A-Train felt a cold spike crawl up his spine. He didn't move closer again. He stood at a distance, chest heaving, eyes locked on Ethan in the middle of the ruined alley.
Especially those eyes.
Since when did New York have a supe like this?
If he hadn't twisted away fast enough just now, he would've been sliced clean in half. Roasted. Finished.
He pressed a hand to his chest and sucked in a sharp breath. The pain flared hot and immediate. Two more ribs, at least. The guy's strength wasn't just impressive—it was monstrous. Stronger than him. Stronger than it had any right to be.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
He glanced toward the mouth of the alley, then winced as another stab of pain lanced through his ribs. Without another word, A-Train vanished in a streak of wind and displaced dust.
When he'd first arrived, he'd already seen what mattered. The girl was dead. The so-called terrorists running the experiment were nothing but cooling corpses. Whatever loose end he'd been sent to clean up was already handled.
There was no reason to risk his life fighting this unknown monster.
His heart was already strained from pushing his speed too often. If he forced it again in this condition, he might not make it out at all.
Ethan stood still for several seconds after the red blur disappeared. He watched the empty stretch of pavement where A-Train had been, waiting for the flicker of motion to return.
Nothing.
Only the smell of smoke and blood.
After a while, he let out a slow breath and shook his head.
Regret tugged at him. He'd wanted to grab the speedster and put two clean holes straight through his forehead. But instinct alone wasn't enough. His reaction time still lagged behind the kind of velocity A-Train could generate.
He'd need to get faster.
He turned his attention back to the alley. The wolf-like girl lay where she'd fallen, her body twisted unnaturally. Ethan walked over, paused for a second, then delivered a final, crushing kick to her head.
Bone cracked. Silence followed.
Cleanup wasn't his concern. The black-clad team that always trailed incidents like this would take care of it. They were efficient.
He stepped out of the alley and disappeared into the night.
By the time Butcher and the others arrived, the scene looked like a war zone.
"What the hell happened here?" Hughie muttered, staring at the devastation. Blood coated the walls in thick splashes. Bodies lay broken and scattered. "Did he… did he kill them all again?"
"Obviously," Butcher replied with a crooked grin, hands in his coat pockets as he surveyed the carnage.
He crouched beside one of the corpses and inspected the tactical gear. Vought issue. That much was clear.
"So Vought sent armed boys after him," Butcher murmured. "And they got turned into mince."
The more Vought assets that ended up dead, the better, as far as he was concerned.
Mother's Milk knelt and picked up a flattened bullet from the ground. The metal was compressed into a neat little disc.
"Incredible," he said quietly. "These rounds didn't just deflect. They flattened. You didn't tell me he could stop bullets like that."
Butcher shrugged. "Told you he was strong. Didn't say I knew how strong."
They'd seen what he did to the wolf girl. That alone had been brutal. But this was on another level.
Mother's Milk stood, still holding the deformed rounds. "This isn't just 'good physical condition.' This is something else."
Butcher wandered toward a corner of the alley and picked up a pair of shattered goggles. He tossed them over.
"Have a look."
Mother's Milk caught them and froze. "You're kidding me. A-Train was here?"
Hughie's face went pale.
"Relax," Butcher said dryly. "If the speedster was still here, we wouldn't be."
Mother's Milk glanced toward a collapsed section of brick wall, where cracks spread outward in jagged lines. The impact crater was obvious.
"These were over there," Butcher added, pointing. "Looks like our fastest man alive ran into something he didn't enjoy."
The group followed his gaze.
A-Train—one of the Seven. Marketed as the fastest man on Earth. Maybe the branding exaggerated things, but his speed was real. Over six hundred miles per hour at peak. Enhanced strength. Reinforced durability.
And yet he'd clearly taken a hit here.
"That's not normal," Hughie whispered.
Mother's Milk stepped closer to the shattered wall, running a hand along the fractured brick. "We need to reassess him," he said seriously. "That kid is more dangerous than A-Train."
Butcher nodded slowly. "Then we dig. I want everything. Background, origin, how he ties to that explosion in Sage Grove. I don't like unknown variables."
