my voice calm but filled with cold fury. "Right here, right now. But I won't. Because I'm better than you."

I dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor. He landed hard, gasping for breath as he scrambled to his feet. The fear in his eyes was palpable now, and for the first time, I saw him for what he really was—small, pathetic, and utterly powerless against someone like me.

He didn't say a word as he backed away toward the door, his arrogance and charm shattered. I watched as he fled, disappearing into the gala, no doubt shaken by my sudden outburst.

I held my zipper tightly and let out a small whimper. The anger surged within me, a mix of emotions I could barely contain. I had been strong enough to stop Derek, to protect myself, but the memory of Homelander overwhelmed me, piercing through my thoughts like a sharp blade. Where was this strength when he violated me? Why couldn't I fight back then, when I needed it the most?

I sank into one of the plush chairs, my body trembling as I clutched my chest, trying to steady my breathing. The room seemed to close in on me, the walls pressing down, suffocating me with the weight of memories I wished I could erase. I felt the tears welling up, but I swallowed them down. There was no room for weakness now. Not here, not ever.

The gala was still bustling outside, the music and laughter muted through the thick walls. It felt surreal, like an entirely different world, one where people were carefree and glamorous, where everything was pristine and perfect. But I knew better. This world, the world I had fought to be a part of, was twisted beneath the surface, filled with monsters who wore charming smiles.

I stood up slowly, my hands trembling as I fixed my clothes, forcing myself to regain some semblance of control. I couldn't let anyone see me like this. I couldn't let them know how close I had come to breaking. My phone buzzed again in my pocket, but I didn't bother to check it. Whoever was sending me warnings—it didn't matter now. It was too late for that.

I needed to leave. I needed to get away from Derek, from the gala, from all of it. But I also knew that Madelyn would be watching, and if I left without handling things delicately, there would be consequences. There were always consequences.

Steeling myself, I stepped out of the lounge and back into the glittering, chaotic world of the gala. The lights were bright, the laughter loud, but everything felt muted to me, distant. I moved through the crowd like a ghost, unseen and untouched, until I found Ashley waiting near the stage.

Her eyes flicked over me, scanning my face for any sign of what had happened. "Everything alright?" she asked, her voice light but tinged with concern.

I forced a smile. "Fine," I lied. "Just needed a moment to clear my head."

Ashley nodded, though her eyes lingered on me for a moment longer. "Well, you're doing great out here. Madelyn will be pleased."

I wanted to laugh at that, but I bit my tongue. "Thanks," I said instead, my voice hollow.

I stood there for a moment, watching the crowd, my mind racing with a hundred different thoughts. I had survived this night, but the cost weighed heavily on me. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was trapped, caught in a web I had woven myself, too deep now to escape. Vought, Madelyn, the Seven—they all demanded something from me, pieces of my soul I wasn't sure I could give anymore.

As I glanced across the room, I spotted Derek, standing in the shadows, his expression dark and shaken. He wouldn't come near me again, not after what had happened. But the damage was done, and I knew that this was only the beginning.

This world was broken, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fix it. All I could do was survive. And in this place, survival meant playing the game—no matter how dangerous, no matter how twisted.

For now, that was all I had left.

[]

As the gala wound down, the exhaustion settled deep into my bones, mingling with the remnants of anxiety still clinging to my skin. I moved through the crowd with a practiced grace, shaking hands, exchanging polite smiles, and deflecting any lingering conversations. My mind, however, was already elsewhere—back in my room, the only place I could truly escape.

Ashley walked beside me, talking about the night's success, but her words felt like distant echoes. I nodded in the right places, pretending to listen, while my thoughts remained tangled in everything that had happened with Derek. The fear, the anger, and the bitter frustration of knowing I had to play by Vought's rules weighed heavily on me.

When we finally made our way toward the exit, Ashley gave me a quick, approving nod. "You did well tonight," she said, her tone brisk but somewhat softer. "Madelyn will hear about it, and she'll be pleased. You should take the rest of the night to relax."

"Yeah," I murmured, barely acknowledging her as I stepped into the waiting car. The ride back to the Vought compound was silent, a small mercy after the chaos of the evening. I leaned my head against the window, staring out at the city's lights as they blurred by, trying to ground myself in the present.

When the car pulled up to the compound, I wasted no time getting out, eager to disappear into the quiet of my room. The polished hallways of the tower were eerily quiet this late, and the solitude was both a blessing and a curse. My feet carried me automatically, muscle memory guiding me back to the sanctuary of my room.

But as I arrived at my door, the crutch of something under my foot turned my body into stone.

I closed my eyes, hoping that it wasn't too drastic like a body part at my door or something. Because if I stepped on it, I was going to freak out. Taking a few short breaths, I moved my foot away and looked down, seeing a sunflower with crumpled petals.

Flashes of the first time I received a sunflower and the note invaded my mind. It was clear that it was from the same person.

My stalker. Whoever they were.

"Shit," I muttered, bending down to pick up the sunflower.

Then, I saw closely that there was a few droplets of blood on the bright yellow petals.

A thought came to me. Was that why I didn't saw Derek since the VIP lounge? Was he already dead? And if so—

"Oh, fuck!" I cursed quietly and I quickly unlocked my door and ran straight into my room.

The room felt like a cage, its walls pressing in as I locked the door behind me. The sight of the blood on the sunflower was a chilling reminder that I was not just a player in this twisted world, but a target as well. I paced the room, trying to process the unsettling new reality.

The earlier encounter with Derek, the warnings from the unknown number, and now this—everything seemed to be converging into a nightmarish pattern. I could feel the weight of the evening pressing down on me, mixing with the fresh anxiety of the sunflower.

I grabbed my phone and took a deep breath, willing my trembling hands to stay steady. But before I could even dial, my phone lighted up and that was when I saw another text.

UNKNOWN: I've kept my word, and he deserved it too. And I think you already know that he does too. Sleep well, little star.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 | 𝐋𝐄𝐎

I was about to commit homicide. Cold-blooded murder. And this was my first time. I had thoughts about killing men before this—whatever the reasons it might be. Mostly from the news I watched whenever it talked about a murder of a child or a woman being violated by a man because she rejected him or ruining someone's life that didn't deserve it.

But never had I actually killed someone for real and out of rage. First time for everything, I suppose.

Lieutenant Colonel Derek Hayes had his hips grinding down at her, saying that he wanted her to be under his control and just give in.

And that was when I decided he wasn't going to live tonight. The second I saw them heading to the VIP lounge, it took all my control not to storm in and drag her out of there; not to mention that Vought would twist this narrative that I was the villain trying to kidnap a Supe and the lieutenant was going to save the day.

And not just because another man was trying to take advantage of my girl, Derek Hayes was a fucking monster.

A real one.

Frenchie did some background research on the guy, and it wasn't pretty. Derek Hayes had connections to some of the darkest corners of military operations—illicit dealings, arms trafficking, and a string of unsolved disappearances that had been conveniently swept under the rug. It was clear that he was more than just a high-ranking officer; he was a key player in a network of corruption that spread far beyond his official duties.

In addition, there were rumors about talks regarding allowing Supes in the military, which was why he was at the Vought gala. I'd also heard that he had a penchant for Supe women and his form of rough play wasn't pleasurable by any means when a female Supe walked away with a bruised neck, a bloody nose, and a busted lip.

I didn't take pleasure in killing him. But I didn't regret it either. Seeing how he was with her, I was only too aware of the threat he posed. He was a predator, and predators like him needed to be eliminated. But I was fucking proud of her when she used her power to get him off her. And that took a lot of strength to do so.

And that was when I learnt that she had telekinesis. I wondered what other powers she had, but that was for another time

I followed Hayes, who was walking out of the VIP lounge, smoothing his suit, muttering under his breath. "Who does that little bitch think she is? She's gonna pay for this."

Oh, he was definitely going to die tonight. I needed to get him out of the gala without causing any suspicions.

I followed Hayes, keeping a safe distance as he made his way down the hall. His arrogance was palpable, but so was his anger. His muttered threats revealed the depth of his malice and only solidified my resolve. If he were to leave this gala alive, there was no telling what he would do next. He had to be stopped, permanently.

As he approached the private elevator, I moved quickly, slipping behind a decorative pillar. I waited for him to enter the elevator and then followed, using the stairwell to remain undetected. Once I was sure the coast was clear, I took the service elevator to the basement level, where security footage and personnel would be minimal.

Hayes exited the elevator and walked toward a secluded parking area. It was here, away from the prying eyes of the gala attendees and the cameras, that I planned to confront him. I approached silently, ensuring that the shadows provided ample cover.

When he reached his car, a sleek black sedan, he fumbled with his keys, still grumbling about the night's events. I could see his anger building, but it didn't matter. He was about to face the consequence of his actions.

As he unlocked the car door, I moved swiftly, covering his mouth with a white cloth with a tint of Rohypnol before he could react. The surprise of the attack disoriented him, and I managed to wrestle him to the ground. He struggled and fought, but I was relentless. I made sure he knew exactly why this was happening. My anger was focused, my resolve steely.

I heard footsteps from behind me and, just as I was about to knock them out too, a hand held my wrist. 

"Oi, take it easy, son," Butcher said, lowering my hand. "Just your old man, that's all." 

I froze for a moment, still hovering over Hayes' limp body, my breathing ragged from the adrenaline. Butcher's presence was unexpected, but then again, nothing seemed to surprise me anymore in this world.

He knelt down beside me, a twisted smirk on his face as he studied the unconscious figure of Derek Hayes.

"Didn't expect to see you doin' the dirty work on your own," Butcher commented casually, pulling out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lighting it up. "But I gotta say, I'm impressed. Real clean job so far."

I stared at him, trying to shake off the haze of rage and adrenaline. "He was going to—"

"I know what he was going to do," Butcher interrupted, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Piece of filth like him? He had it comin' for a long time."

But it wasn't about getting Butcher's approval. It was about her. About the rage that had been boiling inside me, threatening to spill over if I hadn't done something. Butcher, sensing my tension, raised an eyebrow.

"You want me to finish it?" He gestured toward Hayes, who was still out cold, lying face down in the gravel next to his car.

I shook my head, my voice hardening. "No. This one's mine."

Butcher gave a small chuckle, nodding as he stepped back, giving me space. "Atta boy. Just make sure you don't leave too much of a mess. Vought's got their claws everywhere."

I knelt back down, staring at Hayes' unconscious form. Memories of him pinning her down, the way his voice dripped with cruelty as he tried to take control of her, flashed through my mind. My hands clenched into fists. I wasn't just doing this for myself—I was doing it for her, for all the women he'd hurt, for every life he had ruined in the shadows.

Hayes stirred slightly, groaning as he began to regain consciousness. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed him by the collar, lifting him up so that his face was inches from mine. His eyes fluttered open, fear and confusion immediately settling in as he realized what was happening.

"This is for her," I growled, before driving my fist into his face.

The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the parking garage, but I barely registered it. My rage took over as I continued hitting him, making sure every punch counted. This wasn't just about killing him anymore—it was about sending a message, making him understand, even in his final moments, that he had lost.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, I let go of his broken, bloodied body. He slumped back onto the ground, barely conscious, but alive—just barely.

Butcher watched me silently, leaning against the wall with that same unreadable expression. "You done?"

I stood up, wiping the blood off my hands, my breathing still heavy. "No," I muttered, my voice raw. "Not yet. Carrie's gonna know I keep my words."

Butcher raised an eyebrow, his smirk lingering as he flicked the ash from his cigarette. "You think she'll care about all this? About him?"

I glanced down at Hayes' barely breathing form, my chest still heaving from the adrenaline. "She'll care. This isn't just for her. It's for every woman he tried to control, to dominate." I paused, the weight of my words sinking in. "But mostly for her."

Butcher gave a slow nod, his expression turning more serious. "Aye, well, be sure you know what you're getting into, mate. These things—killing for someone, avenging someone—it don't always turn out the way you think."

I didn't respond, didn't need to. He might've been right, but that didn't matter now. This was personal. Derek Hayes wasn't just another obstacle in my path, he was a symbol of everything I loathed, everything I couldn't allow to exist in her life.

Butcher pushed off the wall, taking a final drag from his cigarette before flicking it away. "Clean up your mess then, son. We'll see how things shake out."

He turned and walked into the darkness, leaving me alone with the broken body of Derek Hayes. His faint, rasping breaths were barely audible, but I could hear them. Each one was a reminder that he was still alive, still holding on to whatever pathetic shred of power he thought he had left.

I crouched down beside him, my fingers gripping his collar again, pulling him closer. His eyes, swollen and bloodied, blinked open weakly, and I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction seeing the fear in them. This man—this monster—who had hurt so many, who had tried to break her, was finally powerless.

"I want you to remember this," I hissed. "Remember what it feels like to lose. To have no control. And know that you'll never get it back."

He tried to say something, but the words came out garbled, lost in the blood that filled his mouth. I let go of him, watching as his head lolled to the side, barely conscious.

As I stood over him, I knew this wasn't enough. I could kill him here and now, make sure he never hurt anyone again, but that wasn't what this was about. He had to suffer, just like all the women he had tormented, like Carrie almost had. Killing him quickly would be a mercy he didn't deserve.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, dialing Frenchie. He picked up on the second ring.

"Oui?"

"Get someone here to pick up the trash," I said, my voice cold. "I want him alive... for now."

Frenchie didn't ask any questions. "Understood. Give me twenty minutes."

I hung up, sliding the phone back into my pocket. Derek Hayes might live for another day, but his life as he knew it was over. I'd make sure of it. Vought could try to cover this up, bury it under their layers of lies and deception, but I had leverage now. And I wasn't afraid to use it.

As I stood there in the dimly lit garage, the rage that had fueled me began to dissipate, replaced by a cold, calculated calm. This was just the beginning. Hayes was a small part of the bigger picture, a piece of the puzzle that Vought had built to protect their own. But now, I had cracked the surface.

And I had done it for her.

Carrie didn't know what I had done yet, and I wasn't sure how she'd react. But I didn't care. I had kept my promise. I had protected her, avenged her. And if she hated me for it? So be it. At least she'd be safe.

I walked away from the scene, my thoughts shifting to her, wondering how she would look at me after this. Would she see me as a monster, no different from Hayes? Or would she understand?

There was only one way to find out.

I was going to leave a sunflower at her door with a note telling her that I keep my words and she would get the message. 

[] 

"Let me go, you all pieces of shit! You think I'm someone to mess with? Do you know any idea who I am and what I've done for this country?!" 

His mouth was going to be taped shut in two seconds if he kept running it, that I did know. We just watched Hayes, his arms and legs bound to a wooden chair and blood drying on his face and suit. 

The room was dimly lit, an old warehouse far from prying eyes and Vought's reach. The Boys stood around Hayes, their expressions hard and unforgiving. He had been dragged out of that parking garage unconscious, and now he was waking up to a nightmare he never saw coming. Kimiko stood in the darkness, watching the scene unfolded. After that fight with Black Noir, she was covered in cuts, bruises and even had her arm popped out of her socket. But she managed to heal quickly too; she was a Supe with healing factors and the toughest out of us with it came to physical strength. 

Frenchie, standing near the corner, leaned against a metal pillar, his face calm but his eyes sharp as they observed Hayes' struggles. "He does have a mouth on him, doesn't he?" he remarked casually, flipping a knife in his hand with an almost artistic grace. "But I've seen men like him before. All bark until the knife is to their throat."

MM, arms crossed over his chest, shook his head. "This guy's not worth the air he's breathing. Everything about him is rotten."

Hughie stood a few paces back, watching with a conflicted expression. He wasn't new to the violence, but this felt different. This was personal. For all of them.

Butcher was, as usual, the calmest in the room. He lit another cigarette, blowing out the smoke as he stepped closer to Hayes. "You see, mate, I've dealt with a lot of Supes in my time. Hell, we've all had our fair share of run-ins with Vought's little toys. But you? You're worse than most of them."

Hayes spat at Butcher's feet, his glare full of venom. "I'm a patriot, you son of a bitch. I did what had to be done for this country. For people like you."

Butcher's smile was thin and dangerous as he leaned down, getting face-to-face with Hayes. "For the country, huh? That's your excuse for torturing women? For making a play at innocent girls and breaking them 'cause you think you can?"

Hayes clenched his jaw, his gaze darting between the men in the room. "You don't know anything. Vought... they'll be here soon. You think you can hide this? I'm a lieutenant colonel, for fuck's sake."

"That's where you're wrong, mate." Butcher's voice was icy. "Vought might try to sweep things under the rug, but tonight? Tonight, you're alone. No one's coming for you."

Hughie stepped forward, his voice quieter but firm. "You hurt people. You used your power to destroy lives. And now? Now, we're making sure you can't do it again."

Hayes' expression faltered for the first time, a flicker of doubt creeping into his eyes as he looked at the group surrounding him. "You... you think killing me will change anything? There's always another. Always someone waiting to take my place."

Frenchie, still flipping his knife, stepped closer, his grin unsettling. "Oh, mon ami, we are well aware. But that doesn't mean you get to walk away from this."

MM uncrossed his arms, taking a step forward. "We've seen men like you before. You think you're untouchable. But here's the thing—you're not. Not anymore."

"Tell me, little boy," Butcher asked. "Why were you at Vought tonight?" 

Hayes smirked, though blood was still dripping from the corner of his mouth. His bravado hadn't entirely disappeared, but there was an edge of desperation now. He was realizing the gravity of his situation, but like any cornered animal, he was going to lash out until his last breath.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he spat, his voice thick with mockery. "You think I'm just some dirty player in this game? You lot really don't know what's coming, do you?"

Butcher tilted his head, seemingly amused by Hayes' defiance. "Oh, I think we know enough to bury you. But humor me, Lieutenant. You tell me what you know, and maybe, just maybe, I'll make it quick."

Hayes' eyes darted around the room, measuring each of the men. He shifted in his chair, testing his restraints again, but there was no escape. Finally, he let out a bitter laugh. "You think you can stop this? Vought's been working on a deal with the military for years. They're about to bring Supes into active duty, and guess what? I'm one of the few who gets to decide who makes the cut. All the power, all the leverage—it's in our hands now. You're nothing but ants under our boots."

There was a moment of silence. The Boys exchanged looks, but none of them seemed surprised by the revelation. If anything, it only solidified what they already knew—Vought was gearing up for something bigger, something that would change the balance of power forever. Supes in the military would be catastrophic, turning every battlefield into a slaughterhouse with ordinary soldiers caught in the crossfire. 

But that couldn't be the reason why he was with Carrie. That couldn't be the reason why he was helding her down against the pool table, his hands over her and his hips against her. 

Butcher stared at Hayes, his smile widening ever so slightly as the lieutenant colonel tried to mask his growing fear behind a facade of arrogance. "So that's it then? You're Vought's little errand boy, handpickin' Supes to turn this country into their playground?"

Hayes shifted uncomfortably in the chair, the confidence in his voice wavering just a bit. "You don't understand the scale of this. Vought's plan goes far beyond anything you can imagine. Supes in the military? That's just the start."

MM stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Start of what? Some kind of Supe-run world where guys like you decide who lives and who dies? You think we're gonna let that happen?"

Hayes let out a chuckle, his lips curling into a smirk, though blood still dripped from his mouth. "You lot are in over your heads. This isn't some backstreet gang war. Vought's about to take over the world, and I'm a part of it. You kill me, it won't stop anything. Someone else will take my place—"

Before he could finish, I stepped forward, my fist crashing into his jaw with enough force to snap his head back. His words died in his throat, and I could feel the anger rising again, bubbling just beneath the surface. But this time, I kept it in check. I wanted him to talk. I wanted him to explain what the hell he had been doing to Carrie.

"What were you doing with her?" I asked, my voice low, steady, but filled with a barely-contained rage. "What did you want from... Supernova?"

Hayes blinked, his breath ragged, the smirk faltering. He knew exactly what I was asking. "Her?" he sneered, his lip curling. "She's just a Supe. A powerful one, yeah, but still just a tool. Vought's been watching her for a long time. A Supe with her abilities? She's valuable. And Vought doesn't let valuable things slip through their fingers."

My hands clenched into fists, my knuckles white with tension. Butcher's eyes flicked toward me, reading the shift in my demeanor, knowing I was on the edge of losing control again.

"So that's it?" I growled. "You were trying to recruit her?"

Hayes laughed bitterly, blood spattering the floor. "Recruit? No. She doesn't get a choice. Vought owns her. They've owned her since the day she was born. You think you can protect her? You think you can keep her away from them? You're dreaming."

Wait, Vought knew about Carrie's existence before they took her in? This just painted a darker picture of everything. Vought had been grooming her from the start, long before I even met her. They had plans for her, bigger than I could've ever imagined, and she was just another pawn in their game. But it wasn't just that they wanted to control her powers—they wanted to control her, to make her believe she was nothing more than what they said she was.

My anger surged again, but I forced myself to breathe. This wasn't just about her powers. This was about making sure she never fell into their hands again.

I stepped closer to Hayes, looming over him as he sneered up at me through his bruised, bloodied face. "What exactly did you want from her?" I asked again, my voice ice cold. "Tell me everything."

He spat blood onto the floor, laughing through his broken teeth. "What do you think? She's not just powerful—she's dangerous. Vought knows that, and they were going to use her to reshape the world. You think you're protecting her, but you're only delaying the inevitable. Supes like her... they belong to Vought. Always have, always will."

I felt my fist twitch, but I held back. I gritted my teeth and asked, "If you already know about this, why did you try to rape her?" 

Hayes blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the bluntness of the question. His smirk faltered, replaced by a glint of fear in his bloodshot eyes. He glanced around the room, perhaps realizing that his bravado wouldn't save him anymore.

"Rape her?" he echoed mockingly, though his voice trembled slightly. "You've got it wrong. I wasn't going to hurt her, not like that. She's valuable. But she needed to know her place." His words slithered out, dripping with arrogance, as if he genuinely believed he had the right to control her, to treat her like a possession.

My blood boiled at his response, but I stayed rooted, letting him hang himself with his words. "So that's it, huh? You think you can just take what you want? Control her because you see her as valuable? Like she's some kind of property?"

Hayes' gaze flickered, his confidence slipping further. He was realizing the corner he was trapped in, but he still tried to salvage his pride. "I didn't lay a hand on her," he said, his voice defensive now, though it was clear that he knew how close he had come. "She fought back. That telekinesis bullshit... damn, near killed me."

But he didn't deny it, not fully. The tension in the room was thick enough to suffocate. Butcher and MM exchanged a glance, both men barely containing their disgust. Frenchie's knife, once flipping with grace, now rested firmly in his hand, and Hughie's fists were clenched tightly at his sides.

"Fought back," I repeated slowly, my voice low and dangerous. "You pinned her down and tried to take her by force. That's what you did."

His lip curled into a sneer again. "You wouldn't understand. You don't know what it's like to deal with Supes. Sometimes... you have to remind them who's in charge. They're stronger, sure. But they're still human at the end of the day. You just need to break them. Make them—"

I didn't let him finish.

My fist collided with his face, and the sickening crunch of bone reverberated through the room. This time, there was no holding back. I hit him again, and again, each punch fueled by the memory of what he had almost done to her. The arrogance in his voice, the way he had spoken about her like she was some tool to be used and discarded—it broke something in me.

The others stood back, watching as I took out my rage on him. There was no need to stop me. No one in that room had any sympathy for Hayes. Not after everything he had revealed. Not after everything he had tried to do.

Finally, I stopped, breathing heavily, my knuckles dripping with blood—both his and mine. Hayes' face was a swollen, broken mess, barely recognizable as the smug lieutenant colonel who had walked into the Vought gala earlier that night.

He was barely conscious, his breaths ragged and shallow. But through swollen eyes, he looked up at me, still clinging to the last remnants of his defiance. "You're... making a mistake," he wheezed, his voice a broken rasp. "Vought... they'll come for her. You can't stop them."

I crouched down, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him close, so our faces were inches apart. "Let them come," I whispered, my voice steady, cold. "I'll kill anyone who tries to take her. And you? You're just the first."

Hayes' eyes widened, finally realizing the gravity of the situation. He wasn't going to leave this room alive, and he knew it.

"You think... you can protect her forever?" he croaked, blood trickling down his chin. "You're nothing... to them."

I let go of his collar, standing up and looking down at the broken man before me. He was right in one sense—Vought was a monster, a hydra with too many heads. Killing Hayes wouldn't stop them. But it was a start. And for tonight, it was enough.

Butcher stepped forward, cigarette still dangling from his lips as he looked down at Hayes' bloodied form. "That's enough, lad. He's done."

I nodded, stepping back, my hands still trembling with the remnants of rage. Butcher knelt down beside Hayes, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air. "Vought might be comin' for her, but here's the thing, mate—we're comin' for them too."

Hayes barely had the strength to respond. He was fading fast, his life slipping away with each ragged breath.

Butcher stood up, flicking the cigarette away and nodding toward MM and Frenchie. "Clean this up. We've got bigger fish to fry."

Frenchie moved swiftly, his knife flashing as he made sure Hayes wouldn't speak another word. It was quick, efficient, and utterly merciless.

I turned away, unable to watch the final moments. My thoughts were already with Carrie, wondering how she would react when she found out what I had done. Would she hate me for it? Would she even understand?

But one thing was certain—Hayes was gone, and she was safe. For now.

As the Boys began to clean up the scene, I walked out of the warehouse into the cold night air, the weight of what I had done pressing down on me. Once I snuck into the Vought building and arrived at Carrie's door, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the sunflower I had planned to leave for her. It was a little crushed, some of the petals smeared with blood, but it didn't matter. She would understand the message.

I walked to her door, leaving the flower and the note by her door.

"I told you I'd protect you."

Then I turned, sneaking out of Vought and disappeared into the night, knowing that the fight was far from over.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

I didn't get enough sleep for the rest of the night. Three hours, maybe, and even that felt shallow—like I hadn't really rested at all. When I woke up, it was four in the morning, but my body felt like it was already two. I lay there in the dark, staring at the bloodied sunflower on the nightstand. The crimson smears on the petals seemed almost symbolic, a silent accusation for what I'd allowed to happen.

Derek Hayes could be dead for all I knew. Maybe he wasn't. But if he was, I was the one who'd practically caused it. The moment I used my powers to fight back, it set everything in motion. If he was dead, then I had blood on my hands just as much as anyone else. My stomach churned at the thought, and I couldn't shake the sick feeling that had settled in my gut.

What would Vought do to me if they found out? More importantly, what would he do to me—Homelander? I pictured myself in his office, standing in front of his desk as his blue eyes bore into me with that chilling mix of curiosity and disdain. His smile—the one he used when he knew he had complete control—flashed in my mind, and I shivered.

He'd made it clear more than once that there were consequences for stepping out of line. I wasn't sure if this qualified as stepping out of line, but the fear gnawed at me regardless. What would he do if he found out I'd been involved in this mess? The thought of being alone in his office again, of his hands on me like last time, made my skin crawl.

I turned my face into the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut. Breathe, Carrie. Breathe.

But I couldn't get Black Noir's words out of my head. It only gets worse. His warning echoed in the stillness of the room, a dark omen that I couldn't ignore. How long had he been working for Vought? How many times had he seen things spiral out of control, watched as lives were destroyed under the weight of their lies and manipulations?

Was this just another step in the descent? Was I already too far gone to climb out?

I sat up, rubbing my face as I tried to shake off the lingering exhaustion. My mind was buzzing, restless with questions that had no easy answers. I pulled the sunflower closer, staring at the message it carried. He keeps his word. He'd done this for me—for what? Protection? Revenge? I wasn't sure what it meant, but the gesture felt both sweet and suffocating at the same time.

I couldn't keep depending on someone else to clean up my mess. But what choice did I have? Derek Hayes had been a predator, a monster, and I wasn't sorry for stopping him. I was just sorry it had come to this. I didn't want anyone else getting hurt because of me, because of Vought, because of the twisted world I was trapped in.

With a deep sigh, I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, hoping the cold water might jolt me into some semblance of clarity. My reflection in the mirror stared back at me, eyes bloodshot, face pale. I barely recognized myself anymore. Who was I becoming? A puppet? A pawn? Or something worse—a willing participant in all of this?

After a quick shower, I dressed in the usual Supernova outfit, pulling on the facade I wore so well. Then, my phone buzzed and I picked it up, switching it on.

MADELYN: Meeting at 9 AM. Be ready.

Short. Cold. Just like her. The kind of message that sent a spike of anxiety straight into my gut. There was no mention of why, but I had a feeling it wasn't good. It never was with her. I checked the time—barely 6 AM. That gave me three hours to prepare, but no amount of time could truly make me feel ready for whatever Madelyn had in store.

What if she already knew? What if Vought had eyes everywhere, and they were just waiting for me to slip up?

I put the phone down and exhaled slowly, trying to calm myself. There was no sense in spiraling. Not yet. I had to keep it together, play the part. If I showed weakness, that's when they'd pounce. I needed to be sharp. Controlled. Everything Homelander expected me to be.

But that wasn't going to be easy. Not with my mind still racing, the echoes of the previous night making it hard to focus. I needed a strategy, a way to navigate whatever awaited me in the meeting. A misstep could spell disaster.

I glanced at the sunflower again. The sight of it—the message it carried—was a harsh reminder of the choices I'd made and the ones I might still have to face. If Derek Hayes was dead, I needed to be prepared for how it would be used against me. Madelyn wouldn't hesitate to exploit any weakness, any sign of guilt.

I made a quick breakfast, eating mechanically as I mulled over my options. The usual routine felt surreal, like I was moving through a dream or a nightmare—everything was out of sync. I needed clarity, a plan to keep me centered and focused when the meeting came.

By the time I was dressed and ready, the minutes seemed to crawl by. I felt a tightness in my chest, an ever-present reminder of the tension I was trying to suppress. I reviewed my notes from past meetings, reminding myself of the protocols and strategies I'd used to keep Madelyn's expectations in check. I had to be sharp, but not too bold. I needed to balance confidence with caution.

When the clock finally struck 9 AM, I took a deep breath and headed out the door. Each step felt heavy, laden with the weight of what might come next. As I approached the Vought headquarters, the familiar walls felt more oppressive than ever. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to shift, that the precarious balance I'd maintained was on the verge of breaking.

Entering the building, I forced myself to project calm. I had to look like I belonged here, like I hadn't been up all night questioning everything. As I rode the elevator up to Madelyn's office, I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering my resolve. Whatever was about to happen, I had to face it head-on.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. I stepped out, straightening my posture and plastering on the practiced, confident smile. I walked down the hallway to Madelyn's office, each step echoing louder in the silence. I knocked, took a deep breath, and braced myself for whatever awaited me on the other side of that door.

I entered Madelyn's office, and as soon as I stepped through the door, I felt the weight of the room's atmosphere change. The space was meticulously organized, an arena of control and intimidation. Madelyn sat behind her polished desk, her posture rigid, her gaze sharp. The cold, calculating look on her face suggested she was already deep in thought, likely analyzing every detail of the situation.

"Carrie," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. "Please, have a seat."

I took the chair opposite her, my movements deliberate and careful. The silence between us stretched, thick with unspoken tension. Madelyn's eyes flickered to my face, searching for any sign of weakness, any crack in the facade I worked so hard to maintain.

"You know why you're here?" she asked, finally breaking the silence.

I pursed my lips before saying in a calm, professional voice. "Lieutenant Colonel Derek Hayes, I assume."

Madelyn's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes, but more specifically, his disappearance last night."

I kept my gaze steady as Madelyn's scrutiny intensified. The room seemed to close in around me, the walls pressing in with the weight of my anxiety.

Her tone was icy, each word measured and deliberate. "His wife reported him missing and it led into the investigation of Vought's charity gala. I want to know what you did to him."

The air felt even denser as Madelyn's words hung between us. I could see her eyes narrowing as if she was peeling back layers of my carefully constructed facade. I had to keep my composure, but inside, my heart raced.

"Disappearance?" I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady. "I didn't realize he was missing. I just—"

Madelyn cut me off with a sharp look. "Don't play games with me, Carrie. I've heard reports about the confrontation between you and Hayes. It wasn't a simple argument. People are talking, and not just within our circle. I need a clear account of what happened."

The weight of her gaze made it hard to breathe. I had to choose my words carefully. The truth was, I couldn't afford to admit too much, but I also couldn't afford to lie outright.

"I acted in self-defense," I said slowly, carefully crafting my words. "Hayes came at me aggressively. I had no choice but to use my powers to stop him."

Madelyn leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled in front of her mouth as she considered my words. "Self-defense. Interesting choice of words."

Choice of words? What was she implying

Madelyn's expression darkened as she continued to scrutinize me. "Interesting choice of words indeed," she said, her voice growing colder. "You seem to have a knack for simplifying matters, Carrie. But you must understand, I require specifics. You claim self-defense, but considering Hayes's position and the severity of this situation, it seems a bit... convenient."

Was she serious? It sounded like she was blaming me for it. I started to think there was more to her plans with Derek. Something more than just trying to get Supes in the military.

I used my telepathy to dive inside Madelyn's head. The moment I slipped into Madelyn's mind, the icy veneer of her expression shattered in my perception, revealing a storm of thoughts swirling beneath. Calculated, sharp—just like her outward demeanor, but far more dangerous. There were layers here, layers I wasn't supposed to see.

"Hayes was disposable from the start," I heard her think, the words laced with contempt. "But Carrie? She's becoming a liability. A loose end."

My pulse quickened. A liability? A loose end? My jaw tightened as I continued to listen.

"Homelander already suspects something," her thoughts continued. "If Carrie can't handle this... she'll need to be contained. Controlled. Or..."

Her mind trailed off, but the implication was clear. They were considering cutting me loose. Not just from Vought, but from everything.

Madelyn's cold exterior suddenly made sense. I wasn't sitting in a meeting to explain myself. I was being evaluated—judged, weighed, and possibly discarded.

"If she snaps, if she becomes unstable, we'll lose more than Hayes. Homelander won't hesitate."

I blinked, pulling myself out of her mind. The weight of what I'd just heard settled over me like a lead blanket. Madelyn wasn't here for answers. She was trying to assess if I could still be controlled. If I could still be of use to Vought

The anger, buried deep beneath my fear, began to simmer. I had been their puppet for so long. They'd pull my strings, manipulate me, push me into impossible situations, and now—now they were weighing whether or not I was still worth the trouble?

Madelyn's steely gaze flickered as if sensing a change in me. I could feel my powers stirring, the air around me subtly charged with my growing frustration.

"I'm telling you the truth," I said, my voice low but firm. "Hayes attacked me, and I reacted. That's it."

Her cold smile returned, thin and condescending. "I'm sure you believe that's all it was, Carrie. But Vought can't afford to believe in simple stories. This incident, whether you meant it or not, is going to have consequences. Big ones."

Consequences? My stomach twisted, but not with fear this time. It was anger. Madelyn's smugness, her manipulation—it was suffocating.

"You mean consequences for me," I shot back, my voice a bit sharper than I intended. I didn't care. "Because that's what Vought does, right? Uses people like me, and then when things go wrong, we're the ones left to take the fall?"

Madelyn's smile faltered. Good. I wasn't going to sit here and play her game any longer.

"I've done everything you and Vought asked of me. Every single time. I've been your puppet. I've followed the script. But not anymore." My voice rose, my hands gripping the arms of the chair as my power surged, vibrating beneath my skin. "If you think you can just brush me aside, Madelyn, you're wrong. I'm not just some disposable asset."

Her expression tightened, her fingers curling slightly into her palms as she stared at me, clearly sensing the shift in the room's power dynamic. For once, she didn't have complete control.

"You think you're irreplaceable?" she said slowly, dangerously. "Carrie, don't overestimate your importance. Vought makes stars. And Vought buries them when they no longer shine."

The words struck me like a slap, but this time, instead of shrinking back, something inside me snapped.

"You think you can bury me?" I stood up, my voice vibrating with the intensity of my emotions. "You've been pulling my strings for too long. I'm not some toy you can toss aside when it suits you."

Madelyn's eyes flashed with a mix of shock and warning. "Sit down," she ordered, her tone laced with icy authority. "You're treading on dangerous ground."

But I didn't sit. I couldn't. Not anymore. "No, you are. You think you have all the power. You think because you control Vought, you control us. But you've forgotten what we are—what I am."

My power surged, the air crackling with a faint electric hum. For a moment, Madelyn's calm mask faltered, fear flashing in her eyes. She wasn't used to losing control.

Before Madelyn could respond, the door to her office burst open with a force that rattled the glass in its frame. The rush of air and the heavy thud of boots filled the room. And there he was—Homelander. His presence dominated the space immediately, the blue and red of his suit sharp against the sterile office backdrop. His icy blue eyes zeroed in on me, and before I could react, his hand shot out, gripping my arm in a vise-like hold.

"That's enough, Carrie," Homelander said, his voice deceptively calm, yet vibrating with an undercurrent of menace. He didn't look at Madelyn, his focus locked entirely on me. His smile flickered across his lips—one of those fake, pleasant grins that never reached his eyes. "We wouldn't want things to get messy now, would we?"

His grip tightened painfully, and I could feel the power coiled under his skin like a loaded gun. The threat was implicit, even as he kept his tone light. I tried to wrench my arm free, but it was like trying to pull away from solid steel.

"Homelander, I—" I began, but he leaned in closer, cutting me off with a soft whisper that only I could hear.

"You really think you can talk back to Madelyn like that? To Vought?" His breath brushed against my ear, cold and full of restrained fury. "You should be grateful I'm stepping in before you do something you'll regret."

My pulse quickened, anger battling fear inside me. He was protecting her, of course. He was always on her side. Always on Vought's side.

Madelyn stood up slowly from behind her desk, the brief flicker of fear she had shown moments ago now completely erased. She composed herself quickly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she looked from me to Homelander. She knew. She knew he'd show up. This was part of the game, part of her strategy. I had walked right into it.

"I think we're done here, Carrie," Madelyn said smoothly, her voice dripping with condescension. "You've made your point clear. And now, Homelander will make sure you don't cause any more... disruptions."

I clenched my fists, feeling the surge of energy beneath my skin, desperate to lash out. But Homelander's grip on my arm was unyielding, and I knew—knew with a bone-deep certainty—that if I pushed any further, if I made the wrong move, I'd be facing not just Madelyn's wrath, but his as well.

Homelander finally turned his gaze to Madelyn, his smile still in place, though his tone had a subtle edge to it. "I think Carrie understands the situation now, don't you?"

His question hung in the air like a challenge. I could see the warning in his eyes—one that left no room for negotiation. I nodded stiffly, swallowing down the frustration and rage that bubbled in my chest.

"Good," he said, his grip loosening just enough to let me step back, though the weight of his presence still pinned me in place.

Madelyn gave me one last, piercing look. "I expect you to remember your place, Carrie. Vought made you. Don't ever forget that."

With that, she turned her back to me, as if I were no longer worth her time. Homelander finally released my arm, but the threat lingered, unspoken yet palpable in the air between us.

I wanted to scream, to fight back, but I knew now more than ever how tight their grip on me was. And worse, how easily they could end me if I pushed too hard.

"Come on," Homelander said, his voice low and deceptively gentle. "Let's get out of here before you make things worse."

With no choice, I followed him out of the office, my mind reeling, trying to figure out my next move.

"Homelander," Madelyn spoke up calmly. "Can I discuss something with you?"

I stopped short, my instincts prickling as Madelyn's voice sliced through the silence. The door was still ajar, and for a brief second, I considered leaving without another glance back. But something in her tone—casual, yet laced with an undertone of familiarity—rooted me to the spot.

"Of course, Madelyn," Homelander replied, his tone dripping with that eerie softness reserved only for her. The way he said her name—like it was something sacred—made my stomach twist.

I felt Homelander's hand on my back, a subtle push to keep moving, but I hesitated just outside the door. There was an invisible thread connecting me to the room now, an instinctual pull telling me to listen. I could feel it—a shift in the atmosphere between them, something deep and hidden.

With a glance over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of the two of them as the door started to close. Madelyn stood by her desk, her body language softer now, her cold, calculating mask replaced with something more tender, almost maternal. And Homelander—his entire demeanor had changed. The arrogance, the dominance that usually radiated off him had dimmed, replaced by something... almost childlike.

I took a step back, pressing myself against the wall outside the office, and focused. I didn't have to be inside the room to listen in. With a sharp intake of breath, I tapped into my telepathy, gently brushing the surface of their thoughts.

"You've been doing so well lately," Madelyn said, her voice soothing now, like she was praising a child for a good report card. "Handling everything with such... control."

Homelander's response was quiet, almost vulnerable. "It's been harder than usual, Madelyn. There's so much pressure, so much expectation. And Carrie... well, she's starting to be a problem."

Madelyn chuckled softly, her heels clicking as she moved closer to him. "You don't need to worry about Carrie. She'll fall in line like everyone else. You've dealt with far worse."

I held my breath, my heart pounding in my ears. They were discussing me like I was just another obstacle to be handled. But there was something more here. Something I hadn't seen before.

"Sometimes," Homelander continued, his voice a bit softer, "I feel like I'm slipping. Like everything is too much. You know what I mean, don't you, Madelyn?"

The desperation in his voice surprised me. It was raw, almost pleading, like a child seeking comfort from a parent. I had never heard him like this before, never seen him let his guard down. And then it hit me—he wasn't just looking for reassurance. He was looking for her approval, her affection.

I heard a rustle of movement, and then Madelyn's voice, low and gentle, barely a whisper now. "Come here, sweetheart."

My blood turned cold. I inched closer to the door, my telepathy diving deeper into the conversation, picking up on every shift in their emotions, every flicker of thought.

Homelander moved closer to her—his thoughts a confusing swirl of need, frustration, and a deep, almost obsessive attachment. "You're the only one who understands," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "The only one who can make it better."

Madelyn's response wasn't in words, but in the way she cradled him, her thoughts flickering with satisfaction. Her hands—deliberate, gentle—moved to his shoulders, guiding him closer. I felt a jolt of realization, an image flashing in my mind unbidden, as though I had slipped deeper into their shared moment than I had intended.

Homelander, the most feared man in the world, leaning into her embrace like a child seeking comfort. His head tilted down, his lips brushing against her chest, as Madelyn's hand slid through his hair, cradling him in a way that was both possessive and nurturing.

"Shh," she whispered, her thoughts leaking through, a blend of dominance and maternal pride. "I'll take care of you, darling. You know I always do."

I felt his thoughts—his need to feel safe, to feel wanted by her. The tension in the room shifted into something darker, more intimate. Madelyn's breath hitched, her body language softening even further as she let him nuzzle closer, his lips finding her breast through the thin fabric of her blouse.

A slow, sickening realization crept over me. This wasn't just control. This wasn't just manipulation. There was a twisted dependency here, something deeply unhealthy and disturbingly intimate. Madelyn didn't just manage Homelander—she had him wrapped around her finger in ways I couldn't have imagined. And he—he needed her in a way that was both horrifying and pathetic.

My heart raced as I pulled back from their thoughts, disgust bubbling up in my throat. I stumbled back from the door, my mind reeling from what I had just uncovered. Homelander wasn't just loyal to Madelyn because of Vought. He was loyal to her because she had made herself indispensable to him, manipulating him at his most vulnerable, giving him the twisted affection he craved.

And now I knew.

I knew the depth of their bond, how far Madelyn was willing to go to keep Homelander under control. How far she'd go to protect her power at Vought.

I had to get out of there. Had to clear my head.

With one last glance at the closed door, I turned and hurried down the hallway, my footsteps echoing in the silence.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

I never thought that an image of something that was so natural would turned into something disturbing. I barely made it out of the hallway before my legs gave out. I leaned against the cold wall, the fluorescent lights above me buzzing faintly, casting sterile shadows across the corridor. My breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, and I could still feel Madelyn's twisted satisfaction in the back of my mind, a stain I couldn't wash away.

What was I supposed to do with this? I thought I knew what power looked like, but this? This was something else. Something insidious. Madelyn controlled Homelander in a way no one else could, and if I had learned anything from that disturbing scene, it was that her control wasn't something that was openly visible—it was subtle, invasive, like the roots of a plant that had wound themselves so deeply into the foundation that it couldn't be pulled free without collapsing everything around it.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. My hands were shaking, and I clenched them into fists, trying to steady myself. I felt sick. My mind kept replaying the scene I had just witnessed in Madelyn's office. The way Homelander, so invincible, so terrifying, had reduced himself to that. To her.

I had heard the stories about his fixation on her, but to see it with my own eyes—to feel it in the twisted intimacy of their exchange—it made my skin crawl. The way he looked at her, the way his expression shifted from dangerous to vulnerable as she allowed him to... feed. It wasn't maternal. It was something darker. A perversion of power, of control. And she reveled in it.

Madelyn wasn't just controlling Homelander through manipulation or clever words. She had turned herself into his weakness, something he needed, something he craved. And that made her more dangerous than I ever could have imagined.

I pressed my palms to my temples, trying to push the images from my mind, but they wouldn't go away. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her smug smile, the way her hand gently cradled his head as if she owned him, and maybe she did.

But what did that mean for the rest of us?

If Madelyn could control someone as powerful as Homelander like that, then what chance did I have? What chance did any of us have? I had spent so long trying to figure out how to navigate Vought's games, how to survive under their constant scrutiny, but I was only just beginning to realize the true depth of their manipulation. It wasn't just about contracts or public image or even power on a surface level. It was about the most fundamental human needs—affection, validation, control.

And now, I was trapped in it too. In a different way, maybe, but still trapped.

A sudden chill washed over me, and I shivered, rubbing my arms as if I could physically shake off the feeling of being watched, of being preyed upon. What if Homelander had known I was still in the building? What if Madelyn had wanted me to see that? The thought made my stomach turn.

I had to get out of here.

Forcing myself to stand, I pressed my hand to the cold wall for balance, steadying my breath. My mind raced, trying to find some way out, some way to regain control over my own life before I became another one of Madelyn's puppets. But deep down, I knew it wasn't going to be that simple.

Nothing with Vought ever was.

As I walked down the hallway, every step felt heavy, like I was walking through quicksand. My mind raced, trying to process what I had seen, what I had heard. The game was so much bigger than I had realized. And I was just a piece on the board, being moved by forces I barely understood.

I stopped by the elevator, hesitating. My instinct was to run—to get as far away from Vought, from Homelander, from all of this as I could. But there was no running from them. Not really. Vought had its claws in every corner of the world, every aspect of my life. And now that I had seen what I had seen, I knew too much.

I pressed the button, watching as the numbers slowly ticked down. My reflection stared back at me in the polished metal of the elevator doors—pale, shaken, small. I clenched my fists, the weight of everything pressing down on me.

I had a choice to make. I could either let this break me, let Vought continue to control me, to manipulate me. Or I could fight back. But how? How could I fight back against something so vast, so deeply entrenched?

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and I stepped inside, my heart pounding in my chest. As the doors closed behind me, sealing me in, I realized something—maybe I didn't have to fight them alone.

Maybe there were others out there who were just as trapped, just as desperate to break free. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to turn the tables. But I'd have to be smart. I'd have to be careful. And most importantly, I'd have to be willing to make sacrifices.

Because if there was one thing I had learned from watching Madelyn and Homelander, it was that power wasn't just about strength. It was about control. And if I could figure out how to take that control away from them—how to turn their own games against them—then maybe, just maybe, I had a chance.

The elevator doors slid open on the third floor, and I stepped out, my mind clearer than it had been in days. I wasn't out of the woods yet—not by a long shot.

But when I arrived at my door, my foot knocked into something heavy. Looking down, I noticed a cardboard box without a return address or a shipping label. My heart plummeted, a burst of anxiety hitting me right in the gut.

I didn't know why but my eyes darted towards my surroundings as if I was actually going to see someone standing there. I didn't. Of course, I didn't.

Sucking in a deep breath, I picked up the box. And nearly dropped it when I saw a smear of blood where the box was sitting. "No, no, no, no, no!" I shook my head. "I just want one normal Saturday morning, that's all I asked. Please don't let it be what I think it is."

My voice cracked as a drop of blood landed on my foot. Hands shaking, I set the box back down and just panicked. There was a drop of blood on my toe. I had blood on my hands before - both metaphorically and literally - and I had try to wipe them away. And now, there was blood on my hands again, but now my toes? I couldn't take this.

Before I could think about what I was doing, I tipped the lid off with my foot.

I froze, my heart slamming against my ribcage as the lid of the box fell open. Inside, the hands were arranged neatly, fingers spread out as if they were simply resting. They were pale, lifeless, and streaked with dark veins. The blood smeared across the box and onto my foot was unmistakable, and it took all my willpower not to stagger back or scream.

I thought of the text message from my stalker, saying they'll sent me a mail with the lieutenant's chopped hands inside. My breath came in quick, shallow bursts as I stared at the grotesque contents of the box. The reality of what I was seeing took a moment to sink in. The severed hands were unmistakable—a grim message from someone who had clearly taken pleasure in sending a brutal reminder of their power.

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I had no idea who could be behind this or what they wanted from me. But one thing was clear: the message was meant to intimidate, to scare me into submission.

Footsteps approached me and I turned my head to see Ashley walking towards me, her face a mask of concern quickly morphing into alarm as she noticed the box at my feet. Her eyes widened, and she stopped a few paces away, her expression shifting to one of both horror and determination.

"What the hell is that?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

I couldn't find the words. All I could do was stare at the hands, feeling a wave of nausea and terror wash over me. I took a shaky breath, trying to steady myself, but the sight of the severed hands kept pulling me back into the nightmare.

Ashley stepped closer, carefully avoiding the bloodstained area on the floor. "Is that... is that what I think it is?"

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. I felt like I was suffocating, trapped in this grotesque tableau of violence and intimidation. The blood had already begun to seep into the carpet, a stark, horrifying reminder of what was at stake.

Ashley's face paled as she took in the grotesque contents of the box, her hand rising to her mouth in shock. I could see her trembling, a mixture of horror and revulsion etched deeply into her features. The bloodstained carpet beneath us was already beginning to absorb the crimson streaks, further staining the scene with its brutal message.

"We need to get this reported," Ashley said, her voice finally breaking the silence. "This isn't just some sick prank. Whoever did this wants you—us—to know they mean business."

Her words barely registered. My mind was racing, unable to fully process the gravity of the situation. The severed hands seemed to pulse with a dark intent, as if they carried a message more sinister than the mere act of sending them. My breathing came in ragged bursts, the terror I felt trying to claw its way out of me.

"Who could have done this?" I finally managed to croak out, my voice barely audible.

Ashley stood up slowly, her gaze never leaving the box. "I don't know," she said, shaking her head. "But we need to get this to the authorities. And we need to make sure you're safe."

I nodded numbly, my hands still shaking as I stared at the horrific sight. The blood on my foot, on my hands—everything seemed surreal, as if I was trapped in a nightmare that wouldn't end.

Ashley pulled out her phone, her fingers moving swiftly as she dialed the police. "Stay calm. I'm going to call for help and have them send a team. We need to make sure this is handled properly."

As she spoke into the phone, I tried to focus on steadying my breathing, forcing myself to think clearly despite the chaotic swirl of fear and anger in my mind. This was no random act of violence. Whoever had done this knew exactly how to strike fear into me. They were sending a message, a warning. And it was one I couldn't ignore.

While Ashley spoke to the dispatcher, I took a step back from the box, trying to distance myself from the grotesque sight. The blood was already beginning to seep into the carpet, staining it with a dark reminder of the threat that loomed over me. I could already feel the weight of the implications pressing down on me. If they were willing to resort to something this extreme, then there was no telling what they were capable of next.

When Ashley hung up, she looked at me with a grim determination. "The police are on their way. We need to stay here until they arrive. I'll make sure they handle it."

I nodded, though the tension in my body remained unrelenting. I was grateful for Ashley's presence, for her calm amidst the chaos. But the reality of the situation gnawed at me. No matter how calm Ashley seemed, the truth was undeniable: someone had made a move, and it wasn't just a scare tactic. This was a declaration of war. They knew my weaknesses, my fears—and now, they were closing in.

I paced around the room, unable to stand still, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts. What if this was just the beginning? What if they had more in store for me? My stomach churned as I considered the possibilities, and the reality of my situation sank in even further. I wasn't just caught in a dangerous game—I was in the crosshairs of something far more terrifying.

The seconds felt like hours as we waited for the authorities to arrive. Ashley kept glancing at the door, her lips pursed in silent worry, though she tried to hide it. I could feel her anxiety radiating through the air, no matter how hard she tried to stay composed.

I crouched down, staring at the box again, the severed hands still frozen in place. The smell of coppery blood hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Whoever had done this had gone to great lengths to send their message in the most visceral way possible. But why? And more importantly, who?

I didn't have any immediate enemies—or so I had thought. My world had become a tangled web of lies, deception, and power plays. I was trapped in Vought's clutches, a pawn in their endless game. And now, someone out there had decided it was time to raise the stakes.

A sudden knock on the door jolted me from my thoughts, and I jumped, my heart pounding in my chest. Ashley moved quickly to open it, and a group of officers stepped in, their expressions immediately turning grim as they saw the scene before them.

One of them, a tall man with a serious face, stepped forward. "We received the call about a potential threat. Is this...?" His voice trailed off as his gaze landed on the box.

Ashley nodded, her voice steady. "Yes. The box was left outside her door. No return address, no markings, just... this."

The officer motioned to his colleagues, and they began taking pictures of the box, carefully examining the bloodstained carpet. I felt a strange disconnect as I watched them work, as though this wasn't really happening to me. But it was. And soon, the questions would come. Questions I might not have the answers to.

The officer turned to me. "Do you have any idea who could be responsible for this?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. My mind was still grappling with the horror of what had been sent to me. The weight of the lieutenant's severed hands felt like an anchor, dragging me deeper into this nightmare. I didn't know where to begin.

Ashley glanced at me, her eyes softening in understanding. "She's been under a lot of stress. We've had some... threats recently. But nothing like this." Her voice wavered slightly, betraying her own anxiety.

The officer nodded, his gaze steady. "We'll need to collect the evidence and take a statement. This is a serious escalation, and we'll have to treat it as such. We'll also want to increase your security detail."

I barely heard him. My thoughts were spinning. What would happen next? What kind of monster was capable of such a brutal message?

As the officers began packing up the box and gathering evidence, I felt a strange resolve start to settle in my chest. This couldn't continue. I couldn't let whoever was behind this push me into a corner. I couldn't let them win.

As Ashley and I stood in the aftermath of the chaos, I made a silent vow. Whoever had done this would regret underestimating me. I wasn't going to be a victim anymore.

[]

"This is a very serious matter," Homelander said to the rest of the Seven, his icy blue eyes scanning each of them in the dimly lit briefing room. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and I could feel the weight of his gaze, a predator's stare that dared anyone to speak out of turn.

Homelander stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, his cape gently swaying with each deliberate movement. His expression was calm, but beneath that placid surface, there was a storm brewing. "Lieutenant Derek Hayes was a valuable asset to Vought, and someone out there decided to make an example of him. This is an attack on all of us."

A-Train shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to avoid Homelander's piercing gaze. The Deep, seated next to him, nervously picked at his nails, clearly rattled. Even Black Noir, usually unreadable behind his mask, seemed tense, his posture rigid and alert.

Homelander continued, his voice dangerously smooth. "This wasn't just some random act of violence. This was a message. A challenge." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And I don't like being challenged."

I sat at the edge of the room, trying to remain invisible. After the discovery of Derek's severed hands, it became clear that I was now deeply entangled in something much larger than I ever anticipated. The police investigation was ongoing, but Vought had wasted no time in escalating the situation internally. And that meant involving the Seven.

Madelyn wasn't present in the room, but her influence lingered like a shadow over everything that happened here. She had likely sent Homelander in her place, and that alone spoke volumes about how seriously they were taking the threat.

"Whoever did this," Homelander continued, "they're not just after Vought. They're after us. Our reputations. Our power." He slammed a fist down on the table, causing A-Train to flinch. "And we're not going to let them get away with it."

Maeve, silent up until now, leaned forward. Her expression was hard, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—concern, maybe, or a rare moment of empathy. "We don't even know who's behind this yet," she said quietly. "Rushing in blind might make things worse."

Homelander's smile was thin, predatory. "That's why we're not rushing, Maeve. We're being... calculated." He turned, locking eyes with her. "But make no mistake. When we find out who's responsible, we're going to send them a message they'll never forget." 

Maeve's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. Homelander had made his point.

My stomach churned as I listened. Whoever was behind Derek's murder and the gruesome package they sent wasn't afraid of Vought—or the Seven. They had made their move boldly, knowing full well the consequences. But why? Why target Derek? And why send the message to me?

Homelander suddenly turned his attention toward me, his gaze like a dagger. "And you," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "You were the one who found the package, weren't you?"

My throat tightened. "Yes," I managed to say, trying to keep my voice steady. "It was left outside my door."

He took a step closer, and I could feel the room's temperature drop several degrees. "Why you?" he asked, his tone casual, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes drilled into mine. "Why would someone go through the trouble of sending you something like that?" 

"I don't know," I admitted, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down my back. "I don't have any enemies, at least none that would... do something like this."

Homelander's eyes flickered with something I couldn't quite place—amusement, maybe, or suspicion. "Everyone has enemies," he said softly. "Especially when you're mixed up in Vought's world."

I wanted to protest, to tell him I wasn't "mixed up" in anything. But I knew it wouldn't matter. In Homelander's eyes, everyone was a potential pawn in Vought's game.

"Whoever did this," he continued, "wants you scared. They want you to feel vulnerable." He smiled, a cruel twist of his lips. "But here's the thing. You're under our protection now. And no one messes with the Seven."

His words were meant to be reassuring, but all I felt was dread. Being under the "protection" of the Seven was like being under the protection of a lion who had already decided you were its next meal. And Homelander was the most dangerous of them all.

As the meeting continued, I found myself slipping further into my thoughts. There was no escaping this now. I was in too deep, and whoever had orchestrated this gruesome display wasn't finished. They had shown their hand, but I had no idea what their next move would be.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Homelander lingered behind, watching as the others filed out. Before I could slip away, he called out to me. "Stay for a moment."

My heart skipped a beat, and I turned slowly to face him. He stood at the head of the table, arms folded, his expression unreadable.

"I don't like loose ends," he said quietly, stepping closer. "And right now, you're a loose end."

I swallowed hard, trying to maintain eye contact. "I didn't ask for any of this."

Homelander tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Maybe not. But now you're part of it. And I don't have time for weaknesses." His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "So, if you want to survive this, you'd better prove you're not one."

The threat hung in the air between us, and I knew he wasn't just talking about the person who had sent the hands. He was talking about himself.

I nodded, my throat tight with fear. "I understand."

He smiled again, that cold, predatory smile. "Good."

As I left the room, the weight of his words settled on me like a heavy shroud. The message was clear: I was walking a very fine line, and one misstep could cost me everything.

And yet, as terrifying as Homelander was, he wasn't the only threat. Somewhere out there, the real enemy was still waiting, watching. And if I was going to survive, I'd have to figure out who they were before they made their next move.

Because if they could take down Derek, they could take down anyone.

I grinded my teeth, overwhelmed with frustration. I didn't want to live my life with constant eyes on me, watching my every movements and possibly using it against me. I didn't which one I should be concerned about: a company who wanted absolute control of everything in my daily lives, a Supe who wanted dominance over all, or a stalker who wanted to... I didn't know.

Hurt me?

Love me?

Either way, I didn't want either of this.

The tension was becoming unbearable, suffocating me with every breath. I wanted out of this game, this twisted labyrinth of power, control, and violence. But there was no easy escape, no door I could quietly slip through. Everywhere I turned, Vought, Homelander, and this faceless stalker seemed to be closing in on me, tightening the noose around my neck.

I needed to figure out who had sent those severed hands, and why. Derek's death was more than a warning; it was a statement. Whoever was behind this wasn't just targeting me—they were targeting everything I represented, everything Vought represented. But the question kept gnawing at me: what did I represent that was worth this kind of message?

I couldn't stop replaying Homelander's words in my mind, like a cruel echo I couldn't shake. "If you want to survive this, you'd better prove you're not a weakness." His idea of protection was twisted—more a leash around my neck than a shield.

Pacing my room that night, I tried to make sense of it all. The Seven had enemies, yes. Vought had even more. But whoever was behind this wasn't playing by the usual rules. This wasn't just a power move. This was personal.

My phone buzzed, startling me out of my thoughts. I snatched it up, expecting another cryptic message from my stalker, but it was a blocked number.

I hesitated before answering. "Hello?"

There was silence on the other end for a moment, then a low, distorted voice. "They're watching you, little star. Be careful who you trust."

My blood ran cold. "Who is this?"

The voice didn't answer my question. Instead, it said, "The hands were just a warning. What comes next depends on you." Then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone, my heart pounding in my chest. Be careful who you trust. That message could apply to anyone—Homelander, Madelyn, Ashley, or even the faceless person tormenting me.

I sat down, trying to control my breathing, to think logically. Whoever had sent the message wasn't finished with me. They were playing a game, and I was the pawn being moved around without understanding the rules. But maybe that was the key—maybe I could flip the board and change the game.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. There had to be someone out there, someone who wasn't tangled in Vought's web, someone who could help me. If I kept playing by their rules, I was as good as dead.

My thoughts turned to Anne. Out of everyone in the Seven, she seemed the most human—the most disillusioned by all of this. Maybe she knew something, maybe she could help. But the risk of trusting her wasn't lost on me. Could I really rely on her, or was that exactly what this voice was warning me against?

I didn't have time to hesitate. My enemies were already circling. I had to make a move.

Grabbing my phone, I typed out a quick message to Anne - I had changed the contact name from STARLIGHT to ANNE - my fingers trembling slightly.

ME: We need to talk. Privately. It's important.

I hit send, my heart still racing. I didn't know if she'd respond, and I didn't know if I could trust her. But right now, she was my best shot.

The night stretched on, oppressive in its silence. Every creak in the apartment felt like a threat, every shadow a reminder that I was never truly alone anymore. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to ward off the chill creeping up my spine.

My phone buzzed again. The reply was brief.

ANNE: Midnight. Parking garage. Come alone.

I stared at the message for a long moment, the weight of it settling over me. This could be a trap, but at this point, what choice did I have?

I grabbed my jacket and made my way to the door, pausing briefly to look back at my apartment. There was no turning back now. I was going deeper into the darkness, and there was no telling what I'd find on the other side.

But one thing was clear: I wasn't going to be a pawn anymore. 

I was going to figure out who was pulling the strings—and I was going to cut those strings before they strangled me.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

The last time I stayed up at night was back at Chamberlain on prom night. That was a different kind of sleeplessness, though—a buzzing in my veins, anticipation wrapped in nerves. I'd spent hours practicing how to look normal, how to blend in, how to wear the mask they all expected me to wear. But by the time the night was over, everything had changed.

Tonight, the weight pressing down on my chest wasn't anticipation; it was dread. And fear.

I stared at my phone, waiting for a message that hadn't come. Not from Homelander, not from Vought, and not from whoever had sent the hands. The silence was maddening. Ashley had left a few hours ago after the police had taken my statement, her face tight with worry. She'd offered to stay, but I'd told her to go, convinced I needed space to think. Now I wasn't so sure.

I hadn't even touched the tea she made me before she left.

The room felt too quiet, too still. Every creak of the floorboards, every hum of the radiator made my nerves jangle. I was back in that place again, feeling small, feeling like prey. I'd promised myself I wouldn't let this break me, but I could feel the edges of my resolve fraying.

A sharp knock at the door jolted me out of my thoughts. My heart leapt into my throat. For a second, I thought it was another box, another grim delivery from the stalker, but then I heard a familiar voice.

"It's me, Carrie," Anne called out. Her voice was soft, but even through the door, I could sense the tension underneath. "Can I come in?"

Relief washed over me as I scrambled to my feet, crossing the room to let her in. As soon as the door opened, Anne stepped inside, her face pale and drawn, her eyes scanning the room like she was expecting something—or someone—else to be lurking there.

"Anne," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She looked me over with a quick, assessing glance before stepping inside and closing the door behind her. Her movements were careful, deliberate, like she didn't want to disturb the oppressive silence that had settled in the room. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken fears.

"Carrie," she said softly, her tone gentle but firm. "We need to talk."

I nodded, too exhausted to resist. I motioned to the couch, where the untouched cup of tea still sat on the table. Anne hesitated for a moment, then sat down, her posture stiff. I followed her lead, sinking back into the cushions. It was like gravity was pulling me down, forcing me deeper into the couch, deeper into the weight of everything I couldn't control.

For a few moments, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched, taut and fragile, like it could shatter with a single word. I stared at my hands, feeling Anne's eyes on me, waiting for me to speak. But I didn't know what to say. How could I explain what was happening to me when I didn't even understand it myself?

Finally, Anne broke the silence.

"I heard about the... package," she said carefully, her voice measured. "The police didn't give me all the details, but I know enough. I'm so sorry, Carrie. I can't imagine how terrifying that must have been."

I nodded, my throat tightening. Terrifying didn't even begin to cover it. The severed hands, the blood—someone out there knew my past, knew exactly what would break me, and they were using it against me. The memory of that night at Ewen High—the screams, the blood, the chaos—flooded my mind, and I forced myself to push it down, to lock it away.

Anne leaned forward, her brow furrowed with concern. "Carrie, I know you're scared. I would be, too. But we need to figure out who's doing this, and why."

"Why me?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "Why now? I haven't done anything... I haven't hurt anyone..."

Anne's face softened, and she reached out, taking my hand in hers. Her grip was steady, reassuring. "You haven't done anything wrong, Carrie. This isn't your fault. Whoever's behind this—they're the ones who are sick, twisted. They're trying to break you because they see you as a threat."

"A threat?" I shook my head, my chest tightening. "I'm not a threat to anyone, Anne. I just want to live. I just want to survive."

Anne squeezed my hand gently, her eyes full of a quiet, unwavering resolve. "I know that. But the world... it doesn't see you that way. You're different, Carrie, and people fear what they don't understand. They see your power, and it terrifies them. Especially people like Vought."

I stiffened at the mention of Vought. The corporation that had shaped so much of my life over the past few years, the place where I had tried to find some semblance of belonging, of purpose. But the deeper I got into their world, the more I realized how shallow and toxic it really was.

"Vought," I muttered bitterly. "I thought maybe they were behind it at first, but this... this feels different. It feels personal."

Anne nodded, her expression grim. "It could be. But whether it's Vought or someone else, we can't afford to sit around and wait for the next move. We have to be proactive. We have to figure out who's doing this, before they escalate."

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words. Escalate. As if the severed hands weren't enough.

Anne leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing in thought. "I've never asked about your past. Maybe we could start there."

My stomach tightened, my arms wrapped around me. "What do you want to know?" I managed to ask.

"Like, what's your childhood like? School? Life in general?"

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, I wasn't sure if I could answer it. My chest tightened at the thought of peeling back the layers of my past, exposing the raw, ugly parts I had buried deep inside. I had spent so long trying to forget it all—trying to forget her. 

Anne watched me, patient but firm. She wasn't going to let this go. She wanted to understand, to help. But how could I put any of it into words?

"My childhood," I began slowly, my voice trembling. "It wasn't... normal."

I stared at the floor, my thoughts swimming back to the small, suffocating house where I had grown up. The dark curtains that blocked out the world, the crucifixes on every wall, and the icy fear that had wrapped around my heart like a vice every time I heard my mother's footsteps on the stairs.

"My mom," I said, my voice almost a whisper. "She wasn't like other moms. She was... strict. But not in the normal way. She saw everything as sinful, like the world was full of evil waiting to drag me down. And she was convinced that I was... different. That I had to be controlled."

I felt Anne's gaze on me, her silence urging me to continue.

"She thought my powers were the devil's work," I went on, my words spilling out now, faster and more disjointed. "She tried to hide me from the world. She tried to fix me. There were nights—" I stopped, my throat closing up at the memory of those nights, of the way my mother would lock me in the closet, the way she'd pray over me, her voice trembling with fear and anger. "She thought I was cursed. And I guess in some ways, I believed her."

Anne's hand squeezed mine, a silent anchor pulling me back from the storm of memories.

"You were just a child," she said softly. "None of that was your fault."

I nodded, though the guilt still clung to me like a second skin. "It wasn't just her, though. At school... I was a freak. I didn't fit in. I tried to, but it didn't matter. They hated me." My voice cracked, the old wounds still fresh despite the years that had passed. "They tortured me, Anne. The pranks, the bullying, the way they'd laugh behind my back. And the worst part was that I believed them. I believed that I deserved it."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back, unwilling to let them fall. I had cried too much already, given too much of my power away. Not anymore.

"I tried to be normal," I continued, my voice hardening. "I tried to blend in, to make them like me. But it didn't matter. It never mattered."

"And prom night?" Anne asked gently, already knowing where the story was heading but letting me take my time.

I felt my stomach turn at the memory of that night—the night everything had changed. The blood, the screams, the fire.

"They humiliated me," I said, my voice cold. "I thought... I thought it was finally going to be different. That night, for the first time, I thought I might actually belong. But it was a trick. A joke. They poured pig's blood on me in front of everyone. And I snapped."

I paused, feeling the weight of my next words. "I killed them, Anne. I didn't mean to, but I did. Everyone in that gym—dead. Because of me."

The room fell into a heavy silence. Anne didn't pull away or flinch, but her grip tightened on my hand. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, steady and unwavering, as if she could absorb the pain and guilt I carried.

"Carrie," she began carefully, her voice soft but firm. "What happened that night wasn't your fault. They pushed you to the edge, and you were just a kid. A scared, hurt kid. No one should have gone through what you went through. They made you feel like a monster, but you're not."

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her so badly. But the memories of that night still haunted me, the faces of the people I had killed flashing through my mind. They had deserved my anger, my rage. But not like that.

"What if I am a monster?" I whispered. "What if this... this is who I am? What if I can't control it?"

Anne's hand tightened around mine, her eyes fierce. "You are not a monster, Carrie. You've been through hell, and you've survived. You're strong. But the people who did this to you—they wanted to break you, to make you believe you were something evil. You're not. You're a survivor."

I nodded, though doubt still gnawed at me. "And what if this person—whoever sent the hands—knows? What if they're trying to push me, trying to make me snap again?"

Anne's expression darkened. "That's exactly what they're trying to do. But we're not going to let them. Whoever's behind this, they think they can scare you into losing control, but you're stronger than they realize. We're going to figure out who's doing this, Carrie, and we're going to stop them. You're not alone in this."

The weight of her words settled over me, a strange mix of comfort and fear. I wasn't alone. But that meant someone else was being dragged into this nightmare with me, and I wasn't sure I could live with that.

"How do we find them?" I asked quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Anne leaned back slightly, her brow furrowing in thought. "We start by looking at who would have access to your past. This... person, whoever they are, knows a lot about you. They know about your powers, about what happened at Chamberlain. That means they've either been watching you for a long time or they have inside information. Either way, that narrows the list."

I swallowed, the idea of someone watching me—tracking me—sending a shiver down my spine. "Do you think it's Vought?"

Anne's face tightened. "It's possible. Vought has access to all kinds of information, and they're not above using it to manipulate people. But if it is them, they're being more subtle than usual. This feels... personal, like someone has a grudge."

"A grudge?" I echoed, the word making my stomach churn.

"Yeah," Anne said, her voice dark. "Someone who hates you enough to try to scare you into submission. Or worse."

I shook my head, the thought too horrifying to fully process. "But who? I haven't done anything to anyone—"

"You survived," Anne said bluntly. "Sometimes that's enough."

I stared at her, the reality of what she was saying slowly sinking in. Whoever this person was, they didn't just want to hurt me. They wanted to destroy me, to drag me back into the darkness I had fought so hard to escape.

"We'll find them," Anne said again, her voice full of quiet determination. "But you have to trust me, Carrie. We'll get through this. Together."

I nodded, the words sticking in my throat. I wasn't sure if I could trust anyone—not after everything I had been through. But as I looked into Anne's eyes, I felt something shift. A small flicker of hope, buried deep beneath the layers of fear and pain.

Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't alone anymore.

"Okay," I whispered. "Together."

Anne gave me a firm nod, her eyes steady and reassuring, but I could still sense the undercurrent of fear that ran through both of us. She was being strong for my sake, but I knew that the weight of this situation—the severed hands, the haunting reminders of my past—was pressing down on her, too.

"Tomorrow," she said, breaking the silence, "we'll start with a list. Anyone who's had access to your file, anyone who might know about Chamberlain. If it's someone inside Vought, we'll find out. If it's someone from the outside... well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

I wanted to believe her, to believe that this was something we could solve, but the gnawing dread in my chest wouldn't let me. I nodded mechanically, as though agreeing would help. It didn't.

Anne leaned forward, clasping her hands together, her voice softening. "You should get some rest, Carrie. You've been through too much today."

Rest. The word felt foreign. How could I sleep when I knew someone was watching, when I could feel their eyes on me even now? But Anne's concern was genuine, and I didn't have the energy to argue.

"I'll try," I said, though we both knew it was a lie.

Anne stood up, and I followed her to the door. She paused, her hand resting on the knob, and the sound of a buzz came from my pocket. I immediately took my phone out of my pocket and it lightened with a message that made my heart dropped.

UNKNOWN: I can help you with this. Cause no one has the right to hurt my little star.

My heart froze as I stared at the message, my blood running cold. The words on the screen blurred for a moment before snapping back into sharp focus.

My little star.

There was no mistaking it. This was from him—the stalker, the one who had sent the severed hands, the one who had been tormenting me from the shadows. The message sent a wave of nausea crashing through me, and I felt my stomach lurch.

Anne noticed the change in my expression instantly. "Carrie? What is it?" she asked, her voice tense with concern.

I couldn't speak, couldn't find the words to describe the sickening fear that was clawing at my insides. Instead, I handed her the phone, my hand trembling as I did. She took it from me, her eyes narrowing as she read the message.

Her face hardened, a look of disgust crossing her features. "Carrie! Why didn't you say anything about this?"

My voice faltered as I tried to answer. How could I explain the fear that had paralyzed me, the creeping dread that made me think saying anything would only make it worse?

"I... I didn't know what to do," I stammered, my heart still racing. "It started small. Weird messages. A feeling that someone was watching. But this... it's different. It's more real now. I thought it might stop, or that I could handle it on my own."

Anne stared at me for a moment, her brow furrowing as she processed my words. Then, without warning, her face softened, and she gently handed me back the phone.

"You should have told me, Carrie," she said, her voice low but urgent. "This isn't something you can face alone. He's escalating, and the fact that he sent this now, after everything that's happened tonight... it means he's getting closer."

I swallowed hard, the implications of her words hitting me like a punch to the gut. Closer. The thought of this person—this faceless figure who seemed to know everything about me—lurking nearby, watching my every move, made my skin crawl.

"What does he mean, 'no one has the right to hurt my little star'?" Anne asked, her voice laced with disgust. Then, as if a light had switch on in her head, she stared at me wide eyes. "Was that the fan who left you a sunflower at your door?"

My stomach churned as the pieces started to fall into place. I hadn't thought much about the sunflower at the time, just another creepy gesture from a stranger—one of many over the years. As someone with a public image, unwanted attention was part of the deal. But now, with the stalker's message in front of me, the memory of that bright, innocent-looking flower at my doorstep took on a darker meaning.

The sunflower had been left after a string of those unnerving messages first started. At the time, I convinced myself it was harmless—just an overzealous fan. But now? Now it seemed like a breadcrumb, a clue in the twisted game this person was playing.

I shook my head, my throat dry. "I—I didn't connect it at the time. It was just a flower. I thought it was weird but harmless."

Anne cursed under her breath, her hand running through her hair in frustration. "It's never harmless, Carrie. People like this—people who obsess—they never stop at small things. They escalate. You've seen that. The flower, the messages, and now the hands... it's a pattern.

The room seemed to shrink around me as her words sank in. I felt trapped, suffocated by the walls and the constant feeling of being watched. The sunflower, the severed hands, the gruesome reminders of my past... it was like he was drawing me into a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

"He's obsessed," Anne continued, her voice grim. "He sees you as something more than human. His 'little star'? That's how he talks about you, Carrie. Like you're something precious, something he wants to protect. But that's not protection. It's ownership."

I couldn't breathe. The air felt thick and oppressive, like it was closing in on me. "I thought I could handle it," I whispered, more to myself than to Anne. "I thought maybe if I ignored it, he'd lose interest."