Mother's Milk exhaled. "Until we know more, dealing with someone like this? That's risky."
Butcher's eyes flicked toward another corner. "Take a lesson from the Frenchman, yeah?"
They turned.
Frenchie was kneeling beside the wolf girl's corpse, face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking as he let out a strangled sob. To him, she hadn't been a monster. She'd been a victim.
Mother's Milk rubbed his temples. "Great," he muttered. "Now we've got this on top of everything."
After leaving the alley, Ethan returned to the safe house he'd used before. The first thing he did was head to the bathroom.
He turned on the shower and scrubbed at his skin. The soot from the grenade blast had blackened him from head to toe, clinging stubbornly to his arms and face. For a moment, he'd looked like he'd walked out of a coal mine.
Clean again, he changed into fresh clothes and dropped onto the worn couch in the living room.
Then he opened the system panel.
More than six hundred performance points blinked back at him.
A slow smile spread across his face.
Template Progress: 19.9%.
He didn't hesitate. He pushed the last fraction forward.
The number shifted.
20.0%.
Template Progress Reached 20.0%.Skill Unlocked: Super Evolution.Next Unlock at 30.0%.
Ethan leaned back, reading the description carefully.
Doomsday. A living weapon born from Krypton. A creature designed to adapt through death and rebirth, evolving resistance to whatever killed it.
This—this was the core.
Until now, he'd wondered if the system was just giving him surface-level abilities. Strength. Durability. Energy projection. Playing at being Doomsday.
But this…
This meant he wasn't pretending.
He was becoming it.
If this ability hadn't appeared, he might've written the system off as flashy nonsense. A hollow template.
Instead, warmth flooded through him.
Heat pulsed beneath his skin. His joints cracked, bones shifting subtly as if something ancient and violent was embedding itself deeper into his structure.
He stood and walked to the mirror.
For a second, he didn't recognize what stared back.
The reflection was over six and a half feet tall, muscles swollen and dense, cords of power twisting under the skin. His frame had expanded, monstrous and imposing.
"Is that really me?" he murmured.
A flicker of concern passed through him. Was this permanent?
As soon as the thought formed, his body shifted again. Muscles compressed. Height reduced. The monstrous form melted away, leaving his usual appearance.
Understanding dawned.
This was a combat form. Something he could activate at will. And in that state, his power would spike further.
He focused inward, testing the sensation of Super Evolution.
The concept was simple. Suffer enough lethal-level damage from a specific source, and his body would adapt to resist it.
Right now, though, it was still at its earliest stage. No resurrection. No true rebirth cycle.
He clicked his tongue.
For something modeled after Doomsday, it still had a long way to go.
Meanwhile, A-Train raced back toward Vought Tower, face grim.
It wasn't the fight that haunted him most. It was what came after.
He'd gone to his girlfriend. Told her everything. The Compound V distribution. The mess. The risk.
And she'd admitted she'd told two strangers about Compound V.
In that moment, he'd seen his future collapse.
There was no room for weakness. No room for leaks.
He'd made a choice.
Now the consequences followed him like a shadow.
As he walked down the corridor toward the conference hall, he straightened his posture. When he saw Homelander ahead, he forced his expression into something controlled.
"Homelander," A-Train said. "It's handled. The girl's dead."
Homelander glanced back, offering a bright, almost boyish smile. "Good. Well done."
He'd been the one pushing Compound V distribution overseas. If something threatened that, it had to be erased.
A-Train hesitated, then added, "There was someone else. A dark-skinned guy. Strong defenses. His eyes—"
Homelander lifted a hand, cutting him off. "Not interested in side stories right now. You're just in time. Come take a look."
He stepped into the meeting hall.
A-Train followed, swallowing the rest of his report.
Inside, The Deep stood stiffly by the window. On the floor in the center of the room sat a large metal box.
A-Train slowed as he entered.
He'd never seen Homelander look this… cheerful.
The smile on his face was bright.
Too bright.
Like he was about to kill someone.
....
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