"People like him don't lose interest," Anne replied, her tone unwavering. "They sink their claws in and hold on tighter."

"Much like Vought," I muttered and felt my stomach began to flutter when I thought of the stalker. "Yet, I felt that this is different."

"Carrie, you can't be serious, right?" Anne folded her arms.

I couldn't explain the strange sensation that began to stir inside me. The more I thought about the stalker's message, the more I felt like something about it was... familiar. Not in a comforting way, but in a way that tugged at the recesses of my mind, like a thread waiting to be pulled. There was something more to this—something I wasn't seeing yet.

"I know it sounds crazy, but... it doesn't feel the same as Vought," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Anne was staring at me like she couldn't believe what she was hearing, but I had to push forward, had to try to articulate this bizarre instinct gnawing at me. "Vought uses control, manipulation. But this person... they've been watching me. They know me. It's like they've been waiting for the right moment."

Anne sighed heavily, unfolding her arms. "Carrie, I get that you're trying to make sense of this, but you can't rationalize the behavior of someone who's clearly dangerous. This isn't some game or puzzle to figure out—it's a threat, and it needs to be stopped. You've already been through enough. You can't let this person get into your head any more than they already have."

"I'm not letting them in," I replied quickly, a little too defensively. "I just—" I paused, trying to collect my thoughts. "I need to understand it. If I can figure out why they're doing this, maybe I can stop it. Or at least see what they want."

"What they want?" Anne's voice rose, incredulous. "They want to control you, Carrie. They want to make you feel powerless, scared, just like before. That's what stalkers do. They prey on your fear."

I knew she was right. Everything she said made sense. But something still felt off. I glanced back down at the phone, reading the message again. No one has the right to hurt my little star. The words echoed in my mind, strange and unnerving, but also... protective. Possessive, yes, but almost as though the stalker believed they were the only one who could truly understand me.

And that was what scared me the most. Because in a twisted way, it felt like they might understand a part of me that I had tried to bury.

I clenched the phone tightly in my hand. "What if they don't just want control? What if they think they're saving me?"

Anne's face fell into a deep frown. She walked closer, her voice softer now, more cautious. "Saving you from what?"

I bit my lip, suddenly feeling exposed. "From Vought. From the people who used me. From... from everyone."

Anne's eyes widened. "Carrie, you can't seriously be—"

"I'm not saying they're right!" I interrupted, frustration bubbling up inside me. "I know they're dangerous. I know they're doing this to scare me. But what if they think they're helping? What if this whole thing is about more than just obsession? What if it's about them wanting to be the one to... I don't know, rescue me from something?"

Anne stared at me, her mouth slightly open, clearly at a loss for words. I could see the wheels turning in her head, trying to figure out how to respond. After a long moment, she finally shook her head, stepping back.

"Carrie," she said slowly, "I think you're giving this person too much credit. Even if they think they're trying to save you, that doesn't make them any less dangerous. You can't start empathizing with them. That's exactly what they want. It's how they reel you in."

I looked away, ashamed. "I know. I just... I feel like I need to understand it, or else I'll never feel safe."

Anne sighed again, rubbing her temples. "I get that. I really do. But right now, you need to focus on protecting yourself, not trying to understand the twisted logic of someone who's clearly unstable. We need to take this to the police again. We need to let them know about the messages, and about the sunflower. We can't just sit around and wait for the next move."

I nodded, even though a part of me felt resistant to the idea of involving the police again. What could they really do? They hadn't been able to stop the hands from being delivered. They hadn't been able to protect me so far. And besides, something deep inside me whispered that this was personal, that no one else could stop it but me.

Anne seemed to sense my hesitation, her eyes softening. "Let's get back. Just promise me that you'll tell the police about it."

"I promise," I replied as we left the warehouse.

[]

I didn't go to the police the following morning. Instead, I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, staring at the message again. Every word seemed to pulse with an eerie sense of familiarity, as if it wasn't just some random stalker on the other side of the screen but someone who had been deeply entwined with my life for longer than I realized. My mind kept circling back to the sunflower, the severed hands, and the message—how everything seemed to fit together in some grotesque puzzle.

I tossed the phone onto the bed and stood up, pacing the room. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows on the floor. I couldn't shake the sensation of being watched, as if the eyes that had followed me through the night were still there, lingering just out of sight.

What did this person want? The question buzzed in my mind like an incessant fly. If it was control, if it was fear, they'd already succeeded. But what if it was something else? What if Anne was right, and I was giving them too much credit? What if this was just another sick individual, trying to manipulate me into feeling something—anything—for them?

The thought made me shudder. Yet, despite everything, I couldn't stop thinking about the possibility that there was more to it. Something deeper.

A knock at the door startled me. My heart leapt into my throat, and I froze, staring at the door. For a moment, I thought about ignoring it, letting whoever was on the other side go away. But the knock came again, more insistent this time.

I approached the door cautiously, every step feeling heavier than the last. When I peeked through the peephole, relief washed over me. It was Ashley.

I opened the door to find her standing there, her expression a mix of concern and determination. "Hey," she said softly, stepping inside when I motioned for her to come in.

"Hey," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "What brings you here?"

Ashley looked around the room, her gaze taking in the disarray, the tension that hung heavy in the air. "I wanted to check in, make sure you're okay."

I nodded, trying to muster a smile, though it felt more like a grimace, while still playing Vought's game. "I'm getting by. Any plans for today?"

Ashley's eyes narrowed slightly as she took in my forced cheerfulness. "Actually, I was thinking about heading out to run some errands, but I wanted to see if you needed anything first. You've been through a lot."

I shrugged, trying to downplay my unease. "I'm okay. Just trying to process everything."

"Okay," Ashley let out a sigh before taking out her notes. "So, Supernova..."

And there it was. Supernova. Of course. I should have known she wasn't just here to check on me out of concern. Vought never missed a chance to remind me of the persona they'd crafted for me. The one I was supposed to inhabit without question, without hesitation. The one they expected me to be, even when everything in my world was unraveling.

I clenched my fists, forcing a smile onto my face. "Right. Back to work from all the chaos. What's the latest?"

Ashley flipped through her notes, her usual sharpness on display, even though she tried to act more relaxed around me. "We've got a press junket lined up for next week. The talking points are being drafted, but I'll send them over once they're ready. Also, we need to go over the charity event next month—Vought wants you front and center for that one. It's a big deal."

I nodded, only half-listening as she rattled off the details. My mind kept drifting back to the message. The words *my little star* echoed in my head, entwined with the persona Vought had crafted. Supernova, the shining star. The heroine with a dazzling smile, perfect in every way, always in control. But that wasn't me. It never had been.

Ashley must have noticed my distraction, because she hesitated, her gaze softening. "Hey... you don't have to pretend with me. I know things are rough right now. We can push back on some of these events if you need time."

I blinked, surprised by the offer. It wasn't like Vought to give me an out. But I knew it wasn't real—not really. If I didn't show up, they'd find another way to make me. They always did.

"No, it's fine," I said, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. "I'll be there. Whatever you need."

Ashley watched me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "You don't have to be Supernova all the time, you know. It's okay to be Carrie. To ask for help."

I laughed, though it came out bitter. "Carrie doesn't really exist anymore. Not in the way you think."

Ashley flinched slightly at my words, but she quickly masked it, tucking her notes away and standing up. "Well, if you change your mind, just let me know. I'll make sure everything's ready for the press junket. Take care of yourself, okay?"

I nodded again, not trusting myself to say anything more. As the door clicked shut behind her, the room felt even emptier than before.

The weight of the message, the stalker, Vought—it was all pressing down on me, suffocating me in ways I couldn't even explain. I glanced at the phone on the bed again, the screen still dark, but the message burned into my memory.

Maybe Anne was right. Maybe I was giving this person too much credit, letting them get inside my head. But deep down, I knew there was more to this than just obsession. There was something lurking beneath the surface, something I couldn't shake.

And I had to figure out what it was. Before it destroyed me.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

The day dragged on with an unsettling slowness. I barely registered the hours passing as I moved from task to task, my mind always returning to that chilling message and the haunting feeling of being watched. Despite the press of various commitments—meetings, interviews, and planning sessions—my heart wasn't in any of it. Each interaction felt like a performance, a carefully constructed facade that hid the turmoil roiling beneath the surface.

The press junket Ashley mentioned was the first major event on my radar. Despite the weight of the morning's events, I forced myself to attend, showing up at the swanky venue with the same polished smile and unwavering confidence that had become second nature. The cameras flashed, the microphones were thrust in front of me, and I spoke the lines expected of Supernova with practiced ease. Yet, each question, each flash of a camera, felt like a further intrusion into a life that was rapidly falling apart.

By the time the event wrapped up, I was exhausted—not from the physical demands but from the emotional strain. My mind was a fractured mess, unable to focus on anything but the looming threat. I felt like I was constantly on edge, expecting at any moment for someone to reveal themselves as the face behind the message, the stalker who knew too much.

Back at my apartment, I tried to unwind, but the usual comforts felt hollow. The TV played softly in the background, but I couldn't focus on it. The images and sounds were just white noise to the chaos in my head. I sank onto the couch, running a hand through my hair, my thoughts racing through every possible scenario.

I needed answers. I needed to confront the situation head-on rather than retreating into the false comfort of Vought's high-profile engagements. But where to start? Who could I trust in a world where everyone had an agenda and where every shadow seemed to hold a threat?

An idea began to form—a plan to investigate the stalker myself. It wasn't the most rational decision, but it was the only one that gave me a sense of control. I couldn't go to the police; I couldn't even trust the people closest to me. If there was a deeper connection, if this was more than just some random obsession, then I needed to find out for myself.

I retrieved the phone from the bed and stared at the message again, dissecting every word. It was the sunflower, the hands, the sense of knowing—it all pointed to something personal. But what?

Just as frustration began to set in, my phone buzzed with a new message.

UNKNOWN: Did you enjoy the press junket? You looked... distracted.

I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. My pulse quickened as I stared at the words, trying to process the implications. Whoever this was, they had been watching me—today. They were close enough to see me at the event, to notice the tension I had tried so hard to conceal beneath the smiles and rehearsed answers.

I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest. My apartment suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in. Every noise—the hum of the fridge, the faint sound of traffic outside—felt amplified, like the world was conspiring to keep me on edge.

A new message arrived, just as I was about to block the number.

UNKNOWN: Don't bother. Blocking me won't help. I'll always find you.

I swore under my breath, gripping the phone tighter, the tension now boiling over into anger. My mind raced with questions. Who was this? What did they want? How long had they been following me?

The worst part was the overwhelming feeling of vulnerability—like someone had peeled back the layers of my life, exposing my every secret, my every weakness.

Another message came through.

UNKNOWN: You really should have taken my advice, Carrie. Stop pretending you're in control.

That name again. Carrie. It wasn't a name I had shared with anyone—not in this world, not in this life. Whoever this was, they knew more than I wanted to believe.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, my mind racing as I tried to regain some semblance of control. I couldn't let fear consume me, couldn't let this anonymous tormentor win. If they knew me, then I could figure out who they were.

I typed back quickly, my fingers shaking slightly as I tried to keep my message cold and detached.

ME: What do you want?

The response was immediate.

UNKNOWN: To show you who you really are.

My hands trembled. The cryptic nature of the reply only heightened the dread crawling under my skin. They were playing with me, enjoying my discomfort. I had to keep them talking, had to get something I could use to figure out who they were. I couldn't let them see my fear.

ME: You think this is some kind of game?

UNKNOWN: It's not a game, Carrie. That's Vought's thing. You'll understand soon enough.

I stared at the last message, my mind spiraling into dark possibilities. Vought's thing. The mention of them sent a new surge of unease through me. Was this someone on the inside? Someone with access to the company's secrets, or worse—my secrets? I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just some obsessive fan, but something deeper, more calculated.

I needed air. My apartment felt like a prison, suffocating and claustrophobic. Grabbing my jacket, I slipped out the door, locking it behind me, and hurried down the stairs to the street. The cool night air hit my face, but it did little to calm the storm inside me. I stuck my hands in my pockets and started walking, no destination in mind, just needing to move.

The city lights blurred around me as I tried to think. Vought had enemies, sure—plenty of people would love to see the Seven fall. But this felt different. Whoever it was knew things about me—about Carrie, a version of me I had buried long ago. How could they have known? And what was their endgame?

I found myself at a park, empty at this time of night, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pathways. I sat on a bench, staring at the skyline, feeling more alone than I ever had before. The life I had built, the fame, the power—it felt hollow now, easily penetrable by this faceless threat.

My phone buzzed again. I knew I shouldn't look, but I couldn't stop myself.

UNKNOWN: Are you out for a walk, Carrie? It's a little late, don't you think?

My breath hitched. I shot up from the bench, scanning the area around me. My eyes darted between the trees, the empty paths, the flickering streetlights. No one was there, or at least no one I could see. But they were watching. Somehow, they were always watching.

ME: Who are you?

My fingers hovered over the screen, but I hesitated before sending it. What was the point? They weren't going to tell me anything straight. They were feeding off my fear, enjoying the control they had over me.

I deleted the message, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Whoever this was, they wanted me on edge, paranoid. I couldn't give them the satisfaction. I was Supernova, dammit—I had faced down terrorists, fought off supervillains. I wasn't going to let some coward hiding behind a phone break me.

I started walking again, faster this time, keeping my head down, trying to get lost in the rhythm of my steps. I needed a plan. I couldn't do this alone, not with my judgment clouded by fear. But who could I trust?

Vought? No. That was a dead end. I knew the second I took this to them, they'd spin it, make it into something they could control, and I'd be right back where I started—another pawn in their PR game.

Ashley? She was loyal, but she was too embedded in Vought's system. She'd report anything I said to the higher-ups, even if she thought she was helping.

As I mulled over my options, my phone buzzed again.

UNKNOWN: You're getting warmer, Carrie. But you're still not seeing the full picture.

The message sent another surge of frustration and fear through me. Warmer? What was I supposed to be seeing? Every step I took seemed to lead me deeper into a labyrinth of shadows, with no clear way out.

I stopped walking and glanced around. The park was empty, its dark corners more ominous than ever. The few streetlights did little to dispel the darkness pressing in from all sides. I was alone—or at least I hoped I was.

Forcing myself to breathe slowly, I considered my options. Whoever this was, they knew too much. Not just about me, but about Vought. They wanted me to figure something out. They were toying with me, dangling cryptic clues and watching me flounder, but maybe I could turn it around.

I made my decision. I wasn't going to run, wasn't going to let this stalker play me. If they wanted to reveal something, fine. But I wasn't going to sit here and let them control the narrative.

My phone buzzed again, and I glanced at the screen. Another message.

UNKNOWN: You're so close. I could practically smell your perfume.

My heart raced as I stared at the screen. They were here. Somewhere nearby. Watching me, close enough to smell the faint vanilla notes of my perfume. The thought made my skin crawl. My instincts screamed at me to run, to get as far away from this park as possible, but I forced myself to stand still. If I panicked now, they'd win. I couldn't let them push me over the edge.

Slowly, I scanned the area around me. The park was empty, as far as I could see, but darkness clung to the edges where the streetlights didn't reach. It felt like something was lurking just out of sight, hidden in the black voids between the trees, in the shadows stretching along the pathway. Every gust of wind that rustled the leaves sounded like footsteps, every faint flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye made my pulse spike.

I had to take control of the situation before it unraveled further. I couldn't let this unknown figure continue to have the upper hand. If they were close enough to smell my perfume, then I could draw them out. I wouldn't run. I would confront them.

I took a deep breath, focusing on the surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. Be strong. Be Supernova, I reminded myself. I typed back a message, my fingers steady even though my heart pounded in my chest.

ME: If you're so close, why not show yourself?

There was a long pause this time, as if they were contemplating my challenge. The seconds ticked by, and my nerves tightened, the anticipation unbearable. But I didn't waver. I stayed rooted to the spot, ignoring the primal fear gnawing at my gut.

Finally, the phone buzzed in my hand.

UNKNOWN: Is my little star missing me?

ME: Like I missed the sound of an exploding bomb. Who are you? What do you want from me?

UNKNOWN: I just want to keep you safe, nothing more.

The reply was maddeningly cryptic. Safe? The mere idea seemed ironic and infuriating. The more this person spoke, the less they made sense. I needed clarity, not riddles, and my patience was wearing thin.

I typed back, trying to keep my anger in check.

ME: Safe from what?

The response came quickly, as if they were waiting for just such a question.

UNKNOWN: I think you already know the answer to that.

The response was infuriatingly vague, pushing me to the brink of frustration. Whoever this was clearly thrived on ambiguity and torment. I clenched my phone tightly, fighting the urge to hurl it into the darkness.

I needed a break from the relentless back-and-forth. I needed to think clearly, away from the suffocating atmosphere of the park. I began walking again, this time with purpose, heading towards a nearby diner that was open 24 hours. The constant buzzing of my phone and the oppressive silence of the park had left me feeling isolated and desperate for some semblance of normalcy.

The diner was a small, unassuming place with neon lights flickering weakly. As I pushed through the door, the comforting chime of the bell and the warm glow of the interior were almost therapeutic. I slid into a booth by the window, hoping the familiarity of the environment would help clear my mind.

I glanced around as I settled in. The diner was mostly empty, save for a couple of late-night patrons and the waitress, who looked tired but welcoming. I ordered a coffee and a slice of pie, hoping that a bit of caffeine and sugar might help me focus.

As I waited for my order, I took out my phone again, hoping that there would be a message with some semblance of clarity. The screen lit up with a new notification.

UNKNOWN: The real question is, why do you think you're unsafe? Isn't it more about what you're hiding?

My stomach twisted at the insinuation. Hiding? What could I possibly be hiding that would prompt such obsession? I couldn't fathom how this person knew so much or what they were truly after. The sense of being cornered was overwhelming.

The waitress arrived with my coffee and pie, and I tried to force a smile of thanks. I sipped the coffee, hoping the caffeine would sharpen my thoughts. As the diner's warm, artificial light enveloped me, I felt a brief respite from the paranoia and fear. For a moment, I could almost believe that everything was normal.

I needed to think. What was this person trying to tell me? They had mentioned Vought, something about me being in control, and now this cryptic remark about hiding. The pieces were scattered, but they seemed to fit together into something sinister.

Taking a deep breath, I decided to try a different approach. If the stalker wanted to play games, I would use their own tactics against them. I would play along, but with a plan to extract some useful information.

ME: If you really want to keep me safe, then stop playing games and tell me what's going on.

I sipped my coffee, waiting for a response, my nerves taut with anticipation. As I looked out the window, the city was a blur of lights and shadows, a reflection of the chaos inside my head.

UNKNOWN: I see you're trying to be logical. It's a good approach, but the answers you seek aren't found in reason alone. Sometimes, you need to confront the truth, even when it's uncomfortable.

The message did little to alleviate my anxiety. It seemed that every answer I sought only led to more questions. I just texted back at them.

ME: Look, Homelander and Vought have been giving me Hell for a while now and what you did to Hayes only made this worse.

The moment I hit send, I felt a mix of relief and trepidation. I had taken a gamble, directly confronting the stalker with a raw, honest glimpse into my struggles. The answer would reveal if my approach had struck a nerve or if it had been a pointless revelation. I needed something—anything—that would help me navigate this labyrinth of terror and manipulation.

As I took another bite of pie, the phone buzzed. The message arrived swiftly, a jarring interruption to the small comfort I had found in the diner's ambiance.

UNKNOWN: It seems you're already more aware than I anticipated. But be careful, Carrie. The truth you're avoiding is more dangerous than you know.

My frustration flared. This constant dance around direct answers was exhausting. I felt a surge of anger, but I also recognized that I needed to maintain composure. If this person was trying to push me into a corner, then I needed to be smart about it.

ME: If you're not going to tell me what you want, then I don't have time for your games. I have other ways of dealing with threats.

The reply came almost immediately, as though they were waiting for just such a declaration.

UNKNOWN: Threats? Oh, Carrie, you misunderstood. I'm not a threat. I'm a messenger. The danger is already here, and it's not me.

I leaned back in the booth, the words reverberating in my mind. A messenger. Not a threat. The insinuation made my skin crawl. If they weren't the threat, then who was? And what exactly was the message they were trying to deliver?

I glanced around the diner, noting the sparse activity and the comforting hum of conversation. For now, the world outside was still and silent. But the dread gnawing at me felt like a heavy cloak, dragging me into a void of uncertainty.

My phone buzzed again, and I braced myself for yet another cryptic revelation.

UNKNOWN: You've faced monsters before, Carrie. This is no different. The only difference is that now, the monster knows your name.

My pulse quickened. The reference to monsters was too close to home. My past, the darkness of Vought's manipulations—it all seemed to converge into a single, terrifying realization. The stalker was right; this was different. They were delving into the very core of my fears and insecurities.

I needed to refocus, to ground myself in something concrete. I needed a strategy that went beyond emotional responses. If the stalker was a messenger, then I needed to decipher the message and figure out how to address the real threat.

I finished my pie and coffee, leaving a tip on the table. My next step was clear: I needed to investigate further. There had to be something or someone that connected these vague threats to a tangible danger. I had to dig deeper into my past, my secrets, and Vought's involvement.

As I left the diner and stepped into the cool night air, the city's lights flickered like distant stars, indifferent to my plight. My phone buzzed once more, and I almost didn't look. But curiosity and necessity drove me to check.

ME: Can I at least know your name? Since you already know mine.

UNKNOWN: You're trusting me already? Bit risky. I like risky.

The message made me stop in my tracks. I stood on the sidewalk, the cool breeze brushing against my face, as I tried to process the latest taunt. The notion of this faceless tormentor reveling in my anxiety was both infuriating and unsettling. My phone buzzed again, dragging me from my thoughts.

UNKNOWN: But if you must know, it's Leo. Like the star sign.

Leo. The name lingered in my mind, a new piece in the puzzle. The message felt like a taunt, as if revealing their name was part of the psychological game they were playing. The mention of a star sign—Leo—seemed almost fitting, given their penchant for dramatic reveals.

I stood on the sidewalk, my thoughts racing. Leo. It wasn't a name I recognized, and I didn't know anyone by that name. So why would this Leo even stalked me or even tried to keep me 'safe'?

The name "Leo" reverberated in my thoughts as I walked through the quiet city streets. The mention of a star sign, Leo, suggested a personality—brash, confident, perhaps even egotistical. But beyond that, it was just a name, and it didn't help me understand who this person was or what they wanted.

I needed to focus. My immediate goal was to find out what they knew and why they were targeting me. The answers lay not just in their messages but in my own history and connections.

By the time I went back to my Vought room, I was so exhausted that I couldn't be bothered changing my clothes and my body fell on my bed.

[]

The darkness was alive.

I couldn't see anything, but I could feel it closing in around me. I was floating in an endless void, cold, weightless, and utterly alone. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, echoing back at me as if the darkness was breathing too. My heart pounded in my chest, but every beat felt more distant, like I was slipping away from myself. The silence pressed against my ears, suffocating in its weight.

Then, a sound—heavy, deliberate footsteps—broke through the silence.

I froze. Every muscle in my body locked in place, as though the darkness itself was holding me still. My mind screamed at me to run, to fight, but it was useless. The fear was too thick, too overwhelming, like it was sinking into my skin, my bones.

And then, he stepped into view.

Homelander. His presence cut through the void like a predator descending on prey, the sickeningly confident smile plastered across his face. His blue eyes gleamed like cold steel, pinning me in place. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. It was as if his very existence swallowed up all the air around me.

"I always knew you were special, Carrie," he whispered, his voice like honey laced with poison. "But you still don't understand what that means, do you?"

I couldn't answer, couldn't force a single word from my throat. My limbs felt like lead, pinned by his gaze, by the unbearable weight of his presence. And then, without warning, his hand was on me. Cold. Cruel. His fingers brushed my skin with a touch that was both invasive and commanding, like he owned every inch of me.

I jerked back, but the void held me tight. There was nowhere to go.

"You could be so much more," he said, his lips curling into a smirk. "You just need someone to show you."

His grip tightened. The panic rose inside me, threatening to tear me apart. I struggled to pull away, to scream, but the darkness around me was like quicksand, dragging me down deeper into the nightmare. My skin burned where his touch lingered, as if it was sucking the life out of me, devouring everything I was. I could feel his breath on my neck, the stench of his power, his desire to dominate everything, everyone.

Terror surged through me, an animalistic scream building in my chest, but it wouldn't come out. The darkness was swallowing me whole, and he was there, smiling, feeding off my fear, his touch growing rougher, more forceful.

I was drowning.

I couldn't breathe, couldn't fight, couldn't—

Suddenly, something changed.

A new presence, like a pulse through the void. The darkness around us trembled, as if something else was watching. And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it. A shadow, darker than the void itself, creeping along the edge of my vision. It moved like smoke, shifting and twisting, taking shape.

Homelander's grip faltered for just a second. His smirk flickered, his attention snapping away from me, and he turned his head toward the approaching shadow.

"What the hell is this?" he growled.

The shadow surged forward, and I felt something shift. A sudden jolt of energy rushed through me, and the crushing weight around me lifted, just for a moment. The darkness around Homelander recoiled as the shadow closed in, faster now, more deliberate. It moved with an unnatural grace, coiling around him like a living entity.

Homelander's smugness evaporated, replaced by a flicker of confusion—then rage. "You think you can stop me?" he snarled, his grip tightening on me again.

But the shadow wasn't stopping. It was relentless, wrapping around him, cutting through the darkness like a blade. There was a force behind it, something cold, something powerful. Homelander's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, I saw a crack in his arrogance.

He tried to fight it off, his free hand swiping through the air, but the shadow was too fast. It twisted around his arm, prying him off me with an invisible force. The pressure on my body vanished, and I gasped, stumbling back, free of his hold.

The shadow... it was protecting me.

Homelander cursed under his breath, his face contorting with fury. He lashed out again, but the shadow struck faster, knocking him back with a force that seemed to ripple through the air. He staggered, his expression twisting into something ugly. "This isn't over, Carrie," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "You can't hide from me forever."

But the shadow surged forward again, forcing him to retreat further into the void. With one final snarl, Homelander's figure dissolved into the darkness, leaving me standing alone, shaking, the weight of his presence finally gone.

I collapsed to the ground, my knees buckling beneath me. My hands trembled as I pressed them to my chest, feeling the rapid thud of my heartbeat. I was alive. I was still here. But the terror lingered, clinging to my skin like a cold sweat.

I looked up, searching for my savior. The shadow loomed before me, its form shifting, indistinct. I couldn't make out a face, but there was something familiar about it. Something that made me feel... safe.

It didn't speak. It didn't need to. Slowly, it extended what looked like a hand—dark, ethereal, yet solid enough to reach for me. I hesitated, still shaking, but I reached out, my fingers brushing against the shadow. It was cold, but not unkind.

The moment our hands touched, a surge of calm washed over me, soothing the raw edges of my fear. The darkness around us began to lift, the void fading into something softer, lighter. The shadow lingered for a moment longer, its form flickering in the dim light that now surrounded me.

And then, just as silently as it had appeared, it vanished, leaving me alone in the dim, fading glow.

My eyes suddenly opened, heart hammering in my chest, my breath ragged and shallow. I was no longer in the void but lying in my bed, drenched in cold sweat. The moonlight filtered through the thin curtains of my room, casting long shadows across the walls. For a moment, I couldn't shake the feeling that the darkness was still alive, lurking just beyond my vision.

The dream—or whatever it had been—clung to me, vivid and relentless. I could still feel Homelander's touch, the suffocating pressure of his presence. The memory of it made my skin crawl, like I had been marked somehow. Violated.

I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. It had felt so real, too real. Even now, my fingers tingled from the coldness of that shadow's touch.

The shadow.

It had saved me.

I couldn't explain it—hell, I couldn't even fully understand it—but something in that nightmare had protected me from him. It wasn't just a figment of my mind. It had felt real. As real as Homelander's smug, cruel grip on my soul. As real as the cold terror that had sunk deep into my bones.

I shivered, wrapping the blanket tighter around myself. The room was too quiet, the air too still. It felt as though the darkness was still watching, waiting for a moment to pounce.

My body trembled as I tried to sort through the dream, to make sense of the terrifying, surreal experience. It wasn't just a nightmare. It felt like something more, something deeper, almost like a warning. I couldn't shake the feeling that Homelander wasn't done with me. He wouldn't stop. Not until he had me completely under his control.

The thought made my stomach turn.

I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't let it.

But how was I supposed to fight someone like him? Homelander, with his godlike power, his arrogance that drowned everything around him in fear. No one could stand up to him—at least, that's what everyone thought. And for a moment in that dark void, I'd believed it too.

Until the shadow came.

I rubbed my arms, trying to dispel the lingering coldness that clung to me. My mind raced, thoughts swirling, unable to settle on one thing. That shadow—it had protected me. It had felt familiar, like it knew me.

I glanced at the far corner of my room, where the shadows gathered the thickest. I half-expected it to be there, watching me, waiting to strike or save me again. But there was nothing. Just darkness, motionless and still.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 | 𝐋𝐄𝐎

She knew my name now. 

I did say I like risky, but even I knew it was somewhat reckless. Watching her from the shadows, I felt a twinge of something I wasn't used to. Not guilt—no, that was long dead and buried—but something like responsibility. Carrie was vulnerable, broken in ways she didn't even fully grasp. She had power, but power without control was a danger to everyone, especially herself.

And now, she knew my name.

And there was Homelander. That bastard was getting more unhinged by the day, and if he got his claws into her, there would be no stopping the chaos.

I stayed in the darkness, watching her bedroom window from a safe distance, my back pressed against the rough bark of a tree. The night air was cool and quiet, but there was a charge to it. Like a storm building just beyond the horizon. She was inside, probably still shaken from what had happened. I'd seen it all.

"Oi, you plannin' on brooding all night, son ?" A voice broke through the silence, rough and dripping with impatience.

Butcher—my dad, walked over toward me, my ears picking up his footsteps. He wasn't really one for father-son moments. Still, he had that way of creeping up behind people, lurking in the background until he decided to make his move. Stealth wasn't his strength, but intimidation? He had that down.

I glanced over my shoulder. Butcher was standing there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his long coat, that ever-present smirk pulling at his lips. He always looked like he knew something you didn't, like he was three steps ahead of everyone else. Most of the time, he was. Frenchie and Kimiko were just behind him, Frenchie leaning against a tree, Kimiko perched like a silent shadow. Hughie was hanging back, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, clearly not wanting to be here.

"Relax, I'm just watching," I muttered, my eyes flicking back toward Carrie's window. "She's been through enough."

"Yeah, well, haven't we all," Butcher said, his smirk fading. He walked up next to me, his gaze following mine to the window. "But that doesn't mean she gets a free pass. Homelander's already sniffin' around, which means she's a liability now."

Butcher's gaze was fixed on Carrie's window, his expression a mask of cold determination. He took a deep breath, his shoulders stiffening with a mix of weariness and resolve.

"Look, Leo," he started, his voice uncharacteristically somber, "there's somethin' I need to tell you. It's about your mum, Becca."

I turned to face him fully, my own expression mirroring his seriousness. "What about her?" I asked, my voice tight with apprehension.

Butcher's gaze was distant, his eyes clouded with a memory that clearly haunted him. "Eight years ago, Becca was workin' at Vought. Senior Director of Digital Marketing, remember? We were invited to a Christmas party at Vought Tower. I didn't like it, but she insisted on goin'. Said it was important for her career."

I nodded, the memory of that event a distant echo from my childhood. It was one of those occasions where I'd been left with my mom's sister Rachel — even though I was a teenager — so Mom and Butcher would go off to some fancy corporate shindig.

Butcher's face darkened, the weight of his words settling heavily between us. "At that party, I met Homelander for the first time. He was charming, and everyone was in awe of him. But I knew even then that something was off about him. A few days after the party, Becca had a private meeting with him. I didn't know what was happening until it was too late."

His voice cracked slightly as he continued, "Becca came home after that meeting, and she was different. She was distant, her eyes haunted. I tried to get her to open up, but she kept shutting me out. I couldn't understand it then. All I knew was that she was falling apart and I couldn't reach her."

He looked away, unable to meet my gaze. "And then she disappeared. At first, I thought she'd killed herself. I didn't want to believe it, but I couldn't think of any other reason for her to leave us. I blamed myself, thinking I'd missed the signs, that I wasn't there for her when she needed me."

Butcher's fists clenched at his sides. "It wasn't until recently that I learned the truth. Grace Mallory, one of the few people I trust, she came to me with a video. It showed Becca entering a room with Homelander and then leaving, clearly distressed. That's when I realized—Homelander did this to her. He raped her, and then he made sure she was never found."

I stared at him, the enormity of his revelation sinking in. "So, what happened after that? How did you end up joining Grace's team?"

Butcher's expression hardened, his eyes filled with a fierce resolve. "When I saw that video, I felt a rage I'd never known before. I realized not only had Homelander ruined Becca's life, but he had also manipulated and controlled everything from behind the scenes. I felt like a damn fool for not seeing it sooner. I was responsible for her death or disappearance. It was clear that if we were going to stop him, if we were going to make him pay, I needed to fight back."

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Grace offered me a chance to join her team, to take down Homelander and Vought. I agreed without hesitation. I couldn't let what happened to Becca go unpunished. And now, we're all in this together. It's about getting justice for her, for us, and for everyone else who's been hurt by Vought."

I looked at Butcher, seeing the depth of his pain and his determination. It was clear that this mission wasn't just about vengeance—it was about redemption. "So what do we do now?" I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.

Butcher's gaze met mine, filled with a fierce, unyielding resolve. "Now, we stay vigilant. We keep pushing forward, finding every crack in Homelander's facade and exploiting it. You keep doing what you do and keep an eye on your little star."

The moment Butcher said "little star," my heart did a strange flip. I clenched my jaw, refusing to let him see the shift in my expression. But he had already caught it, the faint smirk tugging at his lips again, just like he always did when he knew he'd hit a nerve.

Carrie was different. I didn't know why, but I felt this strange pull to her, like I had to protect her. She was tough, sure, but it was clear she didn't fully grasp the danger she was in—not just from Homelander, but from the world she was being dragged into. The world I was already neck-deep in.

Butcher's voice cut through my thoughts. "She's your responsibility now, Leo. Whether you like it or not. You gotta keep her away from Homelander, or it'll be Becca all over again. You're the only thing standin' between her and a life ruined by that prick."

My chest tightened at the mention of my mom again. But he was right. If I let Homelander get close to Carrie, I'd lose her the way he lost Mom.

I turned back to the window, watching the faint silhouette of her moving around inside her room. She was fragile, despite the front she tried to put on. A force of power that was unrefined, unpredictable.

"I'll take care of her," I said quietly.

Butcher nodded, satisfied with my answer, but his gaze lingered on me for a moment longer. "Don't make the same mistake I did, son. Don't let her go without a fight."

I felt a knot form in my throat, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't have a retort. I didn't have a sarcastic comment or a tough guy act to fall back on. I just stared at Carrie's window, feeling the weight of what he was really saying.

This wasn't just about vengeance anymore. It wasn't just about stopping Homelander. It was about protecting the people we still had. And maybe, in some twisted way, Butcher was giving me a second chance to do what he couldn't with Becca.

I turned back to him, trying to push through the tightness in my chest. "And if Homelander does get to her? What then?"

Butcher's smirk faded, replaced by something darker, colder. "Then you kill him. No hesitation."

I blinked, surprised by the bluntness of his words, but I shouldn't have been. This was Butcher, after all. There was no room for compromise when it came to Homelander.

"You think it'll be that simple?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Butcher snorted. "Nothin' about takin' him down is simple. But that's why we've got Grace's team, why we've got you, me, Frenchie, Kimiko, Hughie. We're buildin' somethin' bigger, stronger. You can feel it, can't ya? The pressure's mountin', Leo. He's losin' his grip, and when he slips, we'll be there to make sure it's permanent."

I looked over at Frenchie and Kimiko, who were still lingering in the shadows, silent but ever-watchful. Hughie shifted uncomfortably in the background, not really part of the conversation but listening closely nonetheless.

I sighed, pushing off from the tree and shoving my hands in my pockets. "Yeah, I can feel it. It's comin', isn't it?"

Butcher stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. "Like a bloody storm. And when it hits, you'll want to make sure your little star's tucked away safe."

I didn't respond, just gave him a curt nod. There was nothing left to say. He'd laid it all out, and now it was on me to make sure I didn't let it fall apart. I'd protect Carrie—my little star—even if it meant going against everything and everyone.

Butcher gave me one last hard look before he turned away, signaling for the others to follow him. "Come on, let's leave the boy to his babysitting. We've got business to take care of."

I stayed where I was, rooted to the spot, watching as they disappeared into the night. My gaze flicked back to Carrie's window, the faint glow from her bedside lamp casting a soft light on the figure of her curled up on the bed.

She was asleep now, or at least trying to be, unaware of the storm looming just beyond her window.

I sighed again, the weight of it all pressing down on me like never before. But there was no turning back. I'd made my choice.

"Hang tight, little star," I whispered under my breath. "I've got you."

And with that, I turned away from her window, slipping back into the shadows where I could keep watch.

[]

A few days had passed since that night, and things were quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Carrie had gone back to her routine, or at least tried to. Her Supernova persona twenty-four bloody seven. But something was off. Her spark wasn't there, and it didn't take a genius to know why.

I followed her to Voughtland, a theme park based on Vought International's so called superheroes filled with tacky rides, overpriced food, and of course, a ridiculous amount of propaganda. Carrie had been scheduled to make an appearance, another attempt by Vought to push her as their next big star. The media loved her—a rising heroine with a tragic backstory—but I could see through the gloss they'd slathered over her pain.

She was there to officially opened the newest and possibly the most tackiest ride of them all — The Supernova Experience —a nauseatingly saccharine rollercoaster themed around her powers. Giant neon stars flashed and flickered as families and fans gathered around for the grand reveal. The marketing was over the top, with kids holding balloons shaped like her logo, adults snapping pictures, and, of course, the Vought execs mingling with their fake smiles plastered on.

I stayed out of sight, blending into the crowd, watching her every move. She was dressed in her Supernova costume, the perfect picture of a "hero," but I could see it—her smile was a mask. She was playing the role they wanted her to play, and it was killing her inside.

A sleek, black SUV pulled up near the stage, and Ashley Barrett, Vought's PR puppet, hopped out with her clipboard in hand, practically vibrating with nervous energy. She beelined toward Carrie, chirping orders into an earpiece, her overly enthusiastic smile directed at the press. Carrie barely acknowledged her, standing stiff and distant.

My gaze shifted beyond the crowd, my instincts kicking in. Something was wrong. I couldn't shake the feeling that today wasn't going to end well. Voughtland was too public, too exposed. Homelander liked grand gestures, and this—this was a stage set perfectly for him.

The crowd grew louder as Carrie approached the ribbon tied in front of the ride. She hesitated, gripping the scissors a bit too tightly, her knuckles white under the pressure. The cameras zoomed in, capturing every second of her discomfort.

Suddenly, the sky darkened, a sharp gust of wind tearing through the park. I tensed, knowing that eerie calm could only mean one thing.

And there he was—descending from the clouds like the twisted god he believed himself to be.

Homelander.

The crowd erupted in excitement, completely oblivious to the danger that had just landed in their midst. He smiled, that all-too-familiar grin that didn't reach his eyes, his cape fluttering behind him like some grotesque parody of a hero.

Carrie froze, her eyes locking onto him, fear flashing across her face for just a moment before she shoved it back down. She wasn't ready for this. Hell, none of us were.

I moved closer, weaving through the sea of people, my heart pounding in my chest. If he got too close, if he tried anything, I'd be ready.

"Supernova," Homelander said, his voice dripping with false charm as he landed gracefully on the stage beside her. "Looking radiant as ever. Quite the event you've got here."

Carrie forced a smile, the tension radiating off her in waves. "Thanks," she said through clenched teeth. "Didn't expect you to show up."

"Well, you know how I am," he replied, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I like to support the new generation of heroes. Especially one as... promising as you."

He stepped closer, too close, and I saw Carrie's hand twitch, her powers flickering just beneath the surface. She was trying to hold it together, but Homelander was pushing all the wrong buttons. I was almost to the stage now, my hands clenched into fists, every muscle in my body ready to spring into action.

Homelander leaned in, his voice low, meant only for her. "You know, you remind me of someone."

Carrie's breath hitched, her mask cracking just a bit. "Who?"

Homelander's grin widened, his eyes cold and predatory. "A woman I met a long time ago. Strong, independent... but fragile in the end. Just like you."

That was it. I saw the spark in Carrie's eyes flare up, her control slipping. Her pupils enlarged, briefly concealing her irises for a short moment.

"Back off," she hissed, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear, but Homelander's smile only grew wider.

Before I could reach them, before I could stop whatever was about to happen, a voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Leo."

I turned sharply. Butcher. Dad.

He was standing just behind me, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a calculated calm. His presence, somehow both reassuring and unsettling, brought me back to the present. I had been so focused on Carrie, on Homelander, that I hadn't even noticed him approach. Butcher wasn't one to miss the show when it mattered, and he had that gleam in his eye—like he already knew how this was going to play out.

"Easy, son," he murmured, his voice low but firm. "Now's not the time."

I clenched my fists tighter, torn between the need to protect Carrie and the urge to follow Butcher's lead. Homelander was still standing too close to her, his hand lingering near her shoulder, but his expression was all show for the cameras. The media was eating it up, flashing their bulbs, capturing the perfect image of the "mentor" and the rising star. None of them could see the power simmering just below the surface, the storm about to break.

"Here, you'll need this."

He handed me a small, sleek earpiece along with a photo of Carrie in her Supernova costume and a pen. I raised an eyebrow, but Butcher's face stayed serious.

"Just play along," Butcher muttered under his breath. "Trust me."

Reluctantly, I took the pen, pretending to jot something down while discreetly slipping the earpiece into my ear. The hum of white noise filled my head for a moment, followed by a voice I recognized—Frenchie.

"Leo, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," I whispered, keeping my eyes on Carrie and Homelander. "What's the plan?"

"You'll pretend to be a fan," Frenchie's voice came through. "And the earpiece will record any conversations."

I glanced at Butcher, who gave me a small nod, urging me to trust the plan. It was insane—pretending to be a fan in the middle of a public event, with Homelander right there, looming like a goddamn ticking bomb. But I had no choice. If Frenchie and the team had something up their sleeve, it was worth the gamble.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward, trying to blend in with the crowd that had gathered around the stage, the fans cheering and waving at Carrie and Homelander like this was some sort of grand spectacle. In a way, it was. But none of them knew the stakes. None of them knew what was really happening.

Homelander's gaze flickered over the crowd as if he owned every soul in that park. His smile, fake and chilling, never faltered. Carrie, though—her mask was slipping. I could see the strain in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders as Homelander leaned even closer, his voice low and private, still pressing her.

"Don't let him get in your head," I whispered under my breath, though she couldn't hear me from where I stood.

Butcher had melted into the crowd behind me, his presence now a shadow. He was always watching, always calculating. I felt the weight of his gaze on my back, reminding me that this was my moment to step up.

I pushed through the throng of people, making my way toward the stage. When I reached the front, I raised my hand, the photo of Carrie clutched in my grip.

"Supernova!" I shouted, trying to sound eager, a stupid grin plastered on my face. It felt wrong, every part of it, but I had to sell it. "Can I get an autograph?"

Homelander's head snapped toward me, his eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second. Did he recognize me? My heart hammered in my chest, but I didn't flinch, holding the photo out toward Carrie. I could feel the crowd parting behind me, the tension in the air shifting as all eyes landed on me, this random "fan" interrupting their moment.

Carrie blinked, thrown off for just a moment before she plastered on that fake smile again, the one she'd been wearing all day. She turned toward me, and for a split second, our eyes met. I hoped she'd see it—the warning in my gaze, the reassurance that I had her back, even in this mess.

"Of course," she said, her voice a little too bright, too forced. She reached for the pen, her fingers brushing against mine as she took it, and for that brief second, I could feel the tremor in her hand. She was holding it together by a thread.

Homelander's eyes were still on me, cold and calculating. "Quite the dedicated fan you've got there, Supernova," he said, his voice dripping with mock amusement. "What's your name, kid?"

"Leo," I said, forcing a grin. "Big fan of Supernova. She's... uh, she's the best."

Homelander's smile twitched. "Isn't she just?" He turned his gaze back to Carrie, but the way he said it felt more like a threat than a compliment. "Say, um... just curious, what's your last name?"

I swallowed hard, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. Homelander's gaze was a pressure all its own, and it felt like he was peeling away my skin, layer by layer, trying to see through whatever lie I'd constructed. I couldn't give him my real name—not with Butcher and the others watching, not with Carrie this close to snapping under his presence.

"Uh, McCall," I blurted, keeping my grin plastered on. "Leo McCall."

Homelander's eyes narrowed just a fraction, his smile sharp like a blade. "McCall, huh? Interesting." His tone was light, casual even, but I could feel the weight of his suspicion. He was dangerous because of moments like these—how he could make an innocuous question feel like a noose tightening around your neck. But he didn't push it, at least not yet.

Carrie handed me back the signed photo, her fingers brushing mine once again, and I could feel the electricity beneath her skin. She was barely holding on, the weight of Homelander's presence crushing her spirit in real-time. I had to get her out of here before she lost control.

"Thanks, Supernova," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I took a step back, my eyes flicking to Homelander's, knowing I couldn't show weakness. Not here. Not now.

Homelander's smile lingered, but there was nothing warm about it. "Pleasure meeting you, Leo McCall," he said slowly, drawing out my fake last name in a way that made my blood run cold.

I gave him a quick nod, turning away before I could give him any more reasons to pry. As I walked back into the crowd, I could feel his eyes on my back, like two pinpoints of fire burning holes through me.

Butcher's voice crackled in my earpiece. "Good job, son. Now get the hell out of there before he gets too curious."

I didn't need to be told twice. Moving as fast as I could without drawing attention, I slipped deeper into the crowd, my pulse hammering in my ears. I could feel the tension winding tighter around me, the sense that the game had just shifted—Homelander was sniffing around, and it was only a matter of time before he caught the scent of something bigger.

Carrie stayed on the stage, maintaining that stiff, forced smile for the cameras, but I could see the strain in her eyes. She was hanging by a thread, and I had no idea how much longer she could keep it together.

Butcher's voice came through the earpiece again, quieter this time. "You did good. But don't kid yourself, Leo. This was just a taste. He's got his eyes on you now."

I clenched my jaw, slipping into the shadows of the park as the crowd continued to cheer for their favorite "heroes." I knew Butcher was right. Homelander wasn't done with us. Not by a long shot. And if I didn't watch my step, he'd tear through our plans—and through Carrie—before we even had a chance to fight back.

The storm wasn't coming anymore.

It was already here.

[]

CARRIE: That was you at Voughtland, right? My "dedicated fan"?

I stared at the message on my phone, Carrie's words flashing across the screen. I didn't expect her to respond to me hours afterward. I quickly typed out a response, trying to keep it casual.

ME Yeah, that was me. Thought I'd drop by and show some support. You okay?

Seconds felt like minutes as I waited for her reply. I could only imagine what she was going through—Homelander's presence at the event had been unsettling, and I had a feeling that whatever happened next was going to be bigger than any of us could anticipate.

Her response came faster than I expected.

CARRIE: Support? Are you actually kidding me, right? After what you put me through over the last month?! 

Sound like she still hadn't forgiven me for Hayes' hands in the box. 

I sighed, running my fingers through my hair. This was going to be rough. I knew Carrie had every right to be angry, to not trust me after everything that happened. But I wasn't doing this for thanks or forgiveness. I was doing it because we were in deep, and no one else was going to look out for her the way I could.

ME: Look, I know things have been messed up. But I didn't have a choice with Hayes. I'm trying to keep you safe, Carrie.

I hit send, then immediately regretted it. Safe? In this world, that was a laughable concept. Especially with Homelander circling us like a shark. But what else could I say? That I was sorry? That I wished things were different? Words wouldn't mean a damn thing right now.

CARRIE: Safe? You think being a puppet for Vought is safe? Homelander breathing down my neck every second? You made me a target, Leo!

Her response hit hard, but it wasn't like I hadn't expected it. She was scared, and she had every reason to be. But she didn't know what I knew, what Butcher knew. There were bigger forces at play, and if we didn't stay ahead of it, we'd all be dead.

ME: I know. And that's something I regret everyday. At least you know I keep my words. 

CARRIE: Words? You think words matter now? You dragged me into this, Leo. You handed me over to them, and now I'm stuck playing their little game. Every time I close my eyes, I hear Homelander's voice in my head. Do you even get that? Do you even care?

Her reply cut deeper than I wanted to admit. She was right to be angry. I couldn't shake the guilt. I thought about everything that had led us here—the decisions, the sacrifices, the moments where I chose the mission over her. But in this world, that was the price of survival. It didn't make it right, but it was reality.

ME: I do care, Carrie. I care more than you know. But you're not the only one trapped. We all are. And the only way out of this is to keep pushing forward.

I waited again, staring at the screen, hoping for something that would suggest a crack in her anger, something that would tell me she understood why I did what I did. But her silence stretched longer than I expected.

Carrie wasn't wrong. None of this was fair to her. She was just another pawn in Vought's endless game, a rising star they could mold and exploit. But she was also stronger than she realized, and that's why Homelander had his eye on her. He sensed her potential. He wanted to break her down before she could ever rise up.

But she wasn't alone. She had me, Butcher, the team—though I wasn't sure that was much of a comfort right now.

Finally, my phone buzzed again.

CARRIE: You say I'm not alone, but it sure as hell feels like it. Everyone keeps using me, Leo. Vought, Homelander, and now you. What's the point of any of this if I'm just another weapon?

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. She felt like a tool, something to be used and discarded. But that wasn't what she was to me. I knew I couldn't fix what had been done, but I could damn well try to make sure she didn't fall apart because of it.

ME: You're not a weapon, Carrie. You're more than that. Vought, Homelander—they don't control you, not really. They can't take your power from you unless you let them.

I paused, thinking of what to say next. How could I make her see that she was still in control, even if it didn't feel that way? How could I show her that I wasn't just another person in her life using her for my own gain?

ME: I know it feels like there's no way out. But there is. You just have to trust me.

There it was. A simple request that carried so much weight. Trust. Something I had broken more than once with her, but something I needed now more than ever if we were going to survive this.

Carrie didn't respond right away, and I didn't push. I knew I had to give her space, let her process everything in her own time. But the clock was ticking, and Homelander's interest in her wasn't going to fade. If anything, it was going to get worse.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket, glancing around the dimly lit motel room I had holed up in for the night. Butcher had gone dark for the moment, probably making plans with the rest of the team. We didn't have much time before things escalated. If we didn't move soon, Vought would tighten their grip on Carrie, and Homelander would start circling closer.

And if he found out what we were really up to, if he realized we were trying to pull Carrie out from under Vought's control...

Well, that would be the end for all of us.

As I stood by the window, staring out into the night, the phone buzzed again.

CARRIE: Trust you? You've got a funny way of showing it, Leo. But fine. I'll give you one more chance. You screw me over again, and we're done. For good.

I exhaled a breath I didn't realize I was holding. It wasn't forgiveness, but it was something. A lifeline. One last shot to set things right.

ME: I won't let you down.

I meant it. No more mistakes. No more setbacks. This time, I was going to get it right, no matter what it took.

Because if we were going to take down Vought, if we were going to survive Homelander's wrath, we had to stick together.

And this time, I wasn't going to let her face it alone.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

I threw my phone onto the bed, the screen dimming before it bounced off the edge and hit the floor with a soft thud. My hand lingered in the air for a second, my fingers still curled from the force. Trust? What a joke.

I felt the weight of it all pressing down harder than before. Leo's words rang in my head, each one a sharp reminder that no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't get out of this mess alone. He was asking me to trust him, and part of me still wanted to. But after everything—after being turned into a puppet for Vought, paraded around as their next big thing while Homelander hovered like a vulture—it felt impossible.

I sank down on the edge of the bed, my thoughts spiraling, the walls of my hotel room closing in on me. Outside, I could hear the distant sound of traffic and the occasional honk of a horn. Life carried on out there. People went about their business, completely unaware of the hell I was trapped in. And I envied them. I envied every single person who could walk down the street without feeling like a loaded gun pointed at their head.

I stood up and started pacing the room, trying to shake the anxiety crawling up my spine. My powers simmered just beneath the surface, begging for release, but I kept them locked down. Couldn't afford another slip. Not now. Not when every move I made was being watched, scrutinized.

Leo was right about one thing—I wasn't in control. Not anymore. The moment I signed that contract with Vought, I'd signed away my life. My name, my face, my entire existence belonged to them now. Homelander reminded me of that every time he looked at me, his eyes drilling into me like he was already imagining how he'd break me when the time came.

I stopped by the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peer out. The city lights blurred in the distance, and I wondered how many of them were like me—lost in a web they couldn't escape. People who got sucked into Vought's machine, chewed up, and spit out.

The thought made my chest tighten. I wasn't going to be one of them. I couldn't. Not after everything I'd been through to survive.

A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts, and I tensed immediately. No one was supposed to know I was here. I was just another ghost hiding in the cracks of the city, trying to avoid Vought's watchful eyes for a few hours of peace. But the knock came again, more insistent this time.

I crossed the room in a few quick strides, my heart pounding. Reaching the door, I pressed my ear against it, straining to hear anything. A shuffle of feet. A breath. Someone was definitely there.

"Who is it?" I called out, my voice sharp, ready to defend myself if I had to.

There was a brief pause, then a voice I hadn't expected.

"It's Maeve."

My breath caught. Maeve? What the hell was she doing here?

I hesitated for a second longer before unlocking the door and pulling it open just a crack. Sure enough, there she was—Queen Maeve, her face partially shadowed under a hood, her eyes scanning the hallway behind her like she was being followed.

"Let me in," she said quickly, her voice low and urgent.

Without thinking, I stepped back and opened the door wider, letting her slip inside. She moved with the kind of precision you'd expect from someone who'd spent years surviving in Vought's twisted world, her steps quiet, deliberate.

Once the door was shut and locked again, I turned to face her, my arms crossed defensively. "What are you doing here?"

Maeve pulled down her hood, her hair falling loose around her shoulders as she glanced around the room. "We need to talk. And it's not safe anywhere near Vought."

The way she said it, her voice laced with an edge of something darker, made me realize this wasn't just a casual visit. Something was wrong. Something big.

"Okay," I said slowly, trying to keep my tone steady. "What's going on?"

Maeve crossed the room in a few long strides, peering out the window like she was making sure we weren't being watched. I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw was clenched tight. She was on edge, more than I'd ever seen her before.

Finally, she turned to me, her expression grim. "It's Homelander. He's not just circling you for fun. He's planning something."

The air seemed to freeze around me as her words sank in. Homelander. Of course it was him. My skin prickled with unease, my mind racing. "What do you mean?"

Maeve stepped closer, lowering her voice. "He's been keeping tabs on you, watching your every move. And it's not just because you're Vought's new poster girl. He sees something in you, Carrie. Something that threatens him."

A laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. "Threatens him? I'm nothing compared to Homelander."

Maeve's gaze hardened, her eyes locking onto mine. "You're more than you think. And that's why you need to be careful. He's going to test you, push you until you break. And when you do, he'll be right there to make sure it happens on his terms."

I swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling like a rock in my gut. This wasn't just about being a puppet for Vought anymore. This was about survival. If Homelander was targeting me, if he saw me as a threat... there was no coming back from that.

Maeve must've seen the fear flash in my eyes because she softened, just a little. "Look, I'm not saying this to scare you. I'm saying this because you need to know what you're up against. Vought's using you, but Homelander... he's got something else in mind."

I nodded slowly, my thoughts spinning in a thousand different directions. "So what do I do?"

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "You have to play the game, for now. Keep your head down, do what they ask. But don't trust anyone."

And there was that stupid word again. Trust. I tried to steady my breath as Maeve's warning sank in. It was like a cold bucket of reality being poured over me, and no matter how much I tried to shake it off, the chill lingered.

"Don't trust anyone," Maeve repeated, her gaze intense. "Even me. Especially Vought and Homelander."

That was an odd request from Maeve. I get that I shouldn't trust anyone but why not her? What did she know that I didn't? What was she hiding?

My mind delved into Maeve's head, scanning through her memories. Seeing a man who I assumed was her father exploiting her newfound superhuman abilities by having her perform in pageants and competitions to earn money, which he would then gamble away. I also saw other memories of her with Homelander.

The memories Maeve had of her interactions with Homelander were disturbingly intimate. I saw them in his office, the way his gaze lingered on her with a mix of arrogance and menace. But one memory stood out sharply from the rest: a conversation that took place late one night.

I saw Homelander's smug expression as he spoke to Maeve. His voice was a low, sinister murmur. "You know, Maeve, I've been thinking about our little charity gala. You know Supernova, don't you? That girl who everyone's making a fuss over now?"

Maeve's face was inscrutable, but there was a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth—a smile? It was hard to tell.

Homelander leaned back in his chair, his demeanor almost casual and tapping on his desk. "I had her in my office that night. Bend over this desk and... You know what happened, right? She was so scared. I made her feel like she was worth less than nothing. But I must admit, she sure has a fuckable ass."

Maeve's eyes narrowed, but her smile remained. It was as if she found some dark amusement in his confession, or perhaps she was just calculating how to use the information to her advantage.

The realization of what Homelander had done—his cruel admission, the way Maeve seemed to accept it with a twisted kind of approval—sent a shiver through me. It was like stepping into a cold, dark void where the rules were different, and cruelty was a game.

I pulled back from the memory, my heart pounding. Maeve's warning echoed in my mind, and I couldn't help but wonder what was hidden behind her own guarded façade. If she had such knowledge of Homelander's actions and could smile at his cruelty, what was her real agenda? Could she be hiding something more sinister, or was she simply playing her own survival game?

I should be questioning her motives, questioning her reasons for being in my room. But instead, with my eyes closed and filling with tears, I collapsed onto my knees and cried.

Maeve knew he raped me that night, and she was smiling about it. She knew. She knew. And she didn't do anything about this.

My throat tightened and tears relentlessly escaped from my closed eyes. Maeve moved quickly to my side, kneeling beside me, her voice softer now.

"Carrie, I didn't know. I didn't know it would be like this. I should have—" She hesitated, her words faltering as she tried to find the right ones.

"Get off me!" I screamed at her, but my voice didn't felt like my own.

Maeve recoiled, her hands pulling back, hovering just above my shoulders before dropping to her sides. I could feel her presence, the tension radiating from her like static in the air. The weight of her betrayal was suffocating. I gasped for air, my body shaking with each breath, the tears burning hot trails down my face.

"You knew!" I sobbed, clutching my chest as if I could rip out the pain, the disgust. "You stood by and let him—"

"I didn't!" Maeve's voice cracked, a sharp edge of desperation slicing through her usual icy demeanor. "Carrie, I swear, I didn't know he'd—" She choked on the words, her hands trembling. "I thought it was just... intimidation. I didn't know he'd go that far."

My vision blurred, not just from the tears but from something deeper, something darker rising inside me. The room felt like it was closing in, the walls vibrating slightly, responding to the anger, the hurt. I could feel my powers stirring, the telekinetic energy buzzing just beneath my skin, itching to explode.

"You could have stopped him," I whispered, my voice barely audible, but Maeve flinched as if I'd screamed. "You should have stopped him."

Maeve dropped her gaze, her expression crumbling. For a moment, she looked like she was going to say something—an apology, an excuse, anything—but nothing came. The silence between us grew heavier, the weight of it pressing down on my chest until I felt like I was drowning in it.

"You're just like him," I spat, venom dripping from my words. "You let it happen. You smiled."

"No, Carrie." Maeve shook her head fiercely, her eyes wide with regret. "I'm not like him. I've done things, yes, terrible things to survive in this nightmare, but I'm not him. I—"

"Shut up!" I screamed, and the force of my voice was enough to send the lamp on the bedside table crashing to the floor, the glass shattering into a thousand tiny fragments. Maeve's eyes darted toward the broken shards, but she didn't move, didn't flinch.

The air crackled with energy, the pressure building in my chest, pushing against the edges of my control. My vision darkened further, the edges of the room fading into nothingness as the world seemed to shrink around me.

"I... I can't breathe..." I gasped, clutching at my throat as if invisible hands were tightening around it. The room seemed to tilt, the floor shifting beneath my feet. The bed, the broken lamp, even Maeve—all of it distorted, warping in and out of focus as my powers spiraled out of control.

"Carrie, listen to me!" Maeve's voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me lightly. "You have to stop. You're going to hurt yourself."

But her words barely registered. The darkness was closing in, the pressure in my head building until it felt like my skull was about to split open. I could feel the raw power pulsing through me, wild and uncontrollable, threatening to tear everything apart.

"Let go of me!" I snarled, my voice unrecognizable, distorted by the overwhelming force coursing through my veins. I pushed Maeve away with a surge of telekinetic energy, sending her flying backward. She hit the wall with a grunt, sliding down to the floor in a daze.

The room shook violently, objects levitating, trembling in the air. My vision was almost completely gone now, consumed by a swirling blackness, but I could still feel the power raging inside me, desperate to be released.

I screamed—a raw, primal sound that tore from my throat—and the air exploded around me. The windows shattered, glass raining down like shards of ice. The walls cracked, the floor buckling beneath the force of my power. The whole room seemed to be collapsing, imploding in on itself.

But then, in the midst of the chaos, I felt a hand on my arm. Maeve's voice broke through the storm, calm and steady, but strained.

"Carrie, you have to stop. You can't let him win like this. You're stronger than him. Stronger than this."

Her words pierced through the maelstrom inside me, cutting through the fog of rage and pain. My breath hitched, and for a moment, everything slowed. The power that had been threatening to consume me wavered, flickering like a dying flame.

"You're not like him," Maeve said, her voice softer now, though laced with urgency. "Don't let him take any more from you. Don't give him that."

I stood there, trembling, my chest heaving as I struggled to reign in the power that still surged through me. The room was a wreck—furniture overturned, glass everywhere, the walls cracked and splintered—but I could feel the storm inside me finally begin to settle.

Maeve got to her feet, wincing as she brushed off the debris. Her face was a mix of exhaustion and sadness, but there was no fear in her eyes. Only regret.

"I didn't know," she repeated, her voice barely more than a whisper. "But that doesn't excuse it. I'm sorry, Carrie."

I wiped the tears from my face, my throat raw from screaming. The anger still burned, but it wasn't the wildfire it had been moments ago. It was a slow, smoldering thing now, buried deep inside.

"What do we do now?" I asked, my voice hollow.

Maeve looked at me for a long moment before answering. "We fight. But not like this." She gestured to the destruction around us. "If we're going to beat Homelander, we have to be smart. We can't let him break us."

I nodded slowly, though I wasn't sure I believed her. The road ahead felt impossible, and the betrayal still stung too much to think clearly. But one thing was certain: Homelander wasn't just an enemy anymore. He was a monster, and he'd taken too much from me already.

And I wasn't going to let him take anything more.

[]

Morning came with an eerie quiet, the sunlight creeping through the cracked blinds like an unwelcome reminder that the world hadn't stopped for my pain. The room was a wreck, but it was nothing compared to the mess inside me. My muscles ached from the tension of the night before, my throat sore, dry. I hadn't slept. Maeve had passed out in the chair across from me at some point, her head resting on her hand, eyes closed but her brow furrowed like even in sleep she couldn't escape the weight of it all.

I sat up, trying to make sense of everything. What now? What was the plan? Was there even a plan? Maeve had said we needed to be smart, but every part of me was screaming for vengeance, for action. I wanted to hurt Homelander the way he'd hurt me. But I knew that was exactly what he'd want—to push me until I broke, until I became just another casualty of his twisted game.

The rage still simmered beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment. But Maeve's words, as hard as they were to swallow, were the truth. I couldn't afford to lose control. Not again. Not like last night.

I dragged myself to my feet, stepping over the shattered remains of the lamp, and moved toward the window. The city stretched out below, indifferent to my chaos. People were already bustling about, heading to work, living their lives. It felt surreal, like I was trapped in some kind of twisted dream while the rest of the world moved on.

I thought of Leo, his text messages when he'd begged me to trust him. I hadn't known what to do then, and now, after Maeve's warning, after everything I'd seen and felt, I was even more lost. How could I trust anyone in this nightmare? How could I trust myself?

A soft groan came from behind me. I turned to see Maeve stirring, blinking against the light filtering in through the window. She winced as she sat up, her movements slow and careful. She looked exhausted, beaten down by years of surviving Vought's cruelty, but there was a resilience in her too, a hardness that came from living through worse things than I could imagine.

She met my eyes and for a second, there was something unspoken between us—an understanding. We were both trapped in this, both victims of Homelander's twisted world. But we weren't powerless. Not yet.

"Woah," she said, her eyes scanning my room.

"Yeah," I muttered, my voice hoarse. I gestured vaguely at the wreckage. "That was... me."

Maeve sighed, standing up slowly and brushing herself off. "It happens. You'll learn to control it better."

I wasn't sure if she was talking about the mess or my powers—or both. Either way, the truth stung. I was raw, everything inside me a tangled knot of rage, grief, and fear. I didn't want to control it. I wanted to unleash it, to rip the world apart the way it had ripped me apart.

But Maeve was right. I couldn't afford that.

"I should probably leave this room before someone gets suspicious," Maeve said, heading to the door and avoiding the shards of glass and debris scattered across the floor. She paused with her hand on the doorknob, her posture tense, as if she was debating whether to say more. Finally, she glanced over her shoulder at me. "Carrie, whatever you're feeling right now, whatever you want to do... just remember, it's what he wants. Homelander thrives on chaos. He'll push and push until you break, until you're no better than him. Don't give him that."

Her words hit me like a hammer. She was right, again. Homelander wasn't just a physical threat; he was a psychological one. Every step, every move, was part of a game I didn't fully understand yet, and the moment I lashed out, I'd be playing directly into his hands.

"I'll keep that in mind," I muttered, my throat still raw from crying.

Maeve nodded once, her expression unreadable, then disappeared out the door without another word, leaving me alone in the wreckage of my room and my thoughts.

As soon as she was gone, I sank back onto the bed, feeling utterly drained. I stared up at the ceiling, my mind replaying her last words over and over. Homelander thrives on chaos. He'll push until I break. He already had.

I couldn't help but wonder how many others had stood in this very position, caught between fear and anger, between survival and revenge. I couldn't let myself become another one of his pawns, but the thought of doing nothing, of simply enduring, made me sick.

No. I wouldn't break, but I also wouldn't stay passive. I wasn't going to let Homelander—or Maeve, or anyone—decide my fate. Vought might have taken my life, my freedom, but they hadn't taken all of me. Not yet.

I sat up, my decision solidifying. Leo had said to trust him, and maybe... maybe that was the only way forward. I needed to gather my own allies, form my own plans. I couldn't survive this alone, but I could choose who I trusted. Maeve had her own agenda, and Leo... Leo seemed like my only real chance to get out of this alive. He had been there from the beginning, guiding me, trying to protect me in his own way. Maybe he saw something in me that I hadn't yet seen in myself.

With a deep breath, I grabbed my phone from the floor, my hand shaking slightly as I unlocked it and opened the thread of unread messages from Leo, the unknown number.

UNKNOWN: Carrie, what happened? There must have been an earthquake or something.

UNKNOWN: What the fuck happened?

UNKNOWN: Carrie, are you alright? What happened?

UNKNOWN: Little star, if you respond in the morning, I will send help.

I stared at the messages, my fingers hovering over the screen as if typing a response would seal my fate. Leo's words echoed in my head—trust him. But could I? After everything, after Homelander, after Maeve, after Vought... trust felt like a foreign concept. My mind flashed back to the night in Homelander's office, to Maeve's cruel smile. Everyone had their own agenda, their own way of surviving.

What did Leo want from me?

My fingers hovered over the screen for a moment longer, but then I dropped the phone back onto the bed, unsure of what to say, unsure if I even wanted to respond. The unknown number—Leo—had been the only constant in this entire nightmare, but I wasn't naïve enough to believe he was helping me out of pure kindness.

I leaned back against the headboard, my thoughts still spinning, my body still aching. Trust him. Don't trust Maeve. Don't trust anyone.

But doing nothing was no longer an option. If Maeve was right—and I had no reason to doubt her—Homelander was planning something bigger. Something that involved me. And the thought of being caught in his crosshairs again sent a cold wave of fear through me.

I wasn't ready to respond to Leo yet, but I needed to prepare. I needed to figure out what I could do. Maybe the answer wasn't in trusting anyone fully, but in finding ways to protect myself from all sides.

My powers pulsed beneath the surface, that raw energy still simmering, and I knew I couldn't afford another outburst like the one last night. Not only was it dangerous, but it would also draw attention, the kind of attention I wasn't ready for yet. I needed to learn control. Real control.

I stood up and crossed the room to the small desk by the window. The mirror above it was cracked from the night's chaos, jagged lines splitting my reflection into fractured pieces. I stared at myself for a long moment, barely recognizing the girl staring back. She looked haunted, broken. But there was something else there too—something hard and fierce in her eyes.

Maybe Maeve was right. Maybe I was stronger than I thought.

A plan started to form in the back of my mind. Vought had taken everything from me, but they hadn't taken my will to fight. If Homelander was going to come for me, I wasn't going to sit back and let him. I was done being the victim, done being manipulated.

My phone buzzed again on the bed, another message from Leo. I hesitated, then grabbed the phone, my heart pounding.

UNKNOWN: Carrie, I'm serious. If you don't respond, I'll assume the worst.

I bit my lip, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I needed to keep him on my side, if only for the time being. Even if I didn't trust him fully, I needed all the help I could get.

Finally, I typed out a short response.

ME: I'm alive. Don't do anything rash.

His response came almost instantly.

UNKNOWN: Don't scared me like this. Now, can you tell me what the hell just happened to you last night?

I stared at the screen, my mind racing. What could I even tell him? How could I begin to explain the storm that had erupted inside me, the chaos I was barely keeping a lid on?

A moment passed before I typed.

ME: I don't know if I can explain it.

His response was almost immediate again.

UNKNOWN: Try me.

I hesitated, my fingers trembling as they hovered over the keys. Trust didn't come easily anymore, especially not after what I'd been through. But Leo was persistent, and right now, I needed him more than I wanted to admit.

ME: I lost control. Things got... messy.

I cringed at how weak the words looked on the screen, but it was the best I could manage. I wasn't ready to lay out everything. Not yet. Not until I understood it myself.

UNKNOWN: Messy how?

I could practically hear the urgency in his words, and a small part of me wondered if he was genuinely worried or if this was just another ploy. He was the closest thing I had to an ally, but even that wasn't enough to erase the doubt gnawing at me.

ME: I broke things. Maeve had to stop me. It's under control now.

That last part was a lie. It wasn't under control, not even close. But I needed Leo to think I had a handle on it—or at least that I wasn't spiraling.

There was a longer pause this time before his reply came through.

UNKNOWN: Maeve was with you? What did she say?

I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the message. What had Maeve said? Her words from earlier echoed in my head. Homelander thrives on chaos. He'll push until you break.

ME: She said he's waiting for me to crack. That I need to be smart.

UNKNOWN: She's right.

I blinked at the screen, surprised by the bluntness of his response.

UNKNOWN: He's playing a long game, Carrie. You're not just another target. He's planning something, and whatever it is, it's bigger than you think. He's watching you closely.

My stomach twisted. That had been my fear all along, but seeing it spelled out like that made it feel more real, more dangerous.

ME: What do I do? How do I fight someone like him?

UNKNOWN: You don't. Not yet.

I frowned at that, my frustration flaring. It felt like everyone was telling me to wait, to sit tight and bide my time, but I didn't know how much longer I could keep holding back. Every part of me was screaming for action, for revenge.

ME: Then when? When do I get to fight back?

Another pause. His next message was longer than the others.

UNKNOWN: When you're ready. When you can do it on your terms, not his. Right now, he's expecting you to act out of anger. That's what he wants. He's counting on you to make a mistake, to lash out in a way that gives him an excuse to put you down. You can't give him that.

I stared at the message, my heart pounding. It was exactly what Maeve had said, but coming from Leo, it felt different. More real, somehow. Like he wasn't just warning me—he was preparing me.

ME: How do I know when I'm ready?

UNKNOWN: You'll know. And I'll be there to help you when the time comes.

I didn't know if I believed him, but for now, it was enough to cling to. I needed to get stronger, to learn control, but I couldn't do it alone. And if Leo was offering to help, I had to take it. I didn't have the luxury of turning away allies right now.

ME: Alright. I'll trust you. But if this goes sideways...

UNKNOWN: It won't. I promise.

I wanted to believe him. I really did. But trust was a fragile thing, and in this world, promises meant very little. Still, it was something—something to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

ME: What now?

UNKNOWN: Now, you stay low. Stay quiet. Don't make any moves unless you're forced to. I'll be in touch soon with more info. Just... be careful, Carrie.

ME: You too.

The conversation ended there, and I tossed the phone onto the bed, letting out a long breath. The silence of the room felt heavier now, the weight of everything settling back over me.

I glanced at the shattered mirror again, at the fractured reflection of the girl I barely recognized. I wasn't ready. Not yet. But I would be.

I had to be.

Because when the time came, when Homelander made his move, I wasn't going to just survive.

I was going to make sure he regretted ever coming for me.

[]

Ashley sent me a reminder for the video shoot for Vought's campaign for Sexual Assault Awareness Month. It felt like the cruelest irony, given everything I'd been through. They wanted me to stand in front of a camera, to smile, to speak about "awareness" and "empowerment" when I could barely keep myself together. When Vought was the very reason I felt so powerless.

I clenched my fists, feeling the pulse of my power beneath my skin, dangerous and wild. The idea of participating in this charade—letting them use me for their twisted PR spin—made my stomach turn.

But I had to keep up appearances. For now. If I refused, if I stepped out of line, it would raise too many questions. And I wasn't ready for that kind of attention. Not yet.

I arrived at the room where they would be doing the video. The room was sterile, cold. Bright studio lights shone down, casting long shadows across the glossy floor. A team of Vought staff buzzed around like bees, setting up cameras, checking microphones, and organizing cue cards. The air smelled faintly of hairspray and tension. I could feel it—like everyone in this room knew something they weren't saying, as if they were all in on a secret that I was supposed to smile through.

Ashley greeted me with her usual fake enthusiasm, clipboard in hand, her hair pulled back in its typical severe bun. She gave me a once-over, her eyes briefly flicking to the circles under my eyes, the tenseness in my shoulders. She said nothing, just smiled wider, her lips painted with the same shade of manipulation I'd come to expect from her.

"Supernova! You look... tired. But that's fine. We'll get makeup on you, you'll look perfect. This campaign is going to be huge. Huge, okay? We're targeting women specifically, and the angle is about empowerment, self-defense, you know?" She flipped through her clipboard, not even bothering to meet my eyes. "Clothes, confidence, safety tips... that kind of thing. Very... you."

I could barely process her words. Targeting women? Clothes and safety tips? They had no idea. This was so far from empowering that it felt like a joke, a slap in the face. My stomach twisted into knots as I imagined what they had planned—a parade of soft-focus images of women in stylish outfits, learning to defend themselves from dangers that felt so far removed from the reality I lived every day. It was nothing more than a sales pitch dressed up as advocacy, all to make Vought look like the good guys.

I looked around the room, at the rows of lights, the cameras ready to capture every forced smile. The makeup artists were already moving toward me, brushes in hand, as if painting over my exhaustion would fix anything.

"I—what is this?" I asked, my voice shaking, barely keeping the edge out. "Who approved this?"

Ashley blinked, clearly thrown off by the question. "Uh, well... it was approved by the higher-ups, you know? PR, marketing... it's been in the works for weeks." She gave me a tight smile, as though that was supposed to make me feel better. "It's a really great campaign. Very empowering.

"Empowering?" The word tasted bitter in my mouth. "You think telling women to wear the right clothes and 'be safe' is empowering? How about telling them the truth—that no matter what they wear or how they act, someone can still hurt them, and there's nothing they can do about it."

The room went quiet. Even the makeup artists had paused, brushes frozen in midair. Ashley's smile faltered, her eyes widening just enough to show she was panicking. She glanced around the room, looking for backup, for someone to step in and stop this conversation before it spiraled out of control.

"Well... we're just trying to help. You know, raise awareness. Show that Vought is on the right side of this issue," she said, her voice a little too sweet, a little too rehearsed.

"Right side?" My voice rose, the heat of my anger pushing against the control I was barely holding onto. "Vought isn't on the right side of anything. You think putting together some flashy ad campaign with tips on how to dress or how to defend yourself makes a difference? You think this fixes anything?"

I took a step closer, my fists clenching at my sides. I could feel the power flickering just beneath the surface, threatening to spill out. I had to keep it together. I had to.

"This," I gestured around the room, at the lights, the cameras, the script I hadn't even seen yet, "is a fucking joke. You're just using this to make yourselves look good, to make people forget that you're the ones who create the danger in the first place. You don't get to play the hero, Ashley. Not this time."

Ashley's eyes were wide now, the panic more obvious. She was floundering, glancing toward the door, clearly wishing someone—anyone—would step in to help her.

"Supernova, I—"

"No," I cut her off, my voice shaking with barely contained fury. "I'm not doing this. I won't stand here and pretend that this—" I gestured wildly at the set, the cameras, "—is real. Because it's not. It's bullshit. And you know it."

Ashley opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She was flustered, scrambling to regain control of the situation, but I wasn't giving her the chance.

I felt like I was going to break, like everything inside me was building to a point I couldn't contain. The room was suffocating. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All I could feel was the crushing weight of Vought, of Homelander, of everything.

I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears, the crackle of my powers simmering just beneath the surface, ready to explode. I needed to get out of here before I lost control, before I did something I couldn't take back.

Without another word, I turned and stormed out of the room, leaving Ashley and the rest of them standing there in stunned silence.

I didn't stop until I was outside, the cool air hitting my face like a slap, grounding me. My breath came in ragged gasps, my hands trembling. I could feel the power still there, just under the surface, threatening to spill over at any second.

But I didn't break. Not yet. I couldn't afford to.

Not until I was ready.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 | 𝐋𝐄𝐎

The morning sun filtered through the gaps in the blinds, casting a grid of shadows on the floor that felt both familiar and foreign. I was in the penthouse—my sanctuary in a world gone mad—but nothing felt safe anymore. Each tick of the clock seemed to echo the chaos from last night, the unbearable weight of Carrie's revelation wrapping around my chest like a vice. Homelander had done to her what he had done to my mother. The thought twisted my stomach, a reminder that monsters wore masks, and sometimes they were even called heroes.

I couldn't shake the image of her, the raw power simmering beneath her surface, the devastation in her eyes when she spoke of losing control. She didn't know what she was capable of, and it scared me. I couldn't let her become another casualty in this war. I had to find a way to help her, but how?

I grabbed my phone, the screen lighting up with a message from Carrie. She was alive. That was a small relief, but I knew it wouldn't last. The danger was still there, lurking, waiting for its moment to strike.

ME: Carrie, are you okay?

My heart raced as I stared at the blank screen, unsure of how to proceed. I wanted to flood her with words, to comfort her and protect her, but what could I say that wouldn't come off as empty platitudes? She had just faced something unimaginable, and here I was, the unknown number she was reluctant to trust.

The phone buzzed again—another message.

CARRIE: I'm alive. Don't do anything rash.

A knot tightened in my stomach. I felt like I was standing on a precipice, ready to plunge into darkness, unsure if there was a way back. I had to tread carefully; I couldn't push her too hard.

I typed back, my fingers hovering over the screen.

ME: What happened last night?

I waited, heart racing as the seconds dragged on.

Finally, her reply came through.

CARRIE: I don't know if I can explain it.

My pulse quickened. I needed to know what she was going through, what she had felt. There was a weight of urgency behind my next message, a desperate need to reach her through the chaos.

ME: Try me.

A long pause hung in the air before she responded.

CARRIE: I lost control. Things got... messy.

I felt a surge of frustration. "Messy" was an understatement. This wasn't just about broken furniture; it was about Carrie's mental state, about the darkness that had seeped into her life and made a home there. I had to get through to her, to remind her she wasn't alone.

ME: Maeve was with you? What did she say?

Her response was quicker this time.

CARRIE: She said he's waiting for me to crack. That I need to be smart.

There it was—the fear that had followed her like a shadow. Maeve's warning echoed in my mind, each word a reminder of the precarious balance we were all walking.

ME: She's right. He's playing a long game, Carrie. You're not just another target. He's planning something.

The silence on the other end felt heavy. I knew she was processing, wrestling with the reality of what I was saying.

CARRIE: What do I do? How do I fight someone like him?

There was a weight behind her words that made my chest ache. I wanted to tell her to fight, to unleash everything she had, but that wasn't the answer. Not yet.

ME: You don't. Not yet.

Another pause followed, thick with unspoken fears.

CARRIE: Then when? When do I get to fight back?

I could picture her frustration, the way her fingers must have trembled against the screen. But the truth was, diving headfirst into a battle with Homelander was a losing game. I needed to make her see that.

ME: When you're ready. When you can do it on your terms, not his.

CARRIE: How do I know when I'm ready?

ME: You'll know. And I'll be there to help you when the time comes.

There was a flicker of hope in her response. Maybe she was starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, the possibility of fighting back.

CARRIE: Alright. I'll trust you. But if this goes sideways...

ME: It won't. I promise.

As I typed those words, I felt a twinge of guilt. I wanted to believe that promise, but I was all too aware of the unpredictability of this world. Every corner held danger, every shadow a potential threat.

CARRIE: What now?

ME: Now, you stay low. Stay quiet. Don't make any moves unless you're forced to. I'll be in touch soon with more info. Just... be careful, Carrie.

The conversation ended, and I tossed the phone aside, my heart heavy. I was left staring at the walls of the penthouse, the emptiness pressing in on me. My thoughts flickered back to last night—the sight of Carrie's powers, the raw, explosive energy that had poured out of her. The sunflower I had given her had broken under the pressure, petals scattering like the pieces of her life that Homelander had torn apart.

I needed to talk to someone. Someone who would understand the stakes, who wouldn't just see Carrie as a pawn in a bigger game.

Just then, the door swung open, and Butcher strode in, the air around him crackling with his usual bravado. His expression shifted when he saw me, a flicker of concern crossing his face.

"Leo," he said, his voice low, almost hesitant. "You alright, mate?"

I shrugged, struggling to find the words. "Not really."

He stepped closer, his eyes searching mine. "What's going on? You know you can talk to me."

"I'm worried about Carrie," I confessed, feeling the weight of my fears spill out. "She's been through so much, and now Homelander is targeting her. She's stronger than she knows, but she's still so vulnerable."

Butcher nodded, his expression serious. "You're right to be concerned. That bastard won't stop until he gets what he wants."

"Maeve warned her. She said Homelander is playing a long game, and we can't let her fall into his trap," I said, pacing the floor, my frustration mounting. "But what can we do? How do we protect her?"

Butcher's gaze sharpened. "We gather intel. We figure out what Homelander is planning and counter it. You said Carrie has powers—raw ones. Care to share it?"

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. Telling Butcher about Carrie's powers felt like revealing a secret too dangerous to be spoken aloud, but keeping it from him could be just as deadly. I trusted him, as much as anyone could trust Butcher, but this wasn't just about me. It was about protecting Carrie from becoming another pawn in this war.

"She's... powerful," I said carefully, watching Butcher's expression for any sign of how he'd take it. "More powerful than she realizes. But she doesn't have control. Not yet."

Butcher raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "How powerful we talkin'? Enough to take on Homelander?"

I thought about it, recalling the raw energy that had exploded out of Carrie when she'd lost control, the way the room had trembled under her power. She had the potential to be a threat, but right now, she was as much a danger to herself as anyone else.

"Maybe," I admitted. "But not yet. She's scared, Butcher. She's terrified of what she might become."

Butcher let out a low whistle, running a hand through his scruffy beard. "Well, ain't that just a bloody mess. Last thing we need is another ticking time bomb ready to blow."

"I don't think she's a bomb," I said, feeling a surge of defensiveness on Carrie's behalf. "She just needs guidance. Someone to show her how to control it. I think... I think I can help her."

Butcher's eyes darkened with something I couldn't quite place. "Careful, mate. Doin' the 'helper' routine with supes, especially one who's on the edge, tends to end messy."

I sighed, knowing he was right. But I couldn't just abandon Carrie to figure this out alone. She was already teetering on the brink, and if Homelander pushed her too far, there would be no going back.

"I can't just leave her," I said, my voice firm. "She needs someone who actually cares. Someone who doesn't see her as a weapon or a threat."

Butcher studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright, Leo. But if we're gonna protect her from Homelander, we're gonna need more than just hand-holdin'. We need leverage. Information. You say Maeve warned her—what else did she say?"

"She said Homelander is waiting for Carrie to crack. He wants to push her to a breaking point, to use her power for something—I'm not sure what. But Maeve made it clear he's biding his time, playing the long game."

Butcher's jaw clenched, a familiar glint of cold calculation in his eyes. "Bastard's always a step ahead. If he wants her powers, he must think they can be used to his advantage. We need to figure out how to take that advantage away from him."

Just as he was done talking, the rest of the Boys walked in. Frenchie, Hughie Kimiko, and Mother's Milk followed Butcher into the room, their faces a mix of curiosity and concern. The air in the penthouse felt heavy, weighted with the unspoken tension swirling around Carrie's situation.

Frenchie was the first to speak, his voice low but carrying a hint of that sharp French accent. "We hear you have a little... problem, no? Something to do with this Carrie girl?"

Kimiko stood silently beside him, her sharp eyes scanning the room, always assessing. Mother's Milk crossed his arms, his usual composed demeanor masking whatever thoughts ran through his mind.

I nodded, feeling the pressure of their gazes on me. "Carrie's not just another supe. She's different—Homelander is targeting her, trying to push her over the edge. But she's scared. She's powerful, but she doesn't know how to control it yet."

Mother's Milk's brow furrowed. "How powerful are we talking? Enough to be a threat?"

"She lost control last night," I said, glancing at Butcher for support. "It was bad. She's strong, maybe stronger than we realize, but she's not ready to face Homelander head-on."

Frenchie let out a low whistle, and even Kimiko's expression seemed to darken. Hughie even let out a soft cuss and Mother's Milk sighed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Well, we've dealt with worse," Mother's Milk said, though there was an underlying tension in his voice. "But if she's not in control, that's a problem. We can't afford to have a loose cannon, especially with Homelander circling her like a vulture."

Butcher crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed. "We don't just sit back and let him have his way. We play smarter, harder. We need to make sure Carrie doesn't become his bloody puppet."

Kimiko stepped forward, her usual quiet replaced with an intensity that made me pause. She took her phone out her pocket and her thumbs tapped the screen with loud clicks; I realized that she needed to say — or rather, text — something. Once she was done, Kimiko showed me her message.

KIMIKO: Have you heard of Chamberlain?

I frowned as I read Kimiko's message, the name unfamiliar and out of place in the swirling chaos of everything that had happened. Chamberlain? It wasn't a name I'd heard in the circles I moved in, and I could tell by the way Butcher and the others shifted slightly, they were just as in the dark.

"Chamberlain?" I asked, looking up from her phone to meet her intense gaze. "Who is that?"

Kimiko quickly typed out another message and held it up for me.

KIMIKO: Not who. What. It's a small town in Maine.

I blinked, my mind trying to connect the dots. A small town in Maine? What could that have to do with Carrie or Homelander? I glanced at Butcher, who raised an eyebrow, just as puzzled.

"What's in Chamberlain, Maine?" I asked, hoping Kimiko had more to offer.

She nodded and quickly typed another message.

KIMIKO: Have you heard what happened there?

I shook my head. "No, I haven't."

Kimiko glanced at Hughie, who, with a sigh, stepped forward. "I know the story," he said, his voice low. "It's not something Vought talks about much. It's practically a myth at this point, but people who know about it... they don't forget."

Everyone's attention shifted to Hughie. Even Butcher crossed his arms, listening closely.

Hughie took a deep breath. "Supposedly, there was a massive hurricane that caused a wildfire to spread across the entire town. Hundreds of people died and most of them were high school students." His voice trembled slightly as he continued, the weight of what he was about to say settling over the room like a heavy fog. "They said it was a freak disaster," he explained, glancing between all of us. An act of God, or nature, whatever. Vought came in, offered compensation to the families, rebuilt parts of the town."

Kimiko wrote something speedily on her phone. She held up her phone.

KIMIKO: It wasn't a hurricane.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Everyone stared at the message, the implications hanging heavy in the air. Butcher was the first to break it, his voice laced with skepticism. "Alright, love, if it wasn't a hurricane, what the bloody hell was it?"

Kimiko typed again, her fingers quick and deliberate.

KIMIKO: A girl.

I felt my stomach drop. A girl? I turned to Kimiko, searching her eyes for more clarity, but all I found was that same intensity. The kind of intensity you get from someone who's seen more than they should.

Frenchie stepped in, his voice soft but urgent. "Mon dieu... you're saying a supe caused this?"

Kimiko nodded, her expression grave. She continued typing, her fingers flying over the screen. When she was done, she turned the phone toward me once more.

KIMIKO: She lost control.

My mind raced, trying to grasp the connection. A girl, a small town, a catastrophe that wiped out hundreds of lives. The story felt eerily close to Carrie's current situation. It wasn't just the power; it was the lack of control. The terror that lived inside her, threatening to consume everything around her.

Butcher leaned against the wall, letting out a low whistle. "So you're tellin' me we've seen this before. This Chamberlain girl—she was like Carrie?"

Kimiko nodded, typing again.

KIMIKO: I think they're the same. Her name is Carrie White.

The revelation hit like a punch to the gut. Carrie White. The name swirled in my mind, making the connection between the girl from Chamberlain and the one I'd been trying to protect all too clear. It wasn't just that Carrie was powerful—she was dangerous in ways none of us had fully grasped. The tragedy in Maine had been erased from the public consciousness, buried deep by Vought, but it seemed the past had come back to haunt her.

I glanced at Butcher, who was staring at the phone screen in Kimiko's hand, his expression unreadable. The rest of the Boys were just as stunned, processing the gravity of what this meant.

"Bloody hell," Butcher muttered, running a hand through his hair. "If this is true, we're not dealin' with just any supe. We're dealin' with someone who could level a bloody town without even tryin'."

The weight of his words settled in the room like a thick fog. A supe who had once lost control and annihilated an entire town—this wasn't just a ticking time bomb. Carrie had already exploded once. If Homelander pushed her too far, it could happen again.

"How did you manage to get to that conclusion?" Mother's Milk asked her.

Kimiko typed on her phone again.

KIMIKO: When I was at the Shining Light Liberation Army, my little brother was obsessed with the Chamberlain disaster. He would talk about it all the time, about how a girl had somehow caused that chaos. He has the same power as her. At the time, I didn't believe him. I thought it was just a myth. But now... now I think it was real. Carrie is connected to that tragedy somehow.

The implications of Kimiko's revelations hung heavily in the air, a suffocating silence enveloping the room as we absorbed the enormity of what she had shared. The Shining Light Liberation Army was a militant terrorist organization. The group operated primarily in the Middle East and South Asia, often engaging in violent activities. Kimiko and her little brother Kenji were forcibly recruited into the Shining Light Liberation Army as a child after her parents were killed. She was captured, experimented on, and injected with Compound V, the substance that granted superpowers, turning her into a superhuman assassin. This was why she couldn't talk because of the whole trauma she went through there.

I glanced at Butcher, who was wrestling with the weight of this new information, his usual bravado tempered by a deep-seated concern.

"How did the army found those information?" Frenchie questioned her.

Kimiko hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering with the memories of her past, the dark days within the Shining Light Liberation Army. She took her phone again, typing out her response, her fingers trembling slightly as she recalled the details.

KIMIKO: They studied everything about supes. Anything that could give them power, control. My brother found the story buried deep in old Vought files. Classified information, hidden from the public.

Everyone in the room exchanged uneasy glances. Vought had buried the Chamberlain disaster, a catastrophe that erased an entire town—erased Carrie—from history. But they hadn't erased it completely, not from those who were willing to dig deep enough.

Butcher let out a low, bitter chuckle, his expression twisted with a mixture of grim amusement and disgust. "Of course, it's bloody Vought. Always sweepin' things under the rug. They've known about her from the start, haven't they? She's been a liability all this time."

I swallowed hard, the full weight of what Kimiko had revealed settling over me like a suffocating fog. Carrie wasn't just another girl with powers—she was a living, breathing powder keg, one that had already exploded once in the most devastating way possible. And I had been so close to her, thinking I could help her, save her.

Hughie spoke up, his voice tentative but laced with curiosity. "But if Carrie caused the Chamberlain disaster... why didn't Vought do something? Why let her slip through the cracks?"

Kimiko was quick to respond, her fingers flying across the screen once more.

KIMIKO: I think they know more that the public, even Carrie, doesn't. They must be hiding something from us and her.

The room fell into an uneasy silence as Kimiko's words sunk in. If Vought had knowledge of Carrie's past—her role in the Chamberlain disaster—they had been covering it up for years, letting her slip into the shadows. The implications were staggering. If they had let her go unchecked all this time, then what else were they hiding?

Butcher broke the silence, his voice a low growl. "That bloody company. Always playin' puppet master with the world. They know what she is. They're biding their time, just like Homelander."

His words struck a nerve in me. If Vought knew Carrie's potential, then she wasn't just being targeted by Homelander; she was a pawn in a much larger game. A game she had no idea she was playing.

Mother's Milk crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. "So if Carrie's that dangerous, what's the play here? We just let her go on, hope she doesn't lose control again?"

"She's already lost control once, and it nearly wiped a town off the map," I said, feeling the weight of the situation settle deep in my gut. "If Homelander pushes her, it could happen again. This time, it might be worse."

Butcher shot me a glance, his sharp eyes calculating. "Then we make sure that doesn't happen, don't we? We find out what Vought's hidin', figure out what they've got planned for her, and we stop it."

Frenchie looked up from the map on the table, his voice thoughtful. "But if Vought knows, then Homelander might know too, non? He's not the type to miss an opportunity."

Kimiko nodded in agreement, her fingers flying across her phone.

KIMIKO: Homelander's waiting for her to crack. He wants her power.

A chill ran through me. Of course. It made sense. Homelander, with his endless lust for control and dominance, would want to harness Carrie's abilities for his own gain. He had always been the type to seek out power, and someone like Carrie—someone with the potential to devastate entire cities—was the ultimate prize.

I ran a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "But how do we stop him? How do we stop her from becoming the monster she's terrified of becoming?"

Butcher leaned in, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "We stop her from gettin' there in the first place, Leo. We do what we do best—we take control of the situation before it spirals."

I stared at him, the weight of his words settling heavily in my chest. Take control of the situation. But what did that mean for Carrie? She wasn't just another supe, she was someone I cared about—someone I was trying to protect.

Hughie stepped forward, his voice quiet but resolute. "Maybe... maybe Carrie doesn't have to be a threat. If we help her gain control, maybe she won't lose it again."

Kimiko gave a quick nod, her expression softening as she typed.

KIMIKO: She's scared. She doesn't want to hurt anyone. But if we don't help her, she will.

Butcher's gaze shifted to me, his eyes hard but not unkind. "You're the one she trusts, Leo. She's not gonna listen to us. You need to be the one to get through to her."

The weight of his words pressed down on me like a ton of bricks. He was right. Carrie trusted me. I had to be the one to help her navigate this, to prevent her from becoming another weapon in Vought's arsenal or Homelander's plaything.

I nodded slowly, meeting Butcher's gaze with determination. "I'll do it. But we need to act fast. Homelander's watching her, waiting for her to slip up. If he pushes her too far... we're all screwed."

Butcher gave a short nod, his lips curling into a grim smile. "Then we get movin'. We find out what Vought's hidin' about Chamberlain, and we make sure Carrie doesn't become their next weapon."

Kimiko typed one final message, her expression steely.

KIMIKO: We don't let history repeat itself.

I looked around at the team—Butcher, Hughie, Frenchie, Mother's Milk, and Kimiko. They had all faced unimaginable threats before, taken down supes more powerful than we could have imagined. But this time felt different. This time, it wasn't just about stopping a monster.

It was about saving one.

As the weight of that realization settled over me, I made a silent vow. I wouldn't let Carrie fall into the same trap that so many others had. I wouldn't let her become another pawn in Vought's twisted game.

I would save her.

No matter the cost.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 | 𝐋𝐄𝐎

The first thing on my list was finding out exactly what Vought knew about Carrie—and how deep their cover-up went. If there was any hope of keeping her safe, I needed to understand what kind of monster they were grooming her to be. But for that, I needed someone who could get into places I couldn't. Someone with connections. Someone who didn't give a damn about breaking the rules.

I grabbed my phone, my fingers moving with purpose as I scrolled through my contacts. There was only one person who fit that bill. Grace Mallory. If anyone could pull a few strings and get me the dirt I needed, it was her.

My finger hovered over the call button for a second. Butcher had warned me about Mallory, said she only helped when there was something in it for her, and that her favors came with a price. But I didn't have the luxury of picking and choosing allies right now. Carrie's life was on the line, and I wasn't about to let her end up as collateral damage in Vought's twisted game.

I tapped the screen and brought the phone to my ear, the dial tone echoing in my head like the countdown to something inevitable.

"Leo," Mallory's voice was as sharp and cold as I remembered. No pleasantries, just business. "What do you need?"

"I need information on Vought. Something they've been keeping quiet for years. The Chamberlain disaster," I said, cutting straight to the point. "And I need it fast."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I could almost hear the gears turning in Mallory's head. She wasn't the type to give anything away for free.

"Why do you care about Chamberlain?" Mallory's voice sharpened. "That's old news, buried and burned."

I took a breath, keeping my tone steady. "Because it's not just history. It's repeating itself, Mallory. You know of Carrie White, don't you?"

The line went quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, guarded. "Carrie White. That's the sort of name that no one would forget."

"Exactly," I said, leaning back against the cold wall of my apartment. "She's alive, Mallory. Vought covered it up six years ago, but she survived Chamberlain."

The silence on the other end of the line stretched long enough that I thought Mallory might have hung up. When her voice finally returned, it was clipped and tense, a tone I hadn't heard from her before.

"And you think Vought let her slip through the cracks?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. "A girl like that, with that kind of power? Vought doesn't let anything slip."

"They didn't let her go," I said, jaw tight. "They're using her. They've been hiding her in plain sight. Homelander's circling her like a vulture, and we both know what he does with weapons."

"You sure she's not part of the plan?" Mallory asked, her skepticism still cutting through the line. "You sure she's not one of them?"

I clenched my fist. "She's not. I know her, Mallory."

Another silence. I knew how that sounded—how stupid it must have seemed to someone like her. To Butcher, too. But they didn't understand. None of them did.

"Leo," she began slowly, carefully. "You sound like you're getting too close to this one. Too emotional."

I laughed bitterly. "Too close? I'm already in it. I've been watching her for a while. She's scared, she's confused. She doesn't know what Vought is planning for her. But I know, Mallory. I know what they'll do."

"And you think you can save her," Mallory said quietly. There was no question in her voice—only cold, sharp understanding. "Leo, girls like her don't get saved. They burn. And they burn everything around them."

"Not her," I snapped, my voice rougher than I'd intended. "She's different."

I could almost hear Mallory's eyes narrowing, could feel her skepticism over the phone.

"You're in love with her," she said, and the words struck me like a hammer.

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

"Leo, listen to me," Mallory's voice dropped, serious now, more serious than I'd ever heard her. "If Vought's got her on their radar, there's no way this ends well. For her. For you. Especially not for you. They'll turn her, use her, and when they're done, she'll be another Homelander. Maybe worse."

"Not if I can stop it," I said, my teeth gritted. "I just need the information, Mallory. I need to know what they've done to her. What they're planning. If there's any chance of pulling her out of this, I have to try."

There was a long pause, and I could feel Mallory weighing her options, calculating her own risks.

"I'll look into it," she said finally, her voice softer, almost regretful. "But, Leo... be careful. You've seen what happens when people like her lose control."

I didn't respond. I didn't need to. I knew what I was doing—at least, I told myself I did.

The line went dead, and I dropped my phone onto the table, running a hand through my hair. My heart was pounding harder than it should've been. Mallory's words gnawed at me, burrowing deep, but I shoved them down.

Carrie wasn't like the others. She wasn't like Homelander or any of the Seven. She didn't want to be this way. I had to believe that. I'd watched her for a long while as Vought had six long years of keeping tabs on her after that fateful day in Chamberlain. They were grooming her for something much bigger. Maybe even making her into the new Homelander or something much worse.

Maybe I should've felt guilty, stalking her like that. But I didn't. It was love. It was protection. She didn't know what the world was capable of—what Vought was capable of. And if she ever found out, it would crush her.

No. I wasn't going to let that happen. I wouldn't let them use her, wouldn't let them turn her into another monster.

I couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out. I had to move fast. I needed to figure out how deep Vought's claws were embedded in her life. If I was going to protect Carrie, I had to act before they unleashed whatever they had planned for her.

I grabbed my jacket, my mind racing as I thought about my next move. The information I needed was somewhere out there, locked away in Vought's databases, hidden in the labyrinthine network of their operations. I needed a plan, and I needed it now.

First things first: I had to see Carrie. I needed to gauge her state of mind, to see if she had any inkling of the danger she was in. If I could just talk to her, I might be able to persuade her to distance herself from Vought. She had to understand the risks—before it was too late

With my heart racing and urgency driving my every move, I decided to check V's social media platform for any signs of Carrie's activities. I had learned that Vought used V to control narratives, promote their Supes, and manage public perception. If Carrie was still on their radar, she'd likely be appearing at some of their events.

I quickly logged into my account, skimming through the posts until a bright splash of color caught my eye. There it was—an announcement about Samaritan's Embrace, a charity event run by the elastic hero Ezekiel. My stomach twisted as I read the details. Carrie, under the alias of Supernova, was scheduled to make a public appearance.

"Join us this Saturday for a night of hope and healing at Samaritan's Embrace! Featuring special guest Supernova!"

It was happening in just two days. My mind raced with implications. This was a Vought-sponsored event—a perfect opportunity for them to showcase Carrie, to flaunt their prized asset. I couldn't let that happen. Not while they were manipulating her, using her like a pawn in their twisted game.

I felt a surge of determination. If I was going to save her, I needed to confront her. I had to be there, to see firsthand what Vought had planned. And I would find a way to get into the event, even if it meant bending the rules a little.

With the event's location noted, I turned my attention back to the present. I needed to reach out to my old contacts, people who could help me get in. If there was a way to infiltrate the event, I'd find it.

As I paced my apartment, I pulled out my phone again, scrolling through my contacts until I found Nathan's name. Nathan was a tech-savvy hacker I had met years ago through some... less-than-legal means. If anyone could get me access to the charity event, it was him.

I dialed, and the phone rang, each beep echoing in my mind as I thought about Carrie. Finally, Nathan picked up.

"Leo! What's up, man?" he said, his voice crackling through the line, his usual laid-back tone instantly putting me at ease.

"I need your help," I said, cutting straight to the chase. "I've got to get into Samaritan's Embrace. It's a Vought charity event."

Nathan paused. "Vought? Dude, you know that's risky. You remember what happened with the last guy who tried to go up against them, right?"

"I'm not trying to go up against them. I'm trying to protect someone," I replied, urgency lacing my voice. "It's about Ca... Supernova. She's going to be there."

"Wait, why? You're sure she'll be there?" he asked, suddenly serious.

"I know she will. I need to get to her before they use her," I insisted.

"Okay, okay. I can get you a fake ID and access. But you owe me, Leo. This isn't cheap, and it's going to be dangerous."

"I'll do whatever it takes," I promised, determination sharpening my resolve.

"Alright, I'll send you the details. Just be careful, okay? Vought doesn't play around."

After hanging up, I felt a mix of anxiety and adrenaline coursing through me. I had a plan, but I also had a sense of impending dread. This was my chance to reach Carrie, to warn her about the dangers she faced.

The next couple of days passed in a blur of preparations. I kept my phone close, constantly checking for Nathan's message. When it finally came through, I felt a rush of relief mixed with anxiety.

The fake ID was ready, and the access codes for the event were included in the message. I was in.

[] 

Saturday arrived, and I dressed carefully, opting for a simple yet polished outfit to blend in with the crowd. The charity event was set in a large banquet hall, lavishly decorated, all glimmering lights and glitzy decor—everything Vought wanted it to be. As I arrived at the venue, my heart raced. The air was thick with anticipation, and I could feel the presence of Vought's security everywhere.

I approached the entrance, my pulse quickening as I presented my fake ID to the guard. He scrutinized it for a moment, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. I held my breath, hoping I wouldn't be exposed. But finally, he waved me through. I stepped inside, taking a moment to steady myself against the opulence around me.

The room was packed, and I could see several familiar faces among the crowd—other heroes, Vought executives, and journalists eager for a story. My eyes scanned the room, searching for her.

And then, there she was—Carrie, in a stunning gown that seemed to radiate an ethereal glow. Supernova, indeed. The crowd surrounded her, drawn in by her charm, but I could see the uncertainty flickering in her eyes. She was putting on a brave front, but I could sense the fear beneath the surface.

My heart ached for her as I watched her navigate the crowd. I had to get closer. I maneuvered through the throng of people, keeping my gaze locked on her, weaving past cameras and onlookers until I was just a few feet away.

"Carrie!" I called out, my voice cutting through the chatter.

She turned, her eyes wide, and for a moment, I could see the confusion and recognition flash across her face. I took a step closer, desperate to reach her.

"Leo? What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice a mixture of surprise and concern.

"I came to see you. We need to talk," I said, urgency threading through my words.

"I can't just leave," she said, glancing around nervously. "There are reporters everywhere."

"I don't care about them. Carrie, you need to understand—Vought is not what it seems. They're using you, and I'm afraid of what they're planning."

She hesitated, glancing around as if she might be overheard. "I'm fine, Leo. They've been good to me. I'm—"

"No, you're not!" I cut in, desperation clawing at my insides. "You don't understand the danger you're in. You're part of their scheme, and you're not safe here. We need to get out."

Her expression shifted, doubt creeping in. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do know," I insisted, stepping closer. "I've been watching you. I've seen how they've treated you. Carrie, they want to control you, to turn you into something you're not."

She looked conflicted, torn between the allure of Vought's promises and the fear of the truth I was presenting. "But... I can help people. This is what I've always wanted."

I shook my head, my heart breaking for her. "Not like this. Not as their puppet."

Before she could respond, a loud voice cut through the noise. "Supernova! Over here!" A reporter waved, and the crowd began to surge toward Carrie. The moment was slipping away, and I knew I had to act quickly.

"Carrie, please," I said, desperation coating my voice. "Just listen to me. I can protect you. You don't have to do this alone."

She hesitated, her eyes searching mine for the truth, and I could feel the weight of the moment hanging between us.

"Leo... I—"

But before she could finish, the crowd closed in, and I was pushed back as the press clamored for her attention. I fought against the tide of bodies, reaching for her, but it was no use. I watched helplessly as she was whisked away, her expression fading into the chaos, and my heart sank.

The feeling of dread settled heavily in my chest. Time was slipping away, and I knew that if I didn't act fast, I would lose her to Vought's machinations forever. I had to find a way to get to her—before it was too late.

As the crowd thickened, I lost sight of Carrie—Supernova—and was left standing alone, frustration gnawing at me. The dim, shimmering lights of the event hall felt distant and artificial, like a sick facade masking the danger she was in.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fumbled to pull it out, my heart skipping a beat when I saw her name flash on the screen.

CARRIE: Hey, Leo. Are you still there?

I froze, staring at the message. She had reached out. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart racing. If I could just break through to her, there was still a chance to pull her from Vought's grip.

ME: I'm here. Where are you?

A pause. Those few seconds felt like an eternity, each beat of my heart hammering in my chest. I needed her to trust me.

CARRIE: Can we meet? Not here. It's too loud. Too many people.

Relief washed over me. She was reaching out. Maybe she wasn't as far gone as Mallory feared. Maybe there was hope. But there was still the danger, the ever-present shadow of Vought hanging over her. This wasn't going to be simple.

ME: Of course. Where?

Another pause.

CARRIE: Backstage, near the dressing rooms. I can slip away for a few minutes.

I glanced around the crowded room, trying to blend in as I made my way toward the side doors that led behind the scenes. The further I moved from the crowd, the quieter the chatter became, replaced by the soft hum of electrical equipment and distant footsteps.

I found a side hallway and kept walking, my pulse quickening. The bright lights of the main event faded behind me, leaving only the dim, sterile glow of the backstage area. My hand brushed the cold metal of the door to the dressing rooms, and I pushed it open.

Carrie stood there, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Even in the low light, I could see the uncertainty flickering in her eyes, a stark contrast to the confident face she wore in public.

"Carrie," I said softly, stepping closer.

She looked up, her gaze meeting mine. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The tension hung thick in the air, the weight of unspoken fears pressing down on both of us.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered, her voice laced with nerves. "If Vought finds out—"

"I don't care about Vought," I interrupted, my voice firm. "I care about you. Carrie, you have to listen to me. This—this whole thing—they're not what they seem. They don't want to help you. They want to control you."

Her eyes flickered with doubt, but she didn't move, didn't push me away. "You think I don't know what they're capable of by now? I saw it first hand with Homelander. Vought's decisions are influenced by those who have the real power. He decide when it's my time to shine, not Vought. They may have their say, but at the end of the day, it's his judgment that counts."

Her green eyes suddenly blackened as she said it. Then, for a brief moment, her face softened as if she remembered something. "I'm in a world of power and danger, and if I don't learn how to navigate it, I'll be consumed by it."

My heart sank at her words. The mention of Homelander sent a chill down my spine. Carrie was aware—more aware than I had feared. But her growing understanding of the twisted world she was trapped in only made it worse. She wasn't oblivious to Vought's manipulations; she knew they were using her, but she saw it as something inevitable, something she had to endure to survive. And worst of all, she was looking up to Homelander.

"Carrie, you're not like him," I said, my voice hoarse, fighting the dread that gnawed at me. "You're nothing like Homelander. He's a monster. You... you still have a choice. You don't have to follow his path."

Her eyes flickered again, darkening as if some internal struggle was tearing at her. "Do I really have a choice, Leo?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with something like sorrow. "I didn't ask for these powers. I didn't ask for Vought or Homelander to notice me. But here I am. And now I have to play the game. Because if I don't, they'll turn me into something worse. Or... they'll kill me."

The vulnerability in her voice nearly broke me. This wasn't the same scared girl from Chamberlain; this was someone who had been backed into a corner, forced to fight a battle she didn't want to fight. I couldn't let her fall deeper into Vought's clutches or—worse—become a pawn in Homelander's twisted plans.

"Carrie," I said, stepping closer, my voice steady but thick with emotion. "You do have a choice. You don't have to let them define you. I know it feels like you're trapped, but you're not alone in this."

She turned away, her eyes avoiding mine as she struggled with the weight of it all. "You don't get it, Leo," she muttered, her voice cracking. "I can't just walk away. They won't let me. Homelander won't let me."

I felt a sharp pang of anger at the mention of Homelander. He was already tightening his grip on her, molding her into something dangerous, something she wasn't.

"You're stronger than they think you are," I urged, my voice rising with frustration. "They want you to believe you have no control, but that's not true. You're not their weapon, Carrie. You're you. You don't need their approval, or Homelander's. You need to trust yourself."

She finally turned to look at me, her green eyes flickering between doubt and hope. For a moment, I saw the real Carrie—the girl who'd been crushed under the weight of everything Vought had done to her, the girl still fighting to keep some part of herself intact.

"But what if I can't control it?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What if I hurt people again?"

"Again?" I asked, sounding surprised.

Carrie's eyes widened, and she bit her lip, as if she had said too much. She took a step back, her arms wrapping tightly around herself. I saw the fear in her eyes, but it wasn't fear of Vought or Homelander. It was fear of herself.

"What happened?" I asked softly, stepping closer. "Carrie, what did you mean by that?"

She hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the door, as if she was thinking about running. But something kept her rooted to the spot. After a long moment, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

"There was an... accident," she began, her voice wavering. "I didn't mean to. It just... happened. I couldn't stop it. I—"

She choked on the words, her eyes filling with tears she tried to blink away. My heart clenched as I watched her battle with the memory. I wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but I knew she had to tell it in her own time. "What happened?" I repeated my question.

Carrie took a deep breath in and looked at me, her arms folded. "Have you heard about my backstory? As told by Vought?"

I nodded, already knowing the version Vought had spun, but I could tell that Carrie had a different story to tell.

"They said you grew up in a small town that adored you," I began carefully. "Your parents struggled to conceive a child as they wanted to start a family of their own. They prayed to God for a child and when you were born, they saw you as a miracle. Vought spun the story that you were always destined for greatness—that your powers manifested early and that you used them to save your town from disaster."

Carrie shook her head, bitterness lining her voice. "That's not what happened. Not even close." She took a deep breath, gathering her strength before she continued.

"My mom... she was strict, religious—obsessed with purity. She thought everything that wasn't in line with her faith was a sin, including me. When my powers started showing up, she didn't see them as a gift. She thought I was cursed. Vought cleaned up the story to make it palatable for the public, to turn me into this... this beacon of hope." Her voice wavered, and she looked down, her hands trembling. "But the truth is, my powers... they came out in ways I couldn't control. The Chamberlain disaster wasn't a natural catastrophe, Leo. It was me."

Her words hit me like a sledgehammer. The truth unraveled before me, darker than anything Vought could have crafted. "You caused it?" I asked softly, trying to make sense of it.

Carrie nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. "I was bullied. Tormented, really. And I just... snapped. Prom night, everything came to a head. The kids at school played this cruel prank on me, and something inside me broke. I couldn't stop it. The fire, the destruction—it was all me. I killed them. Everyone. I didn't mean to, but I lost control."

Her confession hung heavy in the air, and I could feel the weight of her guilt pressing down on her. This wasn't the story Vought had spun. This wasn't the sanitized version of a hero's origin. This was raw, tragic, and heartbreaking.

"Carrie..." I began, but she cut me off.

"Vought found me after it all happened. They swooped in, cleaned up the mess, erased the bodies, covered up the deaths. They told the world it was a gas leak, and they took me away, promising to help me control my powers. They made me believe I could be a hero, that I could redeem myself." Her voice cracked. "But they don't care about redemption. They care about power. About controlling me, turning me into their next weapon."

I could feel my chest tightening as her words sank in. Vought hadn't just covered up her past; they had manipulated her trauma, twisted her into something they could use. And now, they were grooming her to become the very thing she feared most—a monster.

"You're not a monster, Carrie," I said, my voice firm but gentle. "What happened that night... you were pushed to the brink. Vought has used your pain against you, but that doesn't define who you are. You're not like Homelander or any of them."

She shook her head, her eyes filled with doubt. "How can you say that? How can you look at me, knowing what I've done, and still believe that?"

"Because I've seen who you really are," I replied, stepping closer, my hand reaching out to her. "I've watched you fight to stay yourself, to not give in to the darkness. You're not like them. You have a heart, Carrie. You care."

Her eyes softened, but the fear still lingered. "What if I can't control it again, Leo? What if the next time I lose control, it's even worse?"

I stepped closer, my hand gently taking hers. "Then I'll be there. I won't let you lose yourself. We'll figure this out together, Carrie. You don't have to carry this burden alone anymore."

She looked at me for a long moment, her defenses slowly crumbling. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she let out a shaky breath, and I could see the walls she had built around herself begin to crack. "I'm scared," she whispered, the vulnerability in her voice making my heart ache.

"I know," I said softly. "But you don't have to be. Not anymore."

For a brief moment, we stood there in the dim light of the backstage hallway, and the weight of everything—Vought, Homelander, the looming threat of her powers—seemed to fade. It was just me and her, two broken people trying to find a way through the storm.

But I knew this wasn't the end. This was only the beginning. Vought wasn't going to let her go easily, and Homelander's shadow loomed large over everything. But I didn't care. I wasn't going to let them win. Not this time.

"We'll get through this," I promised, squeezing her hand. "I'm not giving up on you, Carrie."

She nodded, a small, fragile smile forming on her lips. "Thank you, Leo."

And for the first time, I felt a flicker of hope. We still had a long fight ahead of us, but at least now, we were fighting it together.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

The dressing room door clicked shut behind Leo, and the weight of the world settled back on my shoulders.

I leaned against the wall, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath shallow as the flood of memories overwhelmed me again. The flames, the screams, the smell of burning flesh-I could still feel it all. I had let Leo in, opened up a wound I had fought so hard to keep closed, and now the guilt was pouring out, threatening to drown me.

It was my fault. All of it.

And no matter how much Leo tried to convince me otherwise, no matter how hard I tried to tell myself I wasn't like Homelander, I couldn't shake the truth. I wasn't in control.

I was dangerous.

I pressed my palms into my eyes, willing the tears to stay down. Crying wouldn't solve anything. I had to stay strong, keep my emotions in check-because if I didn't... if I let myself slip even for a moment...

The door creaked open, and I stiffened, snapping back to the present. For a split second, I thought it was Leo, returning to reassure me one last time. But when I looked up, my heart sank.

It was Homelander.

He walked in with that arrogant smile, the one that always made my skin crawl. His blue eyes glimmered with that eerie, hollow light, and I could feel the power radiating from him, suffocating the room.

"You seem upset, Carrie." His voice was soft, too soft, like he was trying to soothe a frightened child. "You know, that's not a good look for Vought's rising star."

I straightened up, forcing the panic down, replacing it with the mask I had perfected for the cameras. Calm. Confident. But my hands trembled, and I couldn't quite meet his gaze.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice too flat, too rehearsed.

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Don't lie to me, Carrie."

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his presence crushing me. There was no point in trying to hide anything from Homelander. He always saw right through me.

"What did Leo want?" he asked, his tone shifting, a hint of menace creeping in.

I cleared my throat, surprised at his sudden question. "Leo? Who says anything about Leo? At least I don't recall ever mentioning-."

"I saw him in your dressing room," he replied coldly and stepped forward. "And I saw him leaving."

I hesitated, my pulse quickening. If I told him the truth-if I even hinted at the conversation Leo and I had just shared-there was no telling what Homelander would do. But lying outright... that was even more dangerous.

I took a breath, steadying myself. "Leo's just... worried about me, that's all," I said carefully. "He's trying to protect me."

Homelander chuckled, but there was no warmth in it, just a cold, biting edge. "Protect you? That's cute. But you don't need protection, Carrie. You need to understand your place."

His words sliced through me like a knife. I forced myself to meet his gaze, though every instinct screamed to look away, to avoid the intensity of his stare. "I know my place," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

"Do you?" Homelander's smile vanished, replaced by a hard, predatory look. "Because it seems to me like you're forgetting who's really in charge here. Leo's a distraction. A weakness. And we both know there's no room for weakness in this business."

I swallowed hard, feeling the pressure of his words closing in on me. "I'm not weak," I whispered, but it felt like a lie even as I said it.

Homelander's smile returned, but it was colder than before. "Good," he said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "Then prove it. Prove that you belong here, Carrie. And that you're not going to let some pathetic little boy get in the way of your future."

My stomach twisted, a cold dread settling deep in my gut. He wasn't just talking about my career-he was issuing a warning. A threat. And the worst part was, I knew he meant every word.

"I... I won't," I managed to say, though my throat felt tight.

"Glad to hear it," Homelander said, his tone brightening again, as if the conversation had never taken a dark turn. "You're special, Carrie. More special than anyone else in The Seven. Don't forget that."

Suddenly, the memories came rushing back in full force. The charity gala, Homelander's office, his weight on top of me, his power and control over me, the suffocating fear that had consumed me. He did let me go that night, once he was done with me of course. But the memory was still raw, seared into my mind like an unhealed wound.

Now, standing in front of him again, I felt the same helplessness threatening to take over. I hated it. Hated him.

But I couldn't let him see that. I couldn't give him the satisfaction.

"I won't let anyone get in the way," I forced out, the words sounding stronger than I felt. "I'll prove it."

Homelander studied me for a moment, his icy gaze piercing through whatever fragile armor I had left. Then, as suddenly as he'd appeared, he stepped back, his smile widening into something that made my stomach churn.

"That's what I like to hear," he said smoothly, his voice dripping with false warmth. "You're learning."

He turned to leave, and I forced myself to stay still, to not crumble in front of him. But as he reached the door, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "Just remember, Carrie... You're only as powerful as I allow you to be."

With that, he walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar. The moment he was gone, I slumped against the wall, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. My whole body shook with the effort it had taken to keep it together.

I wasn't safe. Not from Homelander, not from Vought, and maybe not even from myself.

Leo didn't know the half of it. He had no idea how deep I was in-how much danger I was in every second. And the worst part? A part of me feared Homelander might be right. Maybe I did belong here, in the twisted world Vought had built. Maybe I was meant to be just like him.

I pressed my fingers to my temple, trying to fight off the surge of nausea. No. I wasn't like him. I couldn't be. I wouldn't let myself.

But as the memory of Homelander's grip on me faded into the background, I knew the only way out was to become something he couldn't control. Something stronger.

I just had no idea how much of myself I'd lose in the process.

[]

Night came and the party was louder than I expected. Vought had really outdone themselves this time, throwing one of their signature galas-half publicity, half networking. The entire room was a swirling mess of glitzy lights, celebrities, and corporate sponsors, all mingling with Supes like they were some rare exhibit on display. I didn't want to be here, but Vought had insisted.

"Supernova's public image needs a boost," Ashley had said, not giving me much of a choice. "Just show up, smile, shake hands. It'll be easy."

It wasn't easy. It never was.

I was already two drinks in, trying to numb the awkward tension that clung to me like a second skin. The champagne was too sweet, the bubbles almost sharp as they slid down my throat. I wasn't drunk-yet-but I was getting there. Anything to get through this night.

"Carrie!" The voice cut through the crowd, and I turned to see The Deep making his way over, flashing that all-too-perfect smile. As he reached me, he threw an arm over my shoulders like we were old friends, pulling me in closer than I liked.

"Hey, Deep," I said, forcing a smile. "Enjoying the party?"

"Please, call me Kevin," he said, laughing like he'd just made the funniest joke. I could smell the cologne on him-overpowering, a little too strong, like everything else about him. He was already holding a drink, some kind of cocktail that looked as artificial as his grin.

"I saw you standing here all by yourself," he continued, leaning in just a little too close. "Thought you might need some company."

I tensed under his arm, trying not to make it obvious as I slipped out from his grasp. "I'm fine, really. Just... taking a breather."

He didn't take the hint. Instead, he gestured to a passing server and grabbed another drink, shoving it into my hand. "Here, you've gotta try this. It's the best they've got. Trust me."

I glanced down at the glass. The liquid inside was a pale gold, almost shimmering under the lights. It didn't look like champagne-stronger, maybe. But before I could say anything, The Deep was already clinking his glass against mine, urging me to take a sip.

"Come on, Carrie. Loosen up! You're too stiff. Have a drink. Enjoy yourself."

I hesitated, the glass cold in my hand. My instincts told me to put it down, to walk away, but something about the way he was watching me made me second-guess myself. It wasn't the first time I'd been in a situation like this. And like always, I felt the weight of Vought's expectations pressing down on me. Supernova needed to be liked. Needed to fit in.

So, I took a sip.

It was stronger than I thought. The alcohol hit me fast, warm and heavy as it slid down my throat. I tried to mask my reaction, but The Deep was already grinning, clearly pleased with himself.

"There you go! See? Isn't that better?"

I smiled weakly, nodding as the warmth spread through my body. My head felt a little lighter now, the edges of the room softening, blurring around the edges. I could hear The Deep talking, but the words were starting to drift in and out, like they were coming from somewhere far away.

"Let's get out of here," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the haze. "It's too loud. I've got a room upstairs-we can chill there, just the two of us."

I blinked, trying to focus on his face. His smile hadn't changed, but there was something about his eyes that made my stomach twist. The room felt too bright, too crowded. I wanted to say no, but the words wouldn't come. I was too dizzy, too disoriented.

"I don't think-" I started, but my voice came out softer than I meant. I tried to step back, but my legs felt heavy, uncooperative.

"Come on," he urged, his hand on my arm now, guiding me toward the back of the room. "You'll feel better once we're away from all this noise. Just a little privacy."

I wanted to pull away, but everything felt off-kilter, like I wasn't fully in control of my body anymore. The drink had hit me harder than it should have. I could feel it clouding my mind, slowing down my thoughts, making it hard to resist.

"I don't know..." I mumbled, but The Deep wasn't listening. He was already leading me toward the elevators, his grip firm but not forceful. Just insistent enough that I didn't have the energy to fight it.

We stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid shut with a soft click. My stomach flipped as the floor shifted beneath me, and I grabbed the railing to steady myself. The Deep stood next to me, too close, his hand brushing against mine.

"You're going to have a good time, Carrie," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I'll make sure of it."

The words sent a chill down my spine, cutting through the fog in my brain. I wanted to scream, to push him away, to get out, but my body wasn't cooperating. Everything felt slow, like I was moving underwater, and the world around me was slipping further and further out of reach.

The elevator doors opened, and The Deep gently tugged me forward, guiding me into the dimly lit hallway. I could feel my legs wobbling beneath me, but I couldn't stop him. I couldn't stop any of it.

This wasn't right.

But I couldn't fight it. Not now. Not like this.

I was drowning.

The hallway felt endless as we walked, my legs barely holding me up as The Deep led me forward, his hand still gripping my arm. My vision blurred and my thoughts felt disjointed, as though everything around me was unraveling, slipping through my fingers. I wanted to pull away, to protest, but it was like my body was betraying me. Every step felt heavier than the last.

We stopped in front of a door, and The Deep fumbled with his key card. The sound of it beeping as he unlocked the door felt far too loud in the quiet hallway, almost deafening. The door swung open, revealing a large, luxurious room-one of Vought's top suites, no doubt.

"Here we are," he said, his voice soft and coaxing. "Just relax. Everything's going to be fine."

But nothing about this was fine. A knot of dread had lodged itself in my chest, growing tighter and tighter with each passing second. I wanted to scream, to tell him to stop, but my words were tangled in my throat, and the fog in my mind made it impossible to think clearly. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to run, to get away, but I couldn't make myself move.

The door clicked shut behind us, and I swayed slightly on my feet, feeling the world tilt. The Deep reached out, steadying me with both hands, his grip firm yet unsettlingly gentle. He led me over to the bed, easing me down onto the edge.

"See?" he murmured, crouching in front of me now, his face uncomfortably close. "You just needed to get away from all that noise. You're safe here."

Safe.The word felt wrong. There was nothing safe about this, about being alone with him in this room, barely able to keep my thoughts straight. I forced myself to focus, to try and clear the fog, but it was like swimming against an overwhelming current.

The Deep sat next to me on the bed, his hand resting on my knee. I flinched at the contact, but he didn't move away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against my skin. I could feel my pulse quicken, panic starting to claw its way up my throat, but my body felt like lead, unresponsive to the terror racing through my mind.

"Carrie," he said softly, his voice almost soothing if not for the underlying menace I could sense. "You don't have to be so tense. You're always so on guard, so serious. Just let go, okay? I can help you with that."

I shook my head weakly, trying to pull away from him, but my movements were sluggish, like I was moving through molasses. My mind was screaming no, but I couldn't get the words out. I wanted to yell, to push him away, but it was as if my body refused to obey.

"You're just drunk," he whispered, his hand sliding up my thigh. "Relax. I'll take care of you."

The panic surged again, cutting through the haze just enough for me to manage a whisper. "Stop... please."

But he didn't stop. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing my ear as he spoke. "Carrie, don't fight it. You don't need to be a hero right now. You're always fighting... you don't need to fight me."

His words sent a shiver of disgust through me, and I tried to pull away again, but it was no use. I felt trapped, like I was sinking deeper into the bed, into the fog that had overtaken me. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think clearly. My skin crawled under his touch, but I couldn't get away.

A part of me was terrified that no one would come, that no one even knew where I was. Vought's watchful eyes weren't here to protect me-this was happening because of them, because they'd put me in this position, because they owned me.

I blinked, trying to focus, trying to push through the haze clouding my mind. "Please," I whispered again, my voice barely audible.

But The Deep didn't listen. His hand was on my arm now, sliding up toward my shoulder as he leaned in even closer. His breath smelled like alcohol and something sickly sweet, and I wanted to vomit, but I couldn't move.

I kept blacking out and drifting in and out of consciousness, barely able to register what was happening. Every time I blinked, the world seemed to shift around me, growing darker, more distorted. I could feel The Deep's hands on me, his touch growing more invasive, and I was powerless to stop him.

I could feel the cool breeze coming through my body, giving me goosebumps as The Deep's grip tightened on me. His hands felt clammy, like the touch of something inhuman. My head was spinning, the alcohol pulling me under, drowning me in its haze. Every instinct screamed for me to fight back, but my body wouldn't respond. My powers, usually humming under my skin like a second heartbeat, were completely out of reach, smothered by the alcohol and fear. I had never felt so powerless in my life.

A small part of me tried to focus, to gather what little strength I had left. If I could just... concentrate. But the haze was too thick, and his hands kept moving, exploring, violating.

My heart pounded in my chest, the sound deafening in my ears, yet my voice was still a whisper. "Stop," I tried again, but it came out as a weak croak, barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears.

The Deep didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge my plea. His movements were purposeful, almost mechanical, as if this was something he'd done before, something he expected to get away with. My mind was screaming, but my body remained limp, and naked with the cool breeze giving me goosebumps, and the terror in my chest was like ice spreading through my veins.

In that moment, I wasn't Supernova. I wasn't the strong, confident hero that people looked up to. I wasn't the powerful supe that Vought paraded around like their prized possession. I was just a girl, alone in a room with a predator, completely vulnerable and exposed.

I felt something hot and sharp rise in my throat, a mixture of disgust and anger, but it wasn't enough to break free. I hated him. I hated Vought. I hated myself for not being able to stop this.

Then, my body felt like it was going back and forth on the bed as the room continued to spin around me. Everything seemed to blur together in a disorienting whirlwind-his touch, the cold sheets beneath me, the suffocating weight of helplessness. My mind was screaming, but my body remained limp, like a puppet with its strings cut.

His hands grabbed my shoulders as my body began to slowly move toward my right, my stomach resting flat against the sheets. My legs were hanging from the edge, my knees bent and barely touching the floor.

The sheets felt like ice against my skin, the cold fabric grounding me momentarily in the nightmare unfolding around me. My face was buried in the pillow, the smell of detergent sharp in my nostrils, but it did nothing to clear the fog that still clung to my mind. The Deep's hands roamed my body with a slow, calculated ease, like he had all the time in the world, like I wasn't even there.

I wanted to scream, to push him off, to summon every ounce of power I had, but the alcohol had done its job too well. My powers-my telekinesis-were just out of reach, like trying to grasp at smoke. I could feel it, that familiar spark of energy humming beneath my skin, but I couldn't control it, couldn't access it. It was like someone had turned off the switch inside me, leaving me trapped in my own body, helpless.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I bit my lip, forcing them back. Crying wouldn't help me now. I needed to stay focused, needed to think of a way out of this, even if my body wasn't cooperating. There had to be something-some small sliver of control I could take back.

The Deep shifted behind me, his weight pressing into the bed as he leaned over me. His breath was hot and rancid against the back of my neck, and I had to fight the urge to retch. Every part of me wanted to recoil, to lash out, but my limbs were like lead, heavy and useless.

"You're gonna thank me for this," he murmured, his voice low and breathy, like this was some intimate moment we were sharing. His hands slid lower, fingers tracing the curve of my spine, and I wanted to die. "No need to fight it, Carrie. Just let go."

No.

A flicker of something-rage, panic, power-surged in my chest, but it sputtered out just as quickly. I was too far gone, too drunk, too disoriented. The alcohol was a cage, wrapping around my thoughts, my instincts, my very soul.

But I wasn't alone in this room. Not really.

I could feel something else stirring deep within me, something ancient, something dark. A part of me I had long kept buried, hidden beneath layers of control and restraint. It was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for a moment of weakness to break free.

And right now, I was weak. So weak.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus, to call on that power, that part of me I had always feared. It was dangerous, unpredictable-but right now, it was all I had. If I couldn't stop him, maybe it could.

The Deep's hands were on my hips now, pulling me closer to him, positioning me how he wanted. I could feel the bed shift as he moved, his breath coming faster, more urgent. My mind screamed at me to do something, anything, but my body wouldn't listen.

I opened my eyes and suddenly, the world around me changed. Everything sharpened, the colors drained, leaving only shades of black, white, and gray. I blinked, unsure if it was a trick of my mind or if something within me had finally snapped. It didn't matter. My fear was still there, cold and gnawing, but something else had taken over-something darker, primal, like an animal roused from a long slumber.

The Deep was still moving behind me, unaware of the shift that had just taken place. He leaned in, his hands tightening on my hips, pulling me back toward him with that disgusting smirk on his face. Moans and grunts escaped from the Deep, quickening his pace.

"Feels so good," The Deep muttered under his breath, completely absorbed in his own twisted desires. His grip on my hips tightened, and I could feel the pressure of his fingers digging into my skin. "Homelander's right. You do have a fuckable ass."

Then, something inside me snapped.

[]

When I woke up, my head was thumping. The pounding in my head was relentless, like a drumbeat pulsing through my skull. I groaned, blinking against the harsh light streaming in through the hotel room's curtains. The familiar sterile smell of Vought's luxury suite clung to the air. My throat felt raw, and my body was stiff, sore in ways I couldn't explain.

For a second, I couldn't remember where I was or what had happened. Then, it hit me all at once-The Deep, the party, the drink, his hands on me. My stomach churned with nausea, and I bolted upright in bed, nearly toppling off the edge as I tried to make sense of my surroundings. The bed was rumpled, the sheets tangled around me, but I was alone.

Alone.

I touched my body instinctively, my hands trembling as I tried to piece together the fragments of the night before. My memory was a mess, disjointed flashes of The Deep's touch, his voice, his disgusting smile. The fear, the fog in my mind, the sense of helplessness-and then, that feeling. That dark, primal force I had tapped into. What had happened after that?

I struggled to remember, but the details were blurry, like they were buried beneath layers of static. I didn't know if it was the alcohol or something else, something more dangerous. But I did know one thing: whatever had happened, I had survived it. And The Deep was gone.

I took a deep breath, fighting the bile rising in my throat. My body felt different, strange, like it wasn't entirely my own. I didn't know what I had done, but the room felt... off. The air was heavy, charged with an energy that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Slowly, I climbed out of bed, my legs wobbling as I stood. My clothes were scattered on the floor, and I quickly gathered them up, pulling them on with shaking hands. My head was still pounding, but the fog was beginning to lift, replaced by a growing sense of dread. I needed to get out of here. Now.

I stumbled toward the door, nearly tripping over the rug in my haste. As I reached for the handle, I paused, my heart skipping a beat as I caught sight of the mirror on the wall.

There was blood on my hands.

It wasn't much, just a few faint streaks across my fingers and palms, but it was enough to make my breath catch in my throat. My reflection stared back at me, wide-eyed and pale, my hair disheveled, my clothes askew. And there, on the floor near the bed, was a dark, wet stain.

The dark stain on the floor drew my gaze, like an anchor pulling me into the depths of my worst fears. My legs wobbled as I approached it, the distance between me and the patch of darkness shrinking with every shaky step. The closer I got, the more I realized-this wasn't a dream. This wasn't some twisted memory playing tricks on my mind.

It was blood.

My heart pounded in my chest, each beat louder than the last. I knelt down, reaching toward the stain but stopping just short of touching it. The deep red soaked into the fibers of the carpet, almost black in the dim lighting of the room. A metallic scent hung in the air, sharp and undeniable.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and stood quickly, stepping back from the scene as if it could somehow make it less real. My pulse quickened as I tried to piece together the fractured memories of the night. The Deep's voice, his touch, the sickening feeling of powerlessness. I remembered feeling weak, drunk, unable to fight back. But then...

Something had happened.

That darkness. That power I had always kept buried deep within me. I had reached for it, desperate, terrified. And now... now I didn't know what I had unleashed.

A soft groan pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts. I froze, my entire body tensing as I turned toward the source of the sound. In the corner of the room, half-hidden by shadows, The Deep lay slumped against the wall. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, and his suit was torn and bloodied. His hands twitched slightly, fingers curling and uncurling as if he was trying to move but couldn't.

For a brief, horrifying moment, I wondered if I had killed him.

But no-- he was still alive. Barely.

I took a step back, my mind racing. What the hell had I done to him? I didn't remember using my powers, at least not consciously, but there was no other explanation. I had blacked out, lost control. And now, I had to deal with the consequences.

The Deep's eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused as he struggled to sit up. His mouth opened, but no sound came out at first, just a rasping breath. Then, he looked at me-really looked at me-and his expression shifted from confusion to fear.

"Carrie..." he croaked, his voice hoarse. "W-What did you-"

"I don't... I don't know..." I stammered, stepping further away from him, as if putting more distance between us would make this nightmare disappear. "I- I dont remember what-"

He coughed, a wet, choking sound that made my stomach twist. His hand moved to his chest, where blood had soaked through his suit. I didn't know if it was from internal injuries or something worse. I couldn't remember what I had done, but whatever it was, it had been enough to break him.

My mind screamed at me to leave. To run. To get out before anyone found us like this. But my feet wouldn't move. I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. The Deep, one of Vought's prized heroes, reduced to a bleeding, broken mess on the floor. And it was my fault.

His lips moved again, forming words that I barely heard over the roar of blood in my ears. "You... you're... a monster."

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and damning. A monster. The word hit me harder than any physical blow, cutting deeper than I thought possible. My chest tightened, and I took another shaky step back, my mind reeling.

I had to go. Now.

Without another word, I turned and bolted for the door, fumbling with the handle as my trembling fingers struggled to grip it. The hallway outside was mercifully empty, and I stumbled out, pulling the door shut behind me with a soft click. My heart raced as I leaned against the wall, trying to calm my breathing, trying to think.

What had I done?

I glanced around, half-expecting someone-anyone-to come around the corner and see me standing here, covered in blood. But the hallway was eerily quiet, the distant hum of the Vought's ventilation system the only sound.

I needed to get out of here. I needed to get away from this, from him, from whatever I had unleashed.

My legs felt like jelly as I made my way down the hall, my head spinning. The alcohol was still in my system, but it wasn't the cause of the fog clouding my mind. It was fear-pure, unfiltered terror at what I had become, at what I had done.

As I reached the elevator, I caught sight of my reflection in the polished metal doors. My hair was a mess, my eyes wide and wild, my skin pale. Blood smeared my cheek, my hands, a stark contrast against my trembling frame.

Supernova. Hero. That's what they called me. That's what Vought had made me. But looking at myself now, I didn't feel like a hero. I felt like exactly what The Deep had called me.

A monster.

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped inside, my heart thundering in my chest. As the doors closed, sealing me away from the chaos upstairs, I couldn't shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐋𝐄𝐎

"You sure this double date is a good idea?" I asked Hughie, side-eyeing him as we sat in the dimly lit bar. "Considering you're dating Starlight just to get information on Vought?"

Hughie scoffed, rolling his eyes. "And what about you stalking Carrie White?" he shot back, sarcasm thick in his voice. "Like, Carrie White—of all people."

My jaw clenched. Carrie wasn't just some girl. She was... dangerous. Special. I wasn't stalking her. It was more complicated than that.

"Look, it's not the same," I muttered. "Carrie's... different. I need to make sure she doesn't end up like the others. You know how Vought is—if they're involved, it's bad news."

"Yeah, and they're involved with Annie too, which is why I'm doing what I have to do. I care about her, Leo, but that doesn't mean I can trust her. We're playing in the same league here."

The bartender came by and dropped two beers on the counter. I took a swig, not quite able to shake the discomfort building in my chest. Hughie had a point, but I wasn't willing to admit it. Not out loud, anyway.

"You keep getting closer to Carrie," he continued. "And eventually, Vought's gonna notice. What's your plan when they come for her? You can't play both sides forever, man."

I looked at him, the weight of everything I was hiding pressing down. Vought was ruthless, and if they ever figured out how important Carrie was, they wouldn't hesitate to use her like they had with all the others. She deserved better. She deserved the truth, but I wasn't sure I was ready to tell her.

"I'm gonna protect her," I said, my voice low but firm.

Hughie raised an eyebrow, a skeptical smile forming on his lips. "Yeah, we'll see how that goes."

I took another sip of my beer, letting the bitter taste fill my mouth as I considered Hughie's words. "You think it's that easy?" I challenged. "Vought doesn't just let go of people. They'll come for her. And if they do, I'll make sure she has a way out."

"But at what cost, Leo?" Hughie leaned closer, his expression serious. "You think you can keep her safe forever? You think they won't notice? You're putting both your lives on the line."

I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. But deep down, I knew he was right. The stakes were high, and my feelings for Carrie were complicating everything. She was so much more than just a target to me. She was... my anchor.

"We'll figure it out," I said, my voice firmer this time. "We just need to play it smart. I'll keep my distance, but I'll make sure she knows what she's up against."

Hughie sighed, shaking his head. "You're going to end up in over your head. Just remember, no matter how much you care about her, Vought isn't a game. They'll tear you apart if you get in their way."

I nodded, but the weight of his words hung in the air between us. I could feel the uncertainty creeping in, but I couldn't let it take over. Carrie was worth the risk. I needed to believe that.

As the night wore on and the bar filled with laughter and music, I tried to push my concerns aside. But the truth was, I was playing a dangerous game, and with every interaction I had with Carrie, I felt like I was dancing on a tightrope. One misstep, and everything could come crashing down.

The door swung open, and in walked Annie and Carrie. My heart raced. Carrie looked stunning, her hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She caught my eye and smiled, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

Hughie nudged me, a knowing grin on his face. "See? It's gonna be fine."

But in the pit of my stomach, I felt a storm brewing. Would I be able to protect her when it mattered most? Or would I lose her to the very monster I was trying to fight?

Carrie approached, her eyes bright. "Hey, you two! Sorry we're late. Traffic was a nightmare."

I stood up, forcing a smile, and as I took her hand in mine, I couldn't help but think that this was just the calm before the storm. I needed to keep her close, keep her safe, even if it meant risking everything I had.

As Carrie settled into the booth across from me, the warmth of her presence began to drown out my anxieties. Hughie and Annie were caught up in their own conversation, but I couldn't take my eyes off Carrie. There was a light in her eyes that was contagious, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was all a façade.

"You alright?" Carrie asked, her voice soft but filled with concern. "You seem a bit... tense."

I forced a smile, trying to hide my worries. "Just a lot on my mind," I replied, hoping she'd let it go. But she didn't, and that was part of what I loved about her. She could see through my walls.

"Is it about Vought?" she pressed, tilting her head slightly. I felt a pang of guilt; she didn't deserve to be dragged into this mess.

I shook my head. "No, it's nothing I can't handle." But as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. I was stepping deeper into dangerous territory with every moment I spent with her.

"Alright, if you say so," she replied, her gaze lingering on me. For a brief second, I felt like I could trust her with everything, but the reality of our situation reminded me that secrets had a way of unraveling things that were too fragile to expose.

Annie and Hughie were now laughing about something that had happened during their first meeting, and I couldn't help but feel a little envious of their normalcy. They had a clear goal—a shared mission against Vought—while my connection with Carrie felt like a ticking time bomb.

"You know, if you ever need someone to talk to about Vought," Carrie began cautiously, "I'm here for you."

Her sincerity tugged at my heart. "Thanks, Carrie. It's just... complicated." I glanced over at Hughie, who caught my eye and gave me a supportive nod, as if to say, just tell her.

"Leo?" Annie's voice interrupted my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. She had a curious look on her face, a mix of concern and mischief. "You still with us?"

I blinked, forcing my focus back to the table. "Yeah, sorry. Just lost in thought."

Annie leaned in closer, a teasing smile spreading across her lips. "What were you two talking about? Secrets?" She shot a knowing glance at Carrie, who raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing on her lips as she looked between us.

"No secrets here," I said too quickly, trying to defuse the tension. "Just debating who would win in a fight: a shark or a bear."

Annie rolled her eyes. "Classic bar conversation, right? But seriously, Leo, if you ever need to vent, you know I'm here."

"Thanks, Annie," I said, appreciating the offer. But the truth was, I wasn't ready to open up about the real danger looming over us

Carrie's gaze met mine, and I could see a flicker of concern. "I mean it, Leo. Whatever it is, we can handle it together."

Her sincerity made my heart ache. I wanted to share everything—the truth about Vought, about the risks she faced—but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was terrified of losing her.

Hughie, sensing the mood shift, jumped in. "Alright, enough of this serious talk! Let's order some food. I'm starving!" He waved the bartender over, his attempt to lighten the atmosphere helping to momentarily push aside the unease that had settled between us.

As we ordered wings and fries, I couldn't help but watch Carrie interact with Annie. Their laughter rang out like music, and I felt a warmth spread through me. It was easy to forget, for a moment, the threat that loomed over us.

But as the food arrived and the laughter continued, my mind wandered back to the message on my phone. I needed to find out who was watching us and why. Vought's interest in Carrie couldn't just be coincidence; they were always a step ahead, and I had to figure out how to protect her without scaring her away.

"Leo, you good? You seem a million miles away," Hughie said, his brow furrowed in concern.

I forced another smile, raising my beer. "Just enjoying the moment, man."

But inside, I was a storm of emotions—fear, love, determination. I had to keep Carrie safe, even if it meant diving deeper into the mess that was Vought. I needed a plan, and I needed it fast.

As the night wore on, I resolved to take action. I couldn't let fear dictate my choices. If I was going to protect Carrie, I had to confront the danger head-on.

"Hey, Carrie," I said, breaking into her conversation with Annie. "Can we talk for a second? Just outside?"

Her expression shifted to one of curiosity, and she nodded. "Sure! What's up?"

I stood up, my heart racing as I led her outside into the cool night air. The street was quiet, and for a moment, I could breathe without the pressure of the bar's atmosphere surrounding us.

"What's going on, Leo?" she asked, her eyes searching mine. "You seem really on edge."

I took a deep breath in and looked at her. "You're probably wondering what's my beef with Vought is?"

Carrie folded her arms. "Well, you're the one stalking me and having this fixation of saving me from them."

I took a deep breath, searching for the right words. This was the moment I had been dreading, but it was also necessary. "Look, Carrie, I need you to know something important. My name isn't really McCall. It's Butcher. Leo Butcher."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "But why the alias?"

I sighed, glancing around to make sure we were alone. "Because of my mother, Becca. She... she used to work with Vought, and something terrible things happened to her. I don't want that to happen to you."

Carrie's expression softened, a mix of curiosity and concern. "What happened to her?"

I hesitated, memories flooding my mind. "My mom was the Senior Director of Digital Marketing at Vought. She and my dad was at Vought's Christmas party eight years ago and... that was when they met Homelander."

Carrie's eyes widened, shock and concern etched across her face. "Your parents know Homelander?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "Carrie, I wasn't always close to Vought. I'm here because of what they did to my family," I continued, trying to bring Carrie closer to the truth. "My mom was raped by Homelander. And she disappeared."

Carrie's expression shifted, and I saw the shock set in as I revealed the truth about my mother and Vought. "Leo, I had no idea... This is so much to take in," she said softly. "I mean... He raped me too."

The weight of Carrie's revelation hit me like a punch to the gut. I stared at her, my mind racing. It then turned to Hayes, that corrupted lieutenant planning to recruit Supes in the army while he was grinding up against her. My anger toward Vought burned hotter, knowing the depths of their crimes against those they deemed disposable. They hadn't only destroyed my family—they'd hurt Carrie too.

"I thought I was the only one," she continued, her voice trembling. "I didn't think anyone would understand. I thought that... incident with Homelander was the only thing I had to deal with."

"He did it again?!" I said loudly.

Carrie shook her head rapidly. "No, but The Deep tried to but I don't remember what happened. All I know was that when I woke up, I was covered in blood and he was injured. He even called me a monster."

My heart plummeted and my mind raced, battling between anger and heartbreak. The thought of Carrie, vulnerable and terrified, filled me with rage directed at Vought and the corrupt Supes.

"No one should go through that," I said, voice thick with emotion. The pain in her eyes ignited a fierce protectiveness within me.

"You're not a monster, Carrie," I insisted, stepping closer.

"But he's right, though," she replied. "I can literally do anything with my mind, even if it means killing people. All he could do is talk to fish."

The tension hung heavy between us, and I could see Carrie wrestling with her thoughts. "But he's right, though. I can literally do anything with my mind, even if it means killing people. All he could do is talk to fish."

Her words struck me like a blow. The weight of her powers felt like a burden she was struggling to carry, and I could see the fear of herself lurking beneath the surface. "Carrie, you have to believe me when I say that doesn't make you a monster. What happened to you isn't your fault."

She looked away, biting her lip, the conflict in her eyes a painful reminder of how Vought had twisted her life. "But I have this power, Leo. What if I can't control it?"

"Then we'll figure it out together," I said, taking her hands in mine, grounding her in the moment. "You're not alone in this, Carrie. You have me."

Her gaze softened, and I saw a flicker of hope. "But what if Vought comes for me? What if they want to use me?"

"They will, but we'll be ready for them," I promised, squeezing her hands tighter. "You're stronger than you know. We just have to be smart about it."

In that moment, I realized that our paths were intertwined more than I had ever imagined. My protective instincts flared up at the thought of her being a target. "You have to trust me, Carrie. We'll take them down together."

As she nodded, a sense of resolve settled over me. I'd fight tooth and nail to protect her, even if it meant diving deeper into the darkness of Vought.

"So, any plans you got that Vought forced you to do?" I asked, somewhat trying to change the subject.

"Well," Carrie sniffed. "There's the Race of the Century that the rest of the Seven has to go."

The mention of the Race of the Century brought a knot to my stomach. Vought was using Carrie as bait, and I could see the stress ripple across her face. "When is it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Next week," she replied, biting her lip. "It's a huge event. They're promoting it as the ultimate showdown, and I have to be there to support A-Train."

I couldn't help but think about how dangerous it was for her to be around the other Supes. "You can't go alone, Carrie. You need to stay close to me."

"Leo, I can handle myself," she protested. "I'm not a child."

"I know you're strong," I replied, frustration bubbling under the surface. "But you've seen what they're capable of. Vought will use this event to keep you in their sights."

Her expression softened, but the fire in her eyes remained. "I appreciate that you care, but I can't let fear dictate my life. I have to face this."

I took a deep breath, trying to rein in my emotions. "I get it, but it's different when you're dealing with Vought. You don't know what they might have planned."

"Then let's find out," she said, determination lacing her voice. "Together."

For a moment, I was taken aback by her resolve. She was brave, but I could feel the stakes rising. I nodded, knowing that if we were going to navigate this dangerous landscape, we had to do it as a team.

"Alright," I said, trying to match her intensity. "But we have to be careful. I'll help you prepare for it. We'll figure out a plan to keep you safe."

Carrie smiled, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. "Thanks, Leo. I knew I could count on you."

As the door swung open, Hughie and Annie emerged, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern. I glanced back at Carrie, a silent agreement passing between us; we would tackle this together.

"Everything good out here?" Hughie asked, his eyes darting between us.

"Yeah," I replied, forcing a smile. "Just talking about... plans for the week."

As the night wore on and laughter filled the bar, my mind was far from the jovial atmosphere. Hughie and Annie were wrapped up in their own world, but my thoughts were consumed with the looming threat of Vought and the Race of the Century. I couldn't shake the image of The Deep from my mind, the target I had to send a message to.

In the silence between us, I made my decision. When the moment was right, I would shoot The Deep. It would be a warning, a clear signal to Homelander and Vought that they couldn't toy with us without consequences. I couldn't let Carrie become just another pawn in their game.

As I looked at her, smiling and engaged in conversation, I felt a fierce determination rising within me. Whatever it took, I would protect her. Even if it meant stepping into the darkness myself.

[]

The days leading up to the Race of the Century were a blur of anxiety and preparation. I scoured for the event's location, maintaining constant communication with Carrie while monitoring her through my outdated security cameras. I purchased a gun, carefully planning my position to remain unseen when the time came. Each moment felt like an escalating game of chess, with Vought orchestrating the pieces. My determination to protect Carrie only grew stronger, even as I stepped deeper into the darkness that surrounded us.

Suddenly, the sound of my phone vibrating broke through my thoughts—it was Hughie.

"Hey, got a minute?" Hughie asked.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Look, I know you're set on protecting Carrie, but you have to be careful," Hughie warned, a rare tone of seriousness in his voice. "Vought's not just going to sit back and watch."

I hesitated, gripping my phone. "I don't have a choice. You know what they're doing to her and you know what they did to my family. I can't let them keep getting away with this."

Hughie sighed. "Just don't go in there thinking you're invincible. This isn't just a warning shot, Leo. You're putting a target on your back. And if anything happens to you, Carrie's the one who'll pay the price."

I took a deep breath, the weight of the situation settling over me. I knew Hughie was right, but I couldn't afford to back down now. The closer they got to the event, the more real the danger felt, but the more certain he became that I had to act.

"Thanks, Hughie," I finally said. "But I have to do this. I have to make Vought pay for what they've done."

Hughie was silent for a moment before responding. "Just make sure you're ready. Once you pull that trigger, there's no turning back."

I ended the call and pocketed his phone, the gravity of the upcoming event pressing on him. I had my gun, my plan, and my resolve. But as the day of the race approached, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking into a trap—and this time, there might not be a way out.

"Oi, Leo!" Butcher's voice cut through the tension, yanking me from my thoughts. I looked up, surprised to see him leaning against the doorframe, his expression as unreadable as ever. He hadn't been around much lately—keeping to the shadows, scheming and pulling strings.

"Dad," I replied surprisingly, my heart skipping a beat. It was still strange to see him here, trying to be a father in his own twisted way.

"Ya got a minute?" he asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. The room suddenly felt smaller, the weight of unspoken things pressing down on us both.

I nodded, unsure of what to expect. Butcher wasn't the type to check in without an agenda. He motioned for me to sit down, his gaze sharp and assessing.

"What's all this 'bout Carrie White, then?" he asked, cutting straight to the point. "Hughie says you're gettin' in deep."

I tensed, bracing myself. "It's not what you think. Carrie's... different. Vought's got their eye on her, and I can't just stand by."

Butcher snorted, crossing his arms. "You think she's any different from the rest of the Supes? You think she won't turn on you the moment things get rough?"

"She's not like that," I replied, my voice firm. "She didn't choose this life, and she's not playing their game. I can protect her—keep her safe from Vought."

Butcher's eyes narrowed, skepticism clear on his face. "Ya sound just like yer mother," he muttered. "Always thinkin' she could save the ones who didn't ask to be saved."

I clenched my fists, the mention of my mom bringing a surge of anger. "This isn't about her."

"Isn't it?" Butcher challenged, stepping closer. "You're makin' the same mistakes she did. Thinkin' you can fight this on yer own terms. But Vought? They're always two steps ahead."

For a moment, silence filled the room, the weight of his words sinking in. Butcher had been fighting this war longer than I'd been alive, and part of me knew he was right. But I wasn't willing to back down.

"I have to do this, Butcher," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. "For Mom. For Carrie. For everyone they've hurt."

Butcher studied me, his gaze softening just a fraction. "Just don't get yerself killed, lad," he said finally, his tone almost gentle. "They're ruthless bastards, and they won't think twice about takin' you down if it suits them."

With that, he turned and left, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more. His warning echoed in my mind, a reminder of the dangers that lay ahead. But despite the fear gnawing at my insides, I knew I couldn't turn back now.

As I prepared for the battle that awaited, I felt a surge of resolve. Butcher's words might have been a warning, but they only strengthened my resolve. I would protect Carrie, no matter the cost. And if that meant facing Vought head-on, then so be it.

I took a deep breath, the storm within me settling into a quiet determination. This wasn't just a fight for survival—it was a fight for justice. And I was ready to see it through to the bitter end.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

Why the hell did I tell Leo about the Race of the Century? I replayed our conversation from the bar, anxiety swirling in my gut. Leo was intense, protective—maybe a little too much so. The way his brows furrowed when I mentioned Vought and The Deep told me everything. I knew his instinct was to shield me, but did he understand what he was stepping into. 

In hindsight, sharing that information felt reckless. Vought was always one step ahead, their influence like an invisible hand that could tighten around anyone I cared about. I'd seen how they operated—calculated, ruthless, always ready to exploit any vulnerability. By letting Leo in, I wasn't just trusting him; I was giving Vought another way to control me, another target they could use to hurt me. I felt like I'd handed them a weapon and prayed they wouldn't use it.

Now, with the race only days away, a tangible weight pressed on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I could almost hear the clock ticking, a countdown to a moment that felt inevitable. The stakes were too high, and I wasn't sure if I'd made the right choice.

I paced in my room, the dim light casting long shadows against the walls. The quiet was heavy, amplifying the frantic hum of my thoughts. Just then, my phone buzzed, pulling me back to reality. It was a message from Annie, asking if I was ready for the event. I wanted to feel that familiar rush, the thrill of racing, of flying faster than anyone could follow. But all I felt was dread, gnawing at the edges of my excitement.

What if Vought had a plan for me? The memory of that night with The Deep replayed in fragments—the panic, the blinding anger, the raw, terrifying power I hadn't known I possessed. I'd attacked him in a way I couldn't fully explain, and now I was paying the price. What if they were using this event to draw Leo into a trap, knowing I'd confided in him? The thought made me feel exposed, like my every move was being watched, my weaknesses cataloged for future use.

"Carrie?" Annie's voice broke through my thoughts, steady and grounding. She stood in the doorway, concern and determination mingling in her expression. She always had this way of making me feel safe, like she was my anchor in all this chaos.

"Yeah, just... thinking," I replied, forcing a smile that I knew didn't reach my eyes.

"About the race?" she asked, head tilted, studying me as if trying to read the thoughts behind my eyes.

I nodded. "I know it's supposed to be this big deal, but... something feels different this time. Off, even."

Annie crossed her arms, never taking her eyes off me. "You're worried about Vought, aren't you? I can see it."

I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "It's more than that. I don't want to be their pawn, and I don't want Leo getting hurt because of me."

She stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "You're stronger than you think, Carrie. But you've got to let us help. We're all in this together."

Her words were comforting, but the fear of losing myself, of being nothing more than a weapon for someone else, made my stomach twist. "What if they're waiting for me? What if they use me against Leo, or you?"

Annie's grip tightened, grounding me. "Then we'll be ready," she replied, her tone resolute. "We'll protect each other, and we'll have a plan."

I felt a small spark of hope ignite. "What's the plan, then?"

"We'll go to the race, put on a show, and play it cool. No reactions, no slip-ups," she said, with a look that bordered on fierce. "We'll act like everything's normal. Or at least, Vought's version of normal."

I took a deep breath, letting her confidence bolster my own. "Okay. I can do that. We can do this together."

In that moment, I made a choice. I wasn't going to let fear dictate my life any longer. I wasn't going to run. For Leo, for Annie, for myself, I'd face whatever Vought had planned. I'd stop being their pawn and start playing their game on my terms. But even as determination settled over me like armor, a lingering doubt gnawed at the back of my mind: was I strong enough to confront Vought head-on, or was I walking right into a trap?

[]

The Race of the Century had finally arrived, an electric atmosphere buzzing through the venue. Spectators filled the seating areas, their cheers and excitement resonating like a tidal wave as A-Train and Shockwave prepped for the showdown of speed and power. My heart raced, not just from the thrill of the event, but from the unsettling presence of Vought that seemed to hover over everything like a dark cloud, ominous and foreboding. Their influence seeped into every corner of the venue, a reminder that danger lurked just beneath the surface.

And then, as if summoned by my anxiety, I saw him—The Deep, clad in his iconic wetsuit, a symbol of Vought's twisted heroism. He stood next to me, seemingly healed from our last encounter, the physical evidence of my defiance against him now just a distant memory. When our gazes locked, a chill ran down my spine, one that was equal parts fear and disbelief. But as I looked deeper into his blue eyes, I saw something I hadn't noticed before: fear. It was an unsettling realization—here was a man who had once tried to dominate me, now displaying a vulnerability I hadn't expected.

The memory of that night flooded back, vivid and painful. I could still feel the suffocating weight of being trapped, powerless in the face of his aggression. He had tried to take advantage of me, and I had fought back fiercely, tapping into a strength I hadn't known I possessed. But in the aftermath, I woke up disoriented, covered in blood and confusion, not fully grasping what had transpired. The feelings of violation mixed with the unsettling aftermath of what I had done were heavy burdens to carry.

"You... you're a monster," he had spat in that moment of fury as I left, but now I stood questioning who the real monster was. Here was a man who had attempted to assault me, projecting his own guilt onto me. It was infuriating, a reminder of how easily the narrative could be twisted to paint me as the villain in this story.

And now, Leo had devised a plan to shoot The Deep at the Race of the Century. I wasn't privy to the details—where or when exactly it would happen—but it was clear that it was set in motion, another layer of danger added to an already volatile situation. I felt trapped between two worlds, the thrill of the race and the looming threat of violence, all while desperately trying to maintain my composure.

As I focused on The Deep, I forced myself to stay calm despite the chaos swirling inside me. I took a deep breath and approached him, the tension palpable between us. "Didn't expect to see you here, healed up and all," I said, attempting to sound casual, my voice betraying none of the turmoil within.

"I... yeah," The Deep replied, clearing his throat, his discomfort evident. "Admit it, you were overreacting that night." His voice was laden with a sickly bravado that made my skin crawl.

"Overreacting? You tried to take advantage of me. I defended myself," I shot back, my anger flaring at his attempt to downplay the situation.

"It was just a misunderstanding. I never meant for things to go that far," he retorted, trying to deflect responsibility.

"Misunderstanding?" I let out a bitter laugh that echoed my disbelief. "You assaulted me, and then you had the nerve to call me a monster. How's that for a misunderstanding?"

"I'm just saying," he chuckled, his tone grating against my nerves. "You didn't have to go that hard on me."

"Maybe I didn't," I growled back, refusing to let his condescension go unchallenged. "But you pushed me there. You don't get to play the victim now."

"I pushed you? The last time I checked, you weren't the one bleeding on the floor." His words dripped with a twisted sense of justification, and I could feel the anger boiling inside me, ready to explode. I stood my ground, unwilling to let him rewrite our history or dismiss my pain any longer.

But before either of us could escalate our confrontation, I heard footsteps approaching, firm and confident. I turned to see Homelander and Queen Maeve striding towards us, their mere presence commanding the attention of the crowd.

Homelander's signature smirk cut through the tension like a knife, his gaze sweeping over the assembled spectators, and Maeve followed closely, her expression unreadable but watchful. I felt a knot form in my stomach; their arrival changed everything. Suddenly, the stakes felt even higher, the looming threat of Vought more tangible than ever.

"What's going on here?" Homelander asked, his tone casual yet laced with an underlying menace that sent a chill through me. He surveyed the scene with a predator's gaze, and I could sense the tension crackling in the air. I exchanged a quick glance with The Deep, whose bravado faltered under Homelander's scrutinizing stare.

"Just a little chat," The Deep replied, attempting to regain some semblance of control. But his voice lacked conviction, and I could see the uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

"Is that so?" Homelander leaned closer, a dangerous smile creeping onto his face. "You know how much I love a good conversation. But make sure it's not a boring one, alright?"

The weight of his words hung heavy between us, and I felt a rush of adrenaline as I prepared to navigate this new dynamic. Homelander thrived on intimidation, and I needed to tread carefully. The race was the backdrop for something far more sinister than just a competition; it felt like a game of chess, with lives at stake.

"Everything's fine," I forced myself to say, attempting to sound nonchalant, even as my heart pounded in my chest. "Just catching up."

Queen Maeve's sharp eyes narrowed as she assessed me, her expression a mix of curiosity and caution. "Just make sure you're not getting into trouble, Supernova. Vought doesn't take kindly to any disruptions."

The implication in her words was clear: I was being watched, and my actions would not go unnoticed. The stakes had escalated, and I had to stay on my guard.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. As they exchanged glances, I felt the weight of the situation settle around me like a shroud. This race wasn't just about speed; it was about survival, alliances, and the delicate balance of power within Vought's twisted hierarchy.

As the announcer's voice boomed through the loudspeakers, signaling the impending start of the race, I realized that the true race was not just on the track but also a dangerous game of wits and survival against Vought. The air crackled with tension, and I knew that every moment counted as I prepared for the chaos that lay ahead.

"This is the Race of the Century!" the video played on the big screen, showcasing A-Train and Shockwave as the voice echoed from the speaker. "This is our legacy and our future. Athletes achieving the highest level."

The crowd roared as the announcer's voice thundered through the venue, but inside, I felt the tension rise like a tide ready to swallow me whole. The anticipation was electric, mixed with an undercurrent of danger that made every cheer sound like a warning.

"This is what we've been waiting for, the showdown," the commentaries voiced through the speakers. "These men are extremely power and very, very quick. The Train is ready to leave the station. He reaches speeds in excess of 1,000 miles per hour. The fastest men in the world are here in New York. Who will come out on top? There he stands... six foot one, but a stature that's such that he's a colossus for the whole world."

The crowd cheered on, and they went even more crazy when The Deep and I walked to the field. Ashley's call to the field for the pre-race interview felt like stepping into a spotlight that could expose everything I wanted to keep hidden. The crowd was frenzied, the lights intense, and I could feel eyes on me from all directions. The reporters were all smiles, seemingly oblivious to the tension between The Deep and me, or maybe they just didn't care. This was Vought, after all—image over substance, spectacle over truth.

The first reporter leaned in with a mic, her gaze laser-focused. "So, Supernova, what's it like to be here at such a historic event, surrounded by the fastest heroes alive?"

I forced a smile, hoping it appeared genuine. "It's exciting, of course," I replied, choosing my words carefully. "There's nothing like the energy here. It's amazing to see these athletes ready to push their limits."

Beside me, The Deep shifted, the familiar smugness returning to his face as he interrupted. "It's more than just speed, you know. We're representing something bigger. Vought is about strength, resilience, and pushing boundaries." His eyes flicked to me, daring me to challenge him.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "Absolutely," I said, playing along, "and it's about showing the world what we're capable of, together."

The second reporter jumped in, quick to steer the conversation back to the race. "A-Train and Shockwave—two of the fastest in the world. Any predictions?"

I glanced at The Deep, feeling the weight of my response. "It's anyone's game," I replied, my tone diplomatic. "But I think today will surprise everyone."

As the interview wrapped up, I realized that the real race wasn't just on the track. It was this delicate dance of words and appearances, each of us trying to keep our secrets safe under the gaze of Vought and the ever-watchful eyes of Homelander and Queen Maeve. I couldn't afford a single misstep.

With the spotlight off us, I exhaled slowly. The countdown had begun, not just for the race, but for everything that would unfold after.

Although Leo's attempt to take out The Deep never materialized, I remained wary, knowing danger was far from over.

As the Race of the Century commenced, I felt the weight of the moment crush down on me. A-Train and Shockwave lined up, their adrenaline palpable. I could sense the tension in the air, a mixture of excitement and foreboding, as Vought's looming presence surrounded us. The crowd surged with anticipation as the race began, and I scanned the masses, searching for any sign of Leo. The adrenaline of the moment sharpened my senses, each detail around me amplifying the tension. I wondered if Leo was hidden somewhere, waiting for a moment to strike, or if he'd already backed off. I wasn't sure what I hoped for—part of me wanted to see him, a reminder that I wasn't in this alone, but another part knew his presence could mean only one thing: chaos.

Then, as the two speedsters dashed ahead, the tension in the stadium spiked, the world around me turning into a dizzying blend of noise and color. The crowd's excitement was tangible, an electrifying force, but I couldn't shake the ominous feeling creeping in. Even though Leo's plan hadn't come to fruition yet, I felt danger was close, lurking just beyond sight.

I scanned the surroundings again, feeling both anxious and ready. Even with Leo's plan seemingly thwarted, I couldn't shake the feeling that danger was closing in, just beyond my sight.

The crowd's roars were deafening as A-Train and Shockwave tore down the track, a blur of motion and adrenaline. Amid the spectacle, the threat of Vought loomed large. I knew that this race was about more than just speed; it was a step into uncharted territory, where every choice would have lasting consequences.

Then, I felt a hand grabbing my arm pulling me away. I turned my head and saw it was Black Noir, his silent, unreadable gaze gave nothing away, but his grip was unyielding, a message in itself.

His grip was firm as he led me through the packed stadium, weaving through the crowd with silent precision. I could feel the pulse of the race behind me, but all of that seemed distant now, muted by the dread swirling in my gut. Black Noir wasn't known for small talk—he communicated through action, and his presence alone spoke volumes.

As we moved into the shadows behind the stadium, my mind raced. What did Vought want? Why now, when everything felt on edge? I tried to pull my arm free, but Black Noir's grip tightened, making it clear I wasn't going anywhere until he was ready to let me go. There was a cold detachment in his movements, and I knew better than to think I could outfight him, at least not now.

When we finally stopped, we were far from the crowd, in a secluded part of the venue. The shadows played across Black Noir's face, his mask revealing nothing of his intent. But before I could voice my questions, a familiar figure stepped out from the dark.

Stan Edgar.

"Supernova," he greeted, his voice smooth, commanding. "We have some things to discuss."

My heart dropped. I knew this wasn't a friendly chat. Edgar rarely dealt with things directly unless they required his full attention—and that meant I was in trouble.

"I assume you know why you're here," Edgar said calmly, hands behind his back as he circled me like a predator toying with its prey. "Vought has invested quite a bit in you. You are, after all, one of our most valuable assets."

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "What do you want from me?"

Edgar raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the question. "What Vought has always wanted: control. You've become a bit... unpredictable. And unpredictability in someone like you, well, that's dangerous for everyone involved."

I clenched my fists, anger simmering just beneath the surface. "I'm not your puppet."

"No," Edgar agreed, his tone eerily calm. "But you could be. And I think it's time you were reminded of who holds the strings."

Black Noir stepped forward, and I instinctively backed away, her heart pounding. This was it—Vought wasn't giving my a choice anymore. They were tightening their grip, and I wasn't sure how to escape.

Gunfire ripped through the stadium, cutting the air like a knife. I tensed, instinctively lowering myself to the ground as Black Noir, lightning-fast, sprang into action, assessing the source of the chaos. Edgar remained as calm as ever, unmoved by the sudden violence that now fractured the Race of the Century. His expression remained inscrutable, and I realized he had anticipated something like this all along.

For a moment, time seemed to slow. The once-thrilling spectacle of the race—the cheering crowds, the blurs of A-Train and Shockwave racing toward the finish—faded into the background. All I could focus on was the sound of the shots echoing around me and the uneasy sense that this wasn't part of Leo's plan, or at least, not how it was supposed to unfold.

Black Noir swiftly and with immediate effect, moved toward the source of the gunfire with calculated efficiency, leaving me with Edgar, whose eyes followed Black Noir's movements before settling back on me.

"Things are about to get very complicated," Edgar said with an almost sinister smile. His words, as always, felt layered with intent, as though he were pulling invisible strings that directed this entire mess. My heart raced as I tried to anticipate what came next.

Before I could respond, a deafening roar of explosions erupted, followed by a sickening crack of something huge and metallic shattering. Screams from the stands rose to a fever pitch as panic rippled through the crowd. The stadium itself seemed to tremble under the weight of it all, the tension now turning into something far more dangerous than just a public spectacle.

Edgar turned his back to me, speaking to his watch, "Initiate contingency plan Omega."

That was my cue. I bolted. My powers surged to life, adrenaline kicking my fight-or-flight instinct into overdrive. As I darted through the confusion, weaving through the mass of panicked people, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was exactly what Edgar wanted—chaos. Vought thrived in the shadows of crisis, using every disaster to tighten their grip on power.

Where was Leo? Had he been caught in the madness, or worse—had Vought already taken him out of the equation?

A sharp crackling noise broke through my thoughts, the loudspeakers blasting out an emergency evacuation message. But I didn't care about the warnings, the escape routes, or the chaos unfolding around me. All I could think about was finding Leo before it was too late.

Rounding a corner, I found myself face-to-face with the last person I expected—Homelander. He stood there, his infamous grin painted across his face as if he found this entire situation amusing. The atmosphere between us turned electric, my body tense and ready for a fight I knew I couldn't win. But I couldn't back down.

"Running somewhere, Supernova?" Homelander's voice dripped with false concern. "You're missing all the fun."

I felt a surge of anger at his taunting words, knowing full well that he was playing with me. But there was no time to engage. I had bigger concerns.

"Get out of my way," I demanded, my voice firm, though my mind screamed at me to be careful. Homelander's power was absolute, and any wrong move could end me in an instant.

Homelander's smile widened. "Relax, sweetheart. This isn't about you... for now."

The implication hung heavy in the air. His gaze flicked beyond me, toward the stands where the crowd's panic was reaching a fever pitch. Was this just another power play, a calculated move to assert dominance over everyone in the stadium? Or was this something far more insidious?

"What's happening out there?" I asked, gritting my teeth.

I had hoped my words would sway him, but Homelander didn't move. He just stood there, smiling like a cat with a cornered mouse. His confidence was infuriating—he knew how strong he was, how untouchable. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to lash out. I knew it would be useless against him, but the grip tightened. A sharp jab of pain shot through my side, knocking the wind out of me. The brief distraction gave Noir the opening he needed, and in a blink, he had me pinned to the floor.

"You're not going anywhere," Edgar said coldly, stepping into view. His voice dripped with control, every word calculated. He glanced at his watch, indifferent to the chaos and gunfire echoing around us. "You're more useful than you think, Supernova. But only if you're kept in check."

I thrashed under Noir's weight, desperate to break free, but he was an immovable force, his grip like iron. I felt my powers surging to the surface, the raw energy building in my veins, but before I could channel it, a sharp sting shot through my arm—something cold, metallic.

"You're special, Supernova," Edgar continued as the sedative took hold, my vision blurring at the edges. "But Vought makes the rules. Remember that."

Darkness took me as Edgar's voice faded, and this sudden rage came in

[] 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Madelyn yelled after she slapped me across my face.

My head jerked to the side as Madelyn's hand connected with my face, the sting sharp and immediate. The shock of it sobered me quickly, pulling me out of the disorienting fog of sedation. I blinked hard, focusing on her enraged expression. We were in her office now, the sterile, oppressive environment a stark contrast to the chaos I had just been pulled from.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she repeated, her voice trembling with barely-contained fury. She was pacing behind her desk, her heels clicking with every sharp turn she made. The slap had been just the start; this was far from over.

I stayed silent, my mind racing to catch up. How had I ended up here? The last thing I remembered was Edgar's chilling voice, Noir pinning me down, and the world fading into darkness. Now I was in Madelyn's office, alone with her and her wrath. My body still felt heavy, sluggish from whatever they'd injected into me, but my senses were returning, sharpening with each passing second.

"Do you have any idea how much damage you've done?" she spat, stopping in front of me, her eyes blazing with anger. "The Race of the Century was supposed to be a showcase of Vought's power, and instead, it's turned into a goddamn disaster!"

I finally found my voice, though it was hoarse and unsteady. "That wasn't my fault."

Madelyn let out a bitter laugh, leaning in close, her voice low and dangerous. "No, but you certainly didn't help. Edgar had to pull you out of the crowd like some unruly child because you couldn't keep your head straight. Now we've got gunfire, explosions, and half the city asking what the hell went wrong."

I clenched my fists, struggling to stay calm. "I didn't ask to be a part of this circus. Vought—you—dragged me into it."

"That's right," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. "And you'll damn well play your part, whether you like it or not. You're a product of Vought, Supernova. You don't get to be unpredictable. You don't get to choose."

I swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to lash out. She wasn't wrong. Vought had its claws in me deep, and they weren't going to let go. Not unless I found a way to break free.

Madelyn must have seen the defiance in my eyes because she crossed her arms, her tone shifting from angry to icy. "You've been given power most people can only dream of. And what do you do with it? You fight back. You disobey orders. You play the hero when you know damn well that's not your role."

I stood, the adrenaline finally overpowering the effects of the sedative. "Maybe I don't want your power anymore. Maybe I don't want any part of this."

Madelyn's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "That's not up to you."

There it was. The cold, unrelenting truth. Vought owned me, body and soul, and they weren't about to let me forget it. But I wasn't going to give up so easily.

"What's the plan, then?" I asked, my voice flat. "What happens next?"

She regarded me for a long moment, as if weighing her options. Finally, she spoke, her voice dripping with condescension. "You're going to lay low for now. Stay out of sight, out of mind. We'll clean up the mess you've made. And when we need you again, you'll be ready."

Her words hung in the air like a threat, and I knew better than to argue. For now, I'd play along. But I wasn't done fighting. Not by a long shot.

Madelyn moved back to her desk, her demeanor already shifting from fury to calculated calm. "You're dismissed, Supernova. Go get your head straight. Vought isn't done with you yet."

I stood there for a moment, my jaw clenched, resisting the urge to hurl a retort at her. Every fiber of my being screamed to fight back, but I knew how this game was played. Madelyn was one of Vought's top manipulators; she thrived on control, and right now, she had it. I couldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Without a word, I turned and headed for the door. My face still throbbed from the slap, a cruel reminder of just how far they were willing to go to remind me of my place. But as I reached for the door handle, I heard her voice one last time.

"And Supernova?" she called, her voice smooth, almost teasing now. I stopped but didn't turn around.

"Don't make me regret saving you," she said, the threat veiled in honey. "Because next time, I won't."

I didn't respond. The door clicked shut behind me, and as I stepped into the hallway, the sterile air of Vought's headquarters weighed down on me like a suffocating blanket. My thoughts were a tangled mess, the echoes of Madelyn's words bouncing around in my head. I was furious, helpless, but most of all, I was determined.

They could control my body, my powers, even my public image. But they didn't own my mind—yet.

One way or another, I was going to get out from under Vought's thumb. And when I did, I'd burn it all down.

Chapter Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

My hands were shaking as I took out my phone. I had tried to disappear into my room, the sterile silence feeling like a cocoon, but my thoughts kept returning to the fragments I remembered from the Race. I could still hear the explosions, feel the acrid smoke, the terrified screams of the crowd. The memory brought a pang of regret and something darker—a feeling that Vought had pushed me past a line I couldn't uncross.

With the taste of ashes in my mouth, I typed a text to Leo. I was only half sure he'd respond, but I had to try.

ME: Hey. What happened back there? All I remember is...chaos. Gunfire. Then... nothing.

The dots appeared, then disappeared. I held my breath, waiting.

UNKNOWN: You're alive? Thank god. Are you safe?

I hesitated before typing back. I wasn't sure I even knew what "safe" meant anymore.

ME: I don't know. I'm home. Well, at Vought, technically. They've got eyes on me 24/7, so I guess that's safe?

UNKNOWN: Yeah. Probably safer than what was going on back at the race...

He paused, and my phone remained still for a few seconds. I could practically hear him debating whether to say more. Finally, more words flashed across the screen.

UNKNOWN: You don't know what happened?

ME: Not really. It's all kind of a blur.

UNKNOWN: Well, the 'Race of the Century' turned into something else entirely. A nightmare, actually. Media's calling it 'The Massacre of the Century' now. People are saying it's the worst Vought PR disaster since... well, since ever.

I swallowed, staring at the words. I'd guessed that things had gone wrong, but the extent of it hadn't sunk in until now.

ME: What about... the people? Did anyone make it out?

UNKNOWN: You're asking if they managed to save people? Not enough. Dozens dead, maybe more. Vought's sweeping everything under the rug as usual, but from what I heard, they're scrambling. It's bad, Carrie. Really bad.

My stomach dropped as I read his words. Dozens dead. Vought would twist it, spin it as necessary casualties or collateral damage, but I knew better. Those people hadn't signed up for a massacre—they'd been spectators, innocent bystanders.

ME: I didn't mean for any of this. I just wanted to get out of there. I could feel something going wrong, but I didn't think—

UNKNOWN: It's not on you. Trust me, you weren't the only one that saw it coming. The whole setup was a disaster waiting to happen. The way they hyped it, the crowd, the tensions... anyone could've seen it spiraling out of control.

I exhaled, but the weight in my chest didn't lift. I knew Leo was right. Vought had primed the event to go off like a powder keg, and I'd been the unfortunate match caught too close to the flame. But still, that didn't erase the guilt gnawing at me.

ME: I feel like I should've done more, Leo. I should've stayed, helped...

UNKNOWN: You're not a god, Carrie. You can't save everyone. Vought likes to make you think you're invincible, but you're not. You're human.

Human. The word felt foreign on my tongue. I hadn't felt human in a long time. Every mission, every media appearance, every forced smile had stripped away a piece of me until I barely recognized the person in the mirror.

ME: I don't even know what that means anymore. Human.

UNKNOWN: Maybe it's time you figure it out, then. Find out who you are outside of Vought. But, Carrie... listen to me. If you start going down that path, you have to be ready for what it'll take.

I knew what he meant. Breaking free of Vought wasn't just a decision; it was a war. And I was just one soldier against a machine that never slept, never stopped, and certainly never forgot.

A notification popped up on my phone—a news alert. Reluctantly, I opened it. The headline was everything I'd feared: "Race of the Century Ends in Tragedy—Vought Under Fire as Death Toll Rises."

I forced myself to read it, my eyes scanning over the grisly details. Dozens dead, scores injured. Blame was being tossed around—Vought security, rogue elements, suspected outside interference—but no one had any answers. It was exactly the kind of chaos Vought thrived in, always knowing how to control the narrative, deflecting just enough to leave the public guessing.

My phone buzzed again.

UNKNOWN: Carrie... there's more. Something you won't see on the news.

ME: What? Just tell me, Leo.

UNKNOWN: They're saying someone caused it all. Some 'insider' went rogue. Everyone's pointing fingers at you.

My blood ran cold. My fingers went numb, and the phone nearly slipped from my grasp.

ME: Are you serious?

UNKNOWN: Yeah. They're saying you lost control. 'Supernova goes supernova,' or something. They're spinning it like you were the one who triggered the violence. I'm sorry, Carrie.

I felt bile rising in my throat. Vought had set me up as the scapegoat. Like I was before they discovered me. Back in that town where everyone hated me. They would let me take the fall if it meant keeping their image intact, maintaining control over the narrative. All my time of service, the loyalty, the sacrifice, it meant nothing to them now. The weight of it pressed down on me, crushing.

ME: So, what do I do?

UNKNOWN: First thing is, don't panic. They're trying to shake you, push you into a corner. Don't let them. Look, you have options. You've got me, for starters. I can help you.

The thought of someone genuinely being on my side felt like a distant dream. I wasn't sure how much of myself I'd revealed to Leo over the months, but I knew he was different from the others. He wasn't Vought. He wasn't them.

ME: And if they come for me? What then?

UNKNOWN: If it comes to that, we run. There are places Vought can't reach.

I nearly laughed, the absurdity of it almost comical. Places Vought couldn't reach? Vought had tendrils in every city, every government, every agency. Running wasn't an option; it was a fantasy. But Leo's words, reckless as they were, carried a glimmer of hope.

I took a deep breath, steadied my fingers, and typed one last message.

ME: Leo... if this is my last chance, if I have to burn everything down to get out, would you still be there?

He didn't respond immediately, and for a long moment, I wondered if he'd bailed, if the gravity of my question had finally scared him off. But then the screen lit up with his reply.

UNKNOWN: To the end, little star.

My heart raced, the words sinking in like an anchor. For the first time in ages, I felt something beyond fear, beyond despair. I felt alive. But it was tempered by the knowledge of what would come next, the war I would have to wage against Vought and everything they stood for.

I didn't know where it would end or if I'd even survive it. But as long as I wasn't alone, I was ready to find out.

Then, a knock came from my door. I froze. The knock was soft, almost cautious, but in the silence of my room, it sounded like a hammer against glass. Heart pounding, I rose from the bed, sliding my phone into my pocket, and tiptoed to the door. Every instinct screamed at me to be careful; Vought's shadows lurked everywhere, watching and waiting. But Leo's message still glowed like a lifeline in my mind: "To the end, little star." That alone gave me courage to grip the doorknob, take a deep breath, and pull it open.

Madelyn stood there, her expression unreadable. The last time I'd seen her, she'd slapped me across the face, spitting venom about Vought's losses and PR damage. Now, her face was composed, her eyes scanning me with a cold, analytical gaze.

"We need to talk, Carrie." Her voice was calm, controlled, but there was a trace of something deeper—an edge of tension she couldn't hide. "Are you going to invite me in?"

I glanced back at my empty room, the quiet sanctuary that had been holding me together. Letting her in felt like letting a shark into the water. But I couldn't exactly say no, and she knew it.

I stepped aside, letting her glide into the room. She took a cursory look around, like she was inspecting her surroundings rather than interested in my life, and then she turned to me, folding her arms.

"You've seen the news, haven't you?"

I nodded, my throat tight. "Yeah. 'Massacre of the Century,' they're calling it."

She pursed her lips, unfazed. "And I'm sure you've also heard the...theories about your involvement."

"Not theories," I muttered. "You've made sure the world thinks I caused it."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation breaking through her otherwise calm demeanor. "We're doing what's necessary to manage the fallout. This is bigger than you, Carrie. Vought is bigger than you."

I forced myself to hold her gaze. "Is that why you're framing me? Because you need a scapegoat to protect Vought's reputation?"

Madelyn didn't even flinch. "Framing you?" She let out a dry laugh. "Carrie, I'm protecting you. Do you think they'll stop looking at you? That they'll just... forget? This is the only way. By directing the attention somewhere manageable, we can control the narrative."

I wanted to scream, to throw every insult at her that had been building up inside me for years. But I knew that wouldn't get me anywhere. So instead, I just clenched my fists, staying silent as she continued.

"We're moving forward. Damage control is underway, and we're working on a strategy to reshape public perception. But that depends on you." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, icy tone. "This only works if you cooperate, if you play along with what we've set in motion."

It hit me then—she wasn't just here to inform me. She was here to pull me back under their control, to reel me in before I could slip through her fingers. But something had shifted in me since the race. I was no longer that pliable tool they could twist and use at will. Leo's words echoed in my head, a steady reminder that there was someone out there who still saw me as more than Vought's creation.

"What if I don't cooperate?" I asked, the words coming out stronger than I'd expected. "What if I decide I'm done with Vought?"

Madelyn's eyes turned cold. "You really think you're in a position to refuse?"

Her tone sent a shiver down my spine, but I didn't back down. I held her gaze, feeling something close to defiance surge within me. "I think Vought has made me a pawn for too long. I'm tired of being manipulated, of doing whatever you say without question."

She studied me for a long, uncomfortable moment, then let out a slow, controlled sigh. "I think you're forgetting who you are, Carrie. Without Vought, you're nothing. We made you. Gave you power. Without us, you'd still be a scared, angry little girl with nowhere to go."

Those words stung more than I wanted to admit. They hit a raw nerve, reminding me of the life I'd left behind—the powerless version of myself that had been swept up and transformed by Vought. But I wasn't that girl anymore. And yet it was her choice of words that caught my attention. Made me? Gave me power? What was she implying?

"How have you made me?" I asked softly. "How have you given me power when I was born with this?"

Madelyn's face didn't falter at my question. Instead, she regarded me with a quiet, dismissive arrogance, as though my words were little more than noise. Before she could answer, a shadow moved just beyond the doorway, and I felt a sudden chill ripple down my spine.

Homelander stepped in, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He leaned against the doorframe casually, but his eyes had that unsettling, predatory glint I'd learned to dread. Madelyn didn't even acknowledge him at first, as if this had been part of the plan all along.

She turned back to me, her voice almost conversational. "Supernova, this is what happens when people forget their place. When they think they're above Vought, above their purpose. We're not here to make you feel good or special. We're here to remind you of exactly who you belong to."

My pulse pounded, a sickening fear twisting in my stomach, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing my terror. I squared my shoulders and forced myself to breathe steadily. "You think threatening me will make me fall back in line? After everything you've done?"

She smiled coolly, and her gaze flickered over to Homelander. "I think you need a reminder again."

Homelander stepped forward, his smile fading into a calculated sneer. I instinctively took a step back, but my back hit the wall. He was in my space now, his presence heavy and menacing.

"Hey there, little nova," he said mockingly, his voice dripping with contempt. "Guess it's time you learned what happens when you bite the hand that feeds."

His hand shot out, grabbing my arm in a grip like iron, and before I could even react, he drove his fist into my stomach. I choked as the air shot from my lungs, a blinding pain radiating through my torso. I doubled over, gasping, but he didn't let go. He yanked me upright, his hand wrapping around my throat with an alarming casualness, as if this was nothing more than routine.

"You're not a hero," he whispered, his voice low and cold. "You're a tool. A weapon. Don't get it twisted."

He slammed me against the wall, and the back of my head cracked against the plaster. Stars exploded in my vision, and I felt my legs weaken. But I forced myself to stay upright, refusing to crumble in front of him.

Madelyn watched the scene with an unsettling calm, her face expressionless as Homelander drew back and delivered another blow. The world blurred for a second, pain searing through my body with each hit. Every time I tried to catch my breath, he was there, ready to cut it short.

But I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. Even through the haze of pain, Leo's words were a constant in my mind, a tether keeping me grounded: To the end, little star.

As Homelander finally released his grip, letting me crumple to the floor, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window. Blood stained my lip, my cheek was already swelling, and bruises were beginning to bloom across my skin. I was beaten, battered—but I was still here.

Madelyn crouched down, her gaze sharp as she looked me over, and her mouth twisted in something like disdain. "Remember, Supernova. There's no out for you. You're ours." Her voice was a chilling whisper as she leaned closer, her gaze locked on mine. "Next time, it'll be worse."

With a glance at Homelander, she turned and swept out of the room, leaving me lying there, gasping for breath and fighting to stay conscious. He lingered, staring down at me with a dark satisfaction before finally turning to leave as well, shutting the door with a resounding finality.

Minutes passed as I lay on the cold floor, pain radiating through every inch of my body. Each breath was a battle, yet with each exhale, I felt a surge of defiance building in my chest, even as bruises blossomed and aches spread like fire. Vought had used me, shaped me, broken me—and tonight had been their attempt to finally finish what they'd started. But Leo's message, "To the end, little star," echoed in my mind like a lifeline, cutting through the pain and anchoring me in a reality beyond their control.

Slowly, I pushed myself up, every movement a testament to the cost of my resistance. My phone had fallen beside me, screen cracked but miraculously still on. I managed to unlock it, Leo's last message still there. "To the end, little star." A quiet, painful laugh escaped me. They could beat me down, try to wear me out with threats and fists, but there was a fire in me they could never control. Vought didn't create it; they only uncovered it.

The moment stretched on, and my resolve solidified. I wasn't theirs. Not anymore. The pain, the memories, the endless lies—they had become fuel for something they couldn't touch. Leo was right; I would need more than defiance to win this war, to finally break free. I didn't know how, or when, or even if it would be enough. But I had to try. For every person Vought had hurt, every life they had stolen.

With a steadying breath, I typed back to Leo.

ME: To the end, whatever it takes.

And I meant it.

[]

The press conference room was a spectacle in itself. Bright lights seared into my skin, and camera lenses were trained on me like the scopes of silent weapons, waiting for any slip-up, any hint of guilt or weakness. I stood behind a podium emblazoned with Vought's familiar logo, flanked by two Vought PR representatives who loomed like silent guards.

The crowd of journalists looked impatient, restless. I knew they were waiting for more than the prepackaged statements Vought usually handed out; they wanted a show. They wanted to see "Supernova," to see the person who'd been in the middle of the "Race of the Century" disaster—the "Massacre of the Century." Their headlines had already buried me before I'd even had a chance to defend myself.

Madelyn, as always, was seated off to the side, her expression a mask of calm confidence. She was the architect of this narrative, her influence hanging heavy in the air. Homelander was nowhere to be seen, but his presence lingered, like a shadow I couldn't shake.

A reporter from the back raised her hand, and Madelyn nodded at her. She didn't waste a moment.

"Supernova," she began, her tone pointed, "the nation is reeling from the tragedy at the race. Many are calling it an unprecedented disaster, with questions emerging about whether or not this event should've happened in the first place. Do you feel any responsibility for what happened?"

The question hung in the air, and I could feel every gaze digging into me. For a moment, I glanced at Madelyn, who gave a slight nod. I knew what she wanted: contrition, an apology carefully molded to admit nothing and deflect everything.

But the words wouldn't come. I was still bruised, battered, and aching from last night, a physical reminder of how deeply Vought was willing to press me down to keep me in line. But Leo's words rang in my mind, pushing against the silence they wanted to suffocate me with. "To the end, little star."

I gripped the podium, drawing in a slow breath. "First, I want to say I'm devastated by what happened. The lives that were lost, the people injured—I carry that with me every day."

My voice was low, steady, but with each word I felt my defiance inching closer to the surface, creeping into my tone. I could see Madelyn shift slightly in her seat, her gaze sharpening.

"But I believe the real question isn't just about responsibility," I continued, forcing myself to meet the sea of eyes before me, "but accountability. The race... it wasn't my choice alone. Many hands were involved in making it happen. The way it was marketed, hyped... the pressure for it to succeed." I glanced directly at Madelyn, daring her to look away. "This was a team effort, driven by larger decisions. And we all—every one of us—need to ask the hard questions about that."

A hush fell over the room, and I could see the reporters exchanging glances, scribbling notes, sensing the tremor of something bigger behind my words. A PR rep shifted uncomfortably, whispering into a headset.

Another reporter's hand shot up, and Madelyn looked as if she wanted to intercept, but he pushed forward.

"Are you saying Vought holds some responsibility for what happened?" His question was sharp, and I could see Madelyn's gaze turn cold. The entire room seemed to hinge on my response, as if they sensed I was walking the edge of a line I'd never crossed.

I swallowed, the weight of the decision pressing on me, but I knew this was my only chance to tell even a sliver of truth. "I'm saying," I began slowly, my gaze steady, "that people deserve the full story. They deserve to know what actually led to the tragedy."

A low murmur swept through the room, and I saw Madelyn rise from her seat, her face tight, her smile stretched and brittle. She strode toward the podium, signaling the end of questions, but I kept speaking, raising my voice over her approach.

"Every day, I serve Vought. I'm a part of Vought. But that doesn't mean I don't see the cracks in this system, or the damage it can cause if it goes unchecked."

Madelyn reached my side, placing a firm hand on my shoulder, her grip tightening enough that I could feel the warning behind it. "Thank you, Supernova," she said smoothly, her voice layered with thinly veiled menace, "for your... dedication to transparency. Vought will, of course, continue its own investigation into this tragic incident. And we'll ensure that all necessary actions are taken to avoid future tragedies."

She turned to the crowd, and her smile hardened as her gaze swept over them. "This concludes our questions for today. Thank you all for coming."

I knew what that final squeeze on my shoulder meant: I'd pushed too far, overstepped my bounds. But as the reporters filtered out and I locked eyes with Madelyn, I saw that something had shifted between us. She didn't say a word, but I could see the calculation behind her eyes.

They'd been wrong to think I'd stay silent, that I'd let them use me forever. And now, they knew it too.

Madelyn's gaze lingered, as if she was studying a new equation she hadn't expected to solve. I could practically feel her calculating, re-assessing her grip on me, wondering just how much of a threat I'd become. And as her hand slowly slipped from my shoulder, I could tell she'd made a decision.

"Supernova," she said, her voice low and steely, meant only for me, "you've been through a lot. Take the next few days to rest. And be ready—there will be other questions soon. Some far less forgiving than today's."

Her words hung in the air like a promise, but I could hear the threat beneath it. She wanted me to know she could pull me back, press down even harder if I tried to resist again.

But she didn't know I'd already made my choice. I could still feel the lingering ache from last night, the bruises under my clothes that were already turning dark and angry. Each pulse of pain reminded me of Vought's limits—the violence they hid under their carefully manicured brand. I wasn't afraid of them anymore. I was angry.

I left the stage, ignoring the cold smiles of the PR team, the hollow praise of a job "well done." Outside, a few cameras still flashed, catching every stiff step, every tired look. But all I could think about was my phone and the message I needed to send.

Back in the privacy of my room, I collapsed onto my bed and took out my phone, ignoring the pain that shot through me as I moved. My hands shook slightly, and it took longer than I expected to type out a message to Leo.

ME: It's worse than we thought. They're framing me. Madelyn is making sure I take the fall.

I waited, watching the three dots appear and disappear as he crafted his response. It finally arrived a minute later.

UNKNOWN: I figured they would. Are you still thinking of going through with it?

ME: Yeah. This was the last straw, Leo. I can't keep doing this—keep letting them turn me into... into whatever they want me to be.

UNKNOWN: Okay. Then here's what we'll do. Tomorrow night. There's a safehouse about 40 miles out, just past Westport. Lay low for now; I'll text you the coordinates when I'm close.

The thought of it—the chance to escape, to actually slip away from Vought and its iron hold—left me feeling as though I were caught between hope and terror. Could I do this? Could I break away from everything I'd known?

But as I scrolled through the photos of the crowd that day, the lives that had been lost in the chaos, the glimmer of terror in their eyes—I knew I couldn't stay. I couldn't let Vought make me their own personal puppet any longer. Not after everything that had happened. The people they'd crushed, the lives they'd taken in the name of spectacle. I wasn't going to be complicit in it anymore. I had to act.

I pushed myself off the bed and started pacing, trying to calm my breath. Leo was right—we had to act. He had a plan, but I didn't know how much time I had. I needed to make a decision now. Escape was risky, dangerous even, but it was the only choice left.

Another notification pinged on my phone. It was from Leo again.

UNKNOWN: Carrie, you've got to be careful. If they're watching, they're going to make a move. If you're going to run, now's the time. Don't wait for the walls to close in.

I felt my heart slam against my ribcage, the anxiety creeping back into my veins. I wasn't the kind of person who took risks. I had always played by the rules, no matter how twisted the game was. But now, standing on the precipice of what could be my final stand, everything felt different. I wasn't playing for Vought anymore. I wasn't even playing for survival.

I was playing for something else. Something I hadn't felt in a long time: freedom.

ME: I'm in. Tomorrow night. I'll be ready.

I sent the message and dropped the phone onto my bed, suddenly feeling the weight of what I'd just agreed to. I had to leave everything behind—everything. The life Vought had built for me, the persona, the safety net. It was all gone now. And there was no turning back.

Just then, the door to my room clicked open, and I froze. My heart skipped a beat. Who the hell...?

It was Madelyn.

She walked in with her usual icy composure, wearing that mask of control she always carried. But there was something different in the air today—an edge that made my stomach churn. Maybe it was the knowledge that she was already anticipating my next move, or maybe it was the cold calculation in her eyes, as if she knew exactly how this was all going to play out.

"Supernova," she said, her tone silky but sharp, "I trust you're handling things well? I know today was a lot for you to absorb."

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I stared at her, the tightness in my chest growing. Every part of me wanted to snap at her, to demand why she was doing this to me. Why she had turned me into a weapon—into nothing more than a tool for their profit.

But I didn't. I couldn't.

"I'm handling it fine," I said through clenched teeth. "But it's clear you have a bigger plan for me than just talking."

Her lips curled into a smile that was anything but warm. "You're a smart girl. I've always admired that about you. But sometimes, smart people have to be reminded of their place."

She took a step closer, and I stiffened, instinctively retreating back to my bed. I couldn't let her intimidate me—not now. Not after everything I'd been through. But her eyes were cold, and her words were sharp, like a razor hidden in velvet.

"I didn't want to do this," she said softly, her voice like ice. "But you're being difficult. You're forgetting what's important. You think you can just walk away from this—from us. You think you can run from your place in this world? You're wrong."

I swallowed, trying to keep my composure, but the pit in my stomach was growing. She was threatening me, I knew that much. I'd been through enough to recognize it.

"Maybe I am," I muttered. "Maybe I'm done with you. With all of this."

Madelyn's smile faded. "You won't be done, Supernova. Not while I'm still standing in your way. You think you're the first person to think they can defy Vought? You think you're special?"

Her eyes darkened, and she stepped closer again, but I refused to back down. Not this time.

"I'm not afraid of you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but it held more conviction than I expected.

She laughed softly, the sound cold and cruel. "You should be. Because when Vought comes for you, you'll be nothing without us."

She was right, in a way. They had built me, sculpted me into the person I was. But that didn't mean I couldn't tear down the walls they had built around me. I didn't need them. I needed to break free.

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door, and both Madelyn and I froze.

I wasn't expecting anyone. But Madelyn's eyes narrowed as she straightened, her posture suddenly more alert. She gave me one last chilling look before she turned and walked to the door. I stayed frozen in place, my breath caught in my throat.

"Whatever game you're playing," she said, her tone back to its cold, polished edge, "you'll regret it." Then, without waiting for a response, she opened the door.

I didn't even have time to prepare myself before the figure standing on the other side made my blood run cold.

Homelander.

His gaze swept over Madelyn and then landed on me, his lips curling into that unnervingly familiar, predatory grin. He didn't need to say anything. The look in his eyes said it all. You're mine.

"Madelyn," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Is everything... under control?"

She didn't answer right away. Her posture stiffened, and I could see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. For the first time, she wasn't entirely in control. For the first time, she looked unsure.

"Yes," she said finally, her voice steady but cold. "Everything is in place."

Homelander's eyes didn't leave me. He took one slow step toward me, and my pulse spiked, my body instinctively tensing in response.

"I don't think you understand, Supernova," he said quietly, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "You don't get to walk away. Not now, not ever. You belong to us."

And as I stared into his piercing blue eyes, the realization hit me harder than I expected.

Running away might be my only option. But Vought had its claws deep in me. And I wasn't sure I could outrun them—not when they had a monster like him on their side.

Chapter Text

I had never been the one to feel truly afraid. Not like Carrie, who'd been tangled in Vought's grasp for as long as I'd known her. But tonight, that old, gnawing feeling crept up my spine, twisting in my gut. I couldn't shake the images that had flashed on the screen during that press conference: Carrie standing there, a puppet to Vought's ambitions, wearing a mask I knew too well. She'd tried to play it cool, to be strong, but he'd seen it in her eyes. She was breaking.

She had sent her last message—"I'm in. Tomorrow night. I'll be ready."—just before everything went dark on her end. No follow-up texts, no check-in. She was being watched, and they both knew it. But she was still willing to run, despite the risk. I admired her for that. Or maybe I pitied her. It was hard to tell these days.

I paced my small apartment, lit only by the occasional glow of my computer screens, each one flooded with intel, security feeds, and maps of the Vought building. I'd studied those blueprints for weeks, memorizing every hallway, every security blind spot. Every exit route she might need.

But if anything went wrong—if Vought suspected even a fraction of what we were planning—we'd be in over their heads before we even began.

I stopped pacing, forcing myself to take a breath. There was no room for fear. Not now. Not with what was at stake.

I took a long breath, willing myself to stay calm. Carrie needed me at my best, clear-headed, ready. She was risking everything to get away, but we both knew that escaping Vought wasn't just about running—it was a war against an empire that swallowed people whole, turning lives into merchandise. And Carrie... she was one of their most valuable "assets." They weren't just going to let her walk out.

The laptop's low hum was the only sound in my apartment as I clicked through surveillance feeds from my last Vought hack. It had taken me months to get this level of access, and I wasn't sure how long it would hold. I'd tapped into their lower-level security cameras and planted a worm that could unlock some of their doors remotely, at least for a minute or two. It wasn't much, but it was all I could get. We were running on scraps, but it would have to be enough.

That's when I heard a rough knock on the door. Heavy, like they meant it.

I froze, then checked the clock. Midnight. I hadn't told anyone about tonight. Had Vought tracked me here? I barely had time to think before the door banged open.

It was him.

Billy Butcher stepped in, grinning, his eyes as sharp as ever. He looked like he'd been waiting for this moment. Maybe even expecting it.

"Little late to be playin' secret agent, ain't it, Leo?" he said, his voice thick with that deep, mocking tone he always used. Like nothing was ever serious enough for him to bother with.

I felt a flash of irritation. "I told you to stay out of this, Dad. It's not your fight."

Butcher chuckled, a harsh, humorless sound. "That's where you're wrong, mate. If it involves Vought, it's my bloody fight too."

I clenched my fists, ready to snap, but I forced myself to calm down. Butcher didn't understand what I was doing. He never did. To him, this was just another chance to go after Vought, to chase his vendetta. But this was more than revenge. This was about Carrie—and he didn't know her like I did. She was more than just another pawn in his endless crusade.

I kept my voice low, steady. "I know what I'm doing, alright? I've been planning this for weeks. We've got one shot at getting her out, and if you blow this—"

Butcher cut me off with a wave of his hand, dismissing my words like they were nothing. "You think I'm here to muck up your little operation? Nah, Leo. I'm here to make sure you don't get yourself killed. Vought doesn't play nice, and you're playin' with fire, son."

I couldn't help but smirk. "Like you're one to talk."

He stepped closer, his face hardening. "Listen. You're muckin' about in the big leagues now. Vought's not just gonna let some brat hacker waltz in and swipe their prize. That girl's wrapped up in so many layers of security, you'll be lucky if you make it past the lobby."

"I know what I'm doing," I repeated, but even I heard the doubt creeping into my voice. Butcher had this way of getting under my skin, of making me question myself.

"Do you, though?" He tilted his head, studying me. "Look, if you're goin' after Vought, you need backup. Proper backup. This ain't a game, Leo."

I let out a slow breath, anger and frustration boiling just beneath the surface. "Fine. You're here, you're in. But you follow my lead. No going rogue. No vendettas. This is about getting Carrie out—that's it."

Butcher's grin widened, but his eyes were cold, calculating. "Whatever you say, son. I'll be your obedient little soldier."

I didn't buy it for a second, but I didn't have a choice. Butcher was good at this—too good. He'd spent years fighting people like Vought, clawing his way through the underworld, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. If I had to use him to get Carrie out, so be it. But I couldn't let him know what this was really about. Because for him, Carrie was just leverage—a weapon to turn on Vought. He didn't care about her safety, her freedom. Not like I did.

"Right," I said, pulling up a digital map of Vought's headquarters. "Here's the layout. Security's tightest on the lower floors and around their research labs, but I've got a few workarounds. If we hit them from the south entrance, there's a gap in their patrols we can use."

Butcher leaned over my shoulder, squinting at the map. "You got all this off their servers?"

"Had some help," I muttered, not wanting to give him too much credit. I didn't need his approval. I just needed him to follow orders.

Butcher chuckled, clapping me on the back a little too hard. "Looks like you inherited more than just my charming personality."

I brushed him off and focused on the plan. "Once we're in, you cover the main corridor while I get to the labs. Carrie's quarters are here." I pointed to a room on the fifteenth floor. "We meet back at the south exit, no detours, no risks. In and out."

Butcher raised an eyebrow. "And if it all goes pear-shaped?"

I set my jaw. "Then we improvise. But if you go after Vought's people—if you start something that brings more heat—I'll leave you behind. Got it?"

He just smirked, like he didn't believe me. "Sure thing, Leo. Whatever you say."

I wasn't sure if I could trust him. But right now, I didn't have much of a choice. Carrie was running out of time, and if Butcher was willing to throw himself into the line of fire to help us—even for his own reasons—I'd take it. Besides, there was no one better at breaking Vought than him.

I closed the laptop, grabbing my gear: a burner phone, my laptop, a couple of flash drives loaded with everything I'd hacked from Vought's system. The basics. Butcher watched, his expression unreadable, as I packed up.

"So, what's the story with this girl anyway?" he asked as I stuffed the gear into my backpack. "She worth all this trouble?"

I didn't look at him. "Yeah," I said softly. "She is."

The silence stretched between us, heavier than before. Butcher didn't press, and for that, I was grateful. He'd never understand. Carrie was more than just a way to stick it to Vought. She was someone I'd risk everything for. She'd been pulled into this world, forced into their system, and all she wanted was a way out. I was going to make sure she got it.

"Alright, then," Butcher said finally, pulling on his jacket. "Let's go make some noise."

I zipped up my bag and took a deep breath. This was it.

We moved quickly, quietly, as we made our way through the narrow hallways of the apartment complex. I kept my head down, eyes scanning every corner, making sure there were no prying eyes watching us, no one who might get in our way. Butcher was close behind me, his heavy footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway, but he was careful, as always, to avoid making too much noise.

The night air was cold when we stepped outside, and the streets were eerily quiet. It was almost like the city knew something big was about to go down, holding its breath. I checked my phone—no new messages from Carrie. That only made the pit in my stomach grow heavier. I'd been expecting a sign, something to let me know she was still on track, still in the game. But there was nothing. Just a silence that stretched out like the calm before a storm.

Butcher lit up a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face before the smoke curled into the air. "You sure she's gonna show, Leo? It's risky, mate. I wouldn't be trustin' anyone who's still playin' for Vought."

I ignored him. I couldn't afford to show any doubt now. I had to believe in Carrie—had to trust that the plan we'd set in motion would work. She wasn't the type to back out. Not after everything she'd been through. And if there was one thing I knew, it was that she had a fire inside her. That fire was why I was risking my life, and Butcher's, to get her out.

We reached the alley where we'd parked the van, a piece of junk I'd borrowed from a local contact who owed me a favor. It wasn't much, but it would do the job. I popped the back open, revealing the gear we'd need—night-vision goggles, a couple of small explosives to disable the security systems, and some firepower, just in case things went south. Butcher started loading up, his movements quick and deliberate.

"You know, Leo, you're a bloody mess when it comes to these plans," Butcher said as he tightened the strap on his vest. "You're all brains and no brawn. I'd rather have a bloody sledgehammer when things go sideways."

I shot him a look, but didn't respond. I didn't need his commentary. I just needed him to stick to the plan, to be the muscle I didn't have. That was the deal. He was the blunt force. I was the precision.

"Everything's set," I said after a few moments, checking the layout on my phone once more. "We're in. We've got an hour before the main security shift changes. That's our window."

Butcher exhaled a puff of smoke, staring off into the night. "Right. And if we don't get her out in time, if Vought catches wind of this—"

"Then we don't get caught," I interrupted, my voice sharp. "This has to be clean. No mistakes."

"Yeah, well," Butcher said, flicking his cigarette away, "We'll see if your pretty little plan holds up when the bullets start flyin'."

I didn't have time to argue. Time was slipping away, and Carrie needed us.

We piled into the van, the engine sputtering to life as I drove us toward Vought Tower. It wasn't far, but it felt like the longest drive of my life. The streets blurred as I focused on the road, the gears turning in my mind, checking and re-checking every angle of the plan.

The building loomed ahead as we neared Vought's headquarters. Its towering glass structure gleamed in the moonlight, an intimidating symbol of power. Inside, Vought's top brass would be wrapped up in their own little bubble of control, oblivious to the storm about to hit them. But Carrie wasn't a part of their bubble anymore. She was the threat that would bring it all down.

I parked the van in a dark corner of the street, far enough to not raise suspicion but close enough to make a quick getaway if necessary. Butcher and I geared up in silence, the tension between us palpable. He grabbed his rifle and slid it into the holster on his back, his eyes glinting with that familiar ferocity. He didn't care about subtlety. Butcher would go in swinging, and I'd need to make sure he didn't get us killed.

"We're going in through the south side," I said, my voice steady. "Stay low, stay quiet. We move fast, hit the access point in the lower level, and I'll override the door controls from there."

Butcher grunted in agreement, pulling his mask over his face. He didn't say anything more, which was fine. We didn't need words right now.

We crept along the side of the building, staying out of view of the security cameras, making our way toward the south entrance. I pulled out my tablet, tapping through the backdoor security protocols, setting up the hack.

The hum of the city was a dull roar in the background, but in the shadows of Vought's fortress, the world felt unnervingly still. My fingers flew across the screen as I manipulated the control system, bypassing Vought's security measures one by one.

"Done," I whispered, my heart pounding in my chest.

The heavy door slid open with a soft whoosh. We were in.

Butcher motioned for me to go ahead, his rifle raised in case we ran into trouble. I moved through the dark corridor, taking a deep breath. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and corporate bureaucracy. I'd been in this place too many times before, but this time was different. This time, we weren't here to observe—we were here to tear it all down.

We made our way to the elevator shaft, the plan moving forward smoothly. But then—just as we reached the corner leading to the stairwell—I heard it. Footsteps. Two sets of them, coming from around the bend.

I froze, signaling Butcher to take cover behind the pillar. We waited, hearts racing, as the footsteps grew louder.

A guard turned the corner, his flashlight scanning the hallway, stopping right in front of us. For a split second, everything hung in the balance.

Then Butcher moved.

With a quick, fluid motion, he tackled the guard to the ground, covering his mouth with one hand to stifle the scream. The other guard didn't even have time to react before Butcher's knee was in his chest, the rifle in his hands a deadly promise.

I didn't flinch, but my pulse was thundering in my ears.

"Quiet," Butcher growled, pulling out a syringe from his belt and knocking out both guards. He looked at me with a twisted grin. "See? Told ya, Leo. I'm the muscle."

I exhaled slowly. "Let's just make sure we don't need a lot more muscle."

We moved on, our steps light but fast, knowing that at any moment, everything could fall apart. But we had to keep going. For Carrie.

The moment we reached her floor, everything changed.

The door to her quarters was locked. But it didn't matter. I had the override codes ready. I punched in the sequence and heard the satisfying click as the door unlocked.

I pushed it open, and there she was—standing at the far side of the room, her back to us, dressed in the uniform they had given her. She turned as she heard the door, her eyes wide with recognition, but there was no fear in them. Just determination.

"You came," she whispered, barely able to keep her voice steady.

I nodded, my heart swelling with relief.

"Let's go," I said. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Carrie didn't hesitate. She moved toward us with that quiet, focused intensity that I knew all too well. Her eyes flicked over me, then to Butcher, then back to me, but there was something different in them now—less guarded, less afraid. Maybe it was the weight of finally making it out, maybe it was the adrenaline, but for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw a spark of freedom in her.

"We've got to move fast," I said, scanning the hallway beyond the door. "They'll know we're here soon enough."

She nodded and quickly started pulling on the jacket I'd left for her, the one that would help conceal her identity in case things got really ugly. Butcher was already at the door, checking the hallway, rifle in hand, his ears twitching for any sounds. We couldn't afford to be spotted by any of Vought's security, not now.

I checked my phone again—still no new messages from our inside contacts. It was just us and whatever plan we'd put together. No backup, no second chances.

The hallways were eerily quiet as we moved, the muffled hum of Vought's security systems the only sound. The lower levels were still empty, but we knew that wouldn't last. We had to make it to the parking structure, where the van was waiting, and get out of the building before anything went wrong.

Butcher moved with an almost predatory grace, the kind of efficiency you could only get from someone who had been in too many close calls to count. His eyes never stopped scanning, always ready to react. I led the way, Carrie keeping close behind me, and we made our way to the stairwell.

Then, suddenly, the silence broke. A voice came from around the corner, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of boots against the polished floor.

"Shit," Butcher muttered under his breath. "We're not alone."

I pressed against the wall, pulling Carrie close to me, my body blocking her from view. I held my breath, listening, hoping they would just pass by. But fate was never that kind to us.

"Over here!" The voice called out. It was a guard, and the unmistakable sound of a commotion started to rise—footsteps rushing toward us.

"Go," I whispered sharply. "Now!"

I pushed Carrie toward the door to the stairwell, my heart hammering in my chest as Butcher slid past us, his rifle raised. The first guard rounded the corner just as we slipped inside the stairwell, but Butcher was already there, his speed brutal. A quick swipe of the rifle butt sent the guard crashing to the ground before he could even raise the alarm.

We didn't stop moving. Not even for a second.

Butcher was in front now, taking the lead down the stairwell. I was right behind him, my hand firmly on Carrie's back, guiding her down the cold concrete steps, one at a time, the sounds of the building growing distant. We were getting closer to the exit, but I could feel the tension building in my gut.

We had no idea what Vought might throw at us.

As we reached the last level, we heard it—the unmistakable screech of an alarm echoing through the hall. They'd found the bodies. They knew we were there now. The pursuit had started.

Butcher's face hardened. "They've called in reinforcements," he said. "We're gonna have company soon."

I didn't need to hear it twice. "Then let's make this quick." I gestured toward the exit doors. They were still a hundred yards away, but we could make it. If we didn't run into more guards.

We sprinted, hearts pounding in sync, feet pounding on the hard concrete, the exit light gleaming at the end of the hallway like a beacon. But the sound of boots in pursuit grew louder. There was no time left.

I led Carrie through the final set of doors, and as we emerged into the parking structure, I scanned the lot. There was the van, just where we'd left it. My heart leaped with relief. We were so close.

But then, from the shadows, more figures emerged.

"Shit!" Butcher growled, taking aim at the approaching figures—Vought security. They were blocking the van, and there was no way to get through without a fight.

"Leo, get Carrie in the van, now!" Butcher barked.

I didn't wait. I grabbed Carrie by the arm and ran toward the van, pulling open the side door. Butcher was right behind us, gun raised, scanning for any sign of threat. He fired once—twice—taking down the closest guards, but there were more coming.

"Go!" Butcher shouted as he jumped into the van after us, slamming the door shut just as another guard rounded the corner. He fired off a few more shots, sending them scrambling for cover.

I didn't need to hear him twice. I stomped on the gas, the van lurching forward, tires screeching as we tore out of the parking structure.

The city streets blurred as I swerved around the tight corners, my knuckles white on the wheel. The adrenaline was starting to catch up with me—my hands were shaking, and I could feel the weight of the night pressing down. We had just barely made it out, but we were still being hunted. The sirens were already ringing in the distance, and I knew they'd be on our tail soon enough.

Butcher wiped his face, a satisfied grin crossing his features. "Not bad, mate. Not bad."

Carrie was silent in the back, her face pale but determined. She was holding it together—for now. I glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "You alright?"

She nodded, though her hands were trembling. "Yeah. Just... let's get out of here."

I didn't argue. We had what we came for, but this was just the beginning. The hard part was yet to come.

Vought wasn't going to let us get away with this. And now that they knew we were after them, they'd stop at nothing to hunt us down.

The van rattled as we sped through the city streets, the darkened buildings whizzing by like jagged shadows. I glanced at Carrie in the rearview mirror, hoping the pale, shaken expression on her face was just from the intensity of the escape. But then I saw it—a streak of red on her forearm, smudged and gleaming in the dim light from the dashboard.

"Carrie," I called, trying to keep my voice steady. "You're bleeding."

She glanced down, noticing it for the first time, her face tightening as she examined the gash. She didn't even wince, just brushed it with her fingers, as if the blood was nothing more than dust. But as calm as she looked, she couldn't hide the toll tonight had taken on her. The exhaustion was setting in, dragging down her gaze, softening her expression to something more vulnerable than I'd seen in a long time.

"It's nothing," she murmured, voice flat but defiant. "Must've happened when I was... dropping off a little 'gift' for Madelyn."

Butcher, seated in the front passenger seat, gave a low, approving chuckle. "A gift? What'd you leave her—besides a bloody mess and a whole lot of hell to deal with?"

Carrie's mouth curled up just slightly, the faintest flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. "My tracker. Left it right on her desk, with a little note."

I couldn't help but laugh, even as I kept my focus on the road. "A note, huh? What'd it say?"

"'Fuck you,'" she replied without missing a beat. The deadpan delivery, paired with the way her lips barely twitched in a smirk, was pure Carrie. She leaned her head back against the van's side, a little triumphant despite her weariness. "Figured it was the least she deserved."

Butcher let out a deep, amused laugh, slapping his knee. "Good girl. That'll drive her mad. Vought's probably flipping their entire building inside out, looking for you right now."

Carrie gave a small nod, but I noticed her wince as she shifted in her seat. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the reality of her injury—and everything she'd just gone through—was setting in.

Butcher, always tuned into the room, rummaged around in the glove compartment and pulled out a small med kit. "Here. Let's get that patched up," he said, handing it to me with a grunt. "I'd do it myself, but I'd rather not make her arm worse."

Carrie let out a low sigh, accepting her fate as I climbed into the back with her. I opened the med kit and gently took her arm, carefully cleaning the cut. It was deeper than I'd expected, but the wound itself wasn't serious. Still, I could feel her tension, the way she clenched her jaw, staring at a spot on the floor.

She barely flinched as I dressed the wound, just kept her eyes on that spot, lost in her own head. And for a second, I saw her—really saw her. The girl who'd spent so much of her life locked in a prison, bound by Vought's chains, fighting just to stay herself. Every step she took toward freedom felt like another weight added to her shoulders. But despite everything, she kept moving forward.

"We're not far," I said, finishing the bandage and gently letting go of her arm. "We've got a safe house just outside the city. You'll be able to lay low there for a bit."

She nodded, her eyes meeting mine for a brief second. "Thanks, Leo. For everything. I mean it."

I managed a small smile, unsure what to say, but Butcher spoke up from the front seat, breaking the silence. "Yeah, kid's alright. And don't worry—Vought won't know where you are. I made sure of that."

We continued the drive in silence after that, each of us deep in our own thoughts. As we finally pulled up to the safe house, a small, nondescript building tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, I felt a strange mixture of relief and anxiety. We'd made it this far, but we all knew this wasn't the end. Not by a long shot.

Once we were inside, Carrie took in the small living room, its bare walls and dim lighting. It was far from luxurious, but it was secure—and right now, that's all that mattered.

Butcher dropped his bag onto the couch with a grunt, and then headed into the tiny kitchen to make coffee, as if this were all just another day's work. Meanwhile, I guided Carrie to a seat, setting her down gently.

"You'll be safe here," I assured her. "We'll keep Vought off your trail as long as we can."

Carrie gave a weary nod, her expression softening slightly as she relaxed into the couch. For the first time since we'd pulled her out of that building, I saw a glimmer of real relief in her eyes.

"Vought isn't going to stop," she said after a moment, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Madelyn... she'll come after us harder now. You know that, right?"

Butcher returned from the kitchen, two mugs of coffee in hand, handing one to Carrie. "Let 'em try," he said, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "They've pushed us around long enough. Now it's our turn."

Carrie took a sip, her hands still trembling slightly around the mug. "It's just... they know things. They know how to control people. Even people like us."

Butcher smirked, sitting across from her with his own mug. "That's what they want you to believe. Vought doesn't control anything they don't understand, Carrie. They make you think they do—until you start ripping their little plans apart." He leaned forward, eyes locked on her. "And that's what we're gonna do. Together."

I watched as Carrie took that in, the resolve in her gaze slowly hardening. She was afraid, that much was obvious. But beneath the fear was something stronger—a determination I hadn't seen in her in a long time.

For a moment, she sat in silence, clutching her mug, her eyes flicking between us. And then, she nodded, more to herself than to us.

"They think they own everything. Everyone. But I'm not theirs anymore," she murmured, the words more like a vow than anything else. She looked up, meeting our gazes with a fierceness that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Let's bring them down."

[]

The morning light seeped through the blinds of the safe house, casting a muted glow across the small, bare living room. Carrie sat cross-legged on the couch, coffee mug in hand, watching the tiny television in front of her. Butcher had found a set of news channels covering Vought's "press release" about her—about Supernova's disappearance.

I stood in the doorway, unnoticed, observing her as she watched herself through Vought's carefully manipulated lens. The familiar anchors were going through the motions, reciting what was clearly a sanitized, pre-approved statement from corporate.

"In a shocking turn of events, Vought's beloved Supernova has gone missing under unknown circumstances," the news anchor said, a perfectly curated blend of somber and concerned. "Vought officials are cooperating with authorities to investigate her last known whereabouts. Supernova has always been one of our most beloved heroes, a symbol of hope and resilience..."

The anchor's expression was serious, but it wasn't genuine—it was a mask, just like all of Vought's fabrications. This was a story, manufactured to control the public perception. The "investigation" was likely more about containing any potential fallout, or worse, tracking her down before she could do anything to harm Vought's precious image.

Carrie sipped her coffee slowly, her gaze fixed, unreadable. But I could see her fingers tighten around the mug as they ran footage of her, dressed as Supernova, during her last public appearance. Vought had spun her into this immaculate, shining superhero—almost ethereal in the spotlight. It was a polished version of her, stripped of anything real, anything vulnerable. And now they were wringing every last drop of public sympathy they could from her 'disappearance'.

Butcher entered from the kitchen, a plate of hastily prepared toast in hand, and settled into an armchair opposite her. He shot a glance at the screen, his mouth twisting in disgust.

"'Beloved hero,'" he scoffed, shaking his head. "They're laying it on thick, aren't they? Never could resist a sob story, those suits."

Carrie didn't respond, just kept her eyes on the TV, studying every word, every expression, as if absorbing it all.

I stepped into the room, easing onto the couch beside her. "They're trying to control the narrative," I said softly. "Make sure they're still in power even if you're not under their thumb anymore."

She nodded, a glimmer of defiance crossing her face. "They can try all they want. But they don't control me. Not anymore."

On screen, the footage switched to an older clip of her, one that seemed months away now. It showed Supernova standing tall in a crowd, shaking hands with adoring fans, her smile radiant and reassuring. The scene cut to a reporter reciting a list of her 'heroic' deeds—each of them a calculated move by Vought to keep her in line, in the public's favor.

Butcher leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "All these idiots see is what Vought wants 'em to see," he muttered. "They don't know what you've been through. What you've done to get here."

Carrie's gaze shifted to him, and something in her expression softened. "It's not their fault," she said, her voice quieter now, resigned. "They only know what Vought's fed them. I used to believe it, too—every bit of it."

She looked away, her face hardening, as if she was bracing herself against the memories. "I thought I was Supernova, that I was doing the right thing. It took me so long to realize that... that everything was just a setup to keep me trapped, to make me into their perfect product." She paused, her eyes distant. "I don't even know who I am without that suit."

"You're Carrie," I said, my voice steady. "Not some symbol, not some tool. Just you. And that's enough."

She looked at me, really looked at me, her eyes shadowed with the exhaustion that ran deeper than any physical injury. She gave a faint smile, barely there, but genuine.

"Maybe," she murmured. "But I don't think the world's ready to let go of Supernova. Vought's not. And neither are the people who've been told to love her."

Butcher snorted, unconvinced. "People only care because they've been told to care. Once we expose what Vought's really about, they'll be singing a different tune."

Carrie hesitated, her gaze fixed on her own image flashing across the screen. The world loved Supernova, idolized her, depended on her. She knew—we all knew—that once her real story got out, it would shake everything Vought had built.

"They're going to come after us harder now," she said quietly. "Madelyn, Vought... they'll come down on us with everything they have."

Butcher shrugged, unperturbed. "Let 'em try. They can throw everything they've got, but they're the ones living in a house of cards. All it'll take is one good hit, and the whole thing crumbles."

Carrie looked at him, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. "And what if they come for you, too? Or Leo?"

Butcher met her gaze, his expression unwavering. "We're in this together, love. Whatever comes our way, we'll handle it. I don't run, and neither does Leo."

I gave a nod, placing a reassuring hand on Carrie's shoulder. "You're not alone in this. We're with you."

The last thing I saw on screen before the news cut to commercial was her picture—Supernova's glowing, untouchable face, a stark contrast to the real person sitting beside me. She wasn't the "perfect hero" they'd crafted. She was something infinitely more powerful: real, raw, and finally, unshackled.

Carrie set her coffee down, her fingers brushing against the bandage on her arm. She looked at me, then at Butcher, a newfound determination settling over her.

"If we're going to take them down," she said, her voice gaining strength, "we have to hit them where it hurts. Where they can't just cover it up or spin the story." Her eyes narrowed, fierce. "We need to make the world see who they really are."

Butcher grinned, a dangerous spark in his eyes. "Now you're talkin'." He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. "So what's the plan, Supernova?"

She looked at him, a fire blazing in her gaze. "First, we get the people on our side. Not just with words—with proof. All the things they've done. All the lives they've ruined." She paused, her jaw set. "And we bring it to them in a way they can't ignore."

A silence settled over the room, thick with the weight of her words. Butcher looked at her, his smirk turning more serious. "You know there's no turning back after this, right?"

She nodded. "I know."

And I could tell, looking at her then, that this wasn't just Carrie fighting to escape. This was Carrie fighting to take back everything Vought had stolen from her—and to burn down every last bit of their control.