A-Train lay flat against the asphalt for half a second, then propelled himself forward in a grotesque burst of motion. With only one functional leg and both arms driving him like pistons, he shot into the street in a posture that looked less human and more like some broken predator dragging itself across the savannah.
His speed was nowhere near his peak. The shattered thigh bone slowed him significantly, and every movement sent jolts of pain through his nervous system. Even so, to an ordinary observer, he was still impossibly fast—a blur scraping across the ground, gone in seconds.
Pei Yuan stepped out of the car and started toward Hughie's house just in time to see the bizarre shape vanish at the end of the street.
Harris stood beside him, staring in disbelief.
"What the hell was that…" Harris muttered, a chill running down his spine.
It had been human. Technically.
But the way it moved, twisted and low, was deeply unnatural.
"Let's go," Pei Yuan said calmly, giving Harris a light pat on the shoulder.
He wasn't particularly surprised that A-Train had escaped. The sniper shot had been a gamble. If it had hit higher, if the angle had shifted slightly, things might have ended differently. But this confirmed something important.
In previous events, when A-Train's leg was broken, people assumed he survived because of Hughie's hesitation.
Now it seemed far more likely that he survived because he crawled away like that—low to the ground, erratic, hard to track.
It wasn't mercy.
It was speed, even crippled.
…
Hughie's father was escorted back to the safe house shortly after. His wife and children were moved as well. The Black Robe group was now operating under constant threat.
Outside, Butcher stepped away and dialed a number he had no desire to call.
The line connected.
"I think we need to join forces," Butcher said bluntly.
"Join forces for what?" Pei Yuan replied evenly.
"To deal with Homelander."
There was a short pause.
"Don't try to frame this as noble cooperation," Pei Yuan said lightly. "You're wanted criminals now."
Frustration crept into Butcher's tone. "This concerns you too. You killed Translucent. You killed Noir. What do you think happens when Vought figures that out?"
Pei Yuan already knew the answer.
Butcher had rebuilt the Black Robe group under the pretense of cleaning up corrupt superhumans. In truth, everything revolved around one objective—destroying Homelander.
Pei Yuan had known that from the start.
"Sorry," he replied calmly. "I decline. And don't forget—I'm a diagnosed mental patient. Officially under the influence of your little group."
The implication was obvious. If exposed, Butcher's group carried as much blame as he did.
"Fuck! Fucking squid!" Butcher roared.
The call ended with the sound of his phone smashing against pavement.
—
Chapter 32 – If I Do This, How Will You Respond?
Butcher hadn't expected to feel isolated again so quickly.
He had agreed to CIA Deputy Director Susan Rayner's proposal to expand their investigation beyond Homelander. The plan was simple: expose Vought's systemic corruption, unveil Compound V, dismantle the myth.
For a moment, it had seemed possible.
Then the "super-terrorists" appeared.
Men overseas suddenly displayed powers identical to American supes. Homelander intervened publicly, recovering samples of Compound V from a terrorist hideout and declaring that the compound had been stolen and reverse-engineered.
The narrative shifted overnight.
Even though many doubted that extremist groups possessed the technological capacity to replicate such a complex serum, there was no hard evidence tying Vought to the spread.
The military integration bill—once controversial—passed within days.
The FBI and CIA were forced to suspend their active investigation into Vought. Compound V was quietly classified again.
And the Department of Justice issued nationwide warrants for the murder of Translucent.
The Black Robe group became fugitives.
Susan could no longer shield them.
With Frenchie and Mother's Milk already in custody, Butcher's options shrank.
Mallory had given him one last lead: Madelyn Stillwell.
Homelander's weakness.
So he prepared explosives.
He no longer cared about optics, about legality, about collateral fallout.
If he couldn't break Homelander physically, he would break him psychologically.
—
Inside Madelyn Stillwell's suburban home, the tension was thick enough to choke on.
Madelyn sat bound to a chair, explosives secured tightly around her torso. Sweat beaded along her temple, though she maintained a composed exterior.
Butcher stood across from her, detonator in hand.
The door opened.
Homelander walked in casually, holding Madelyn's infant son in his arms.
He looked from the bomb vest to Butcher with open amusement.
"So this is the plan?" Homelander asked lightly. "You want to hurt me by blowing up Madelyn?"
He tilted his head, as though evaluating a puzzle.
"Let me think. What's the strategy here?"
"Anything that hurts you," Butcher replied coldly.
He had interrogated Madelyn already. He had found no obvious weakness in Homelander's physiology. The bombs wouldn't harm him directly.
But Madelyn mattered to him.
That was enough.
"Ah," Homelander said softly. "All this for your wife."
He already knew the details of Butcher's history.
"Becca, wasn't it?"
Butcher's jaw tightened.
"We had a lovely afternoon, you know," Homelander continued, his tone disturbingly conversational. "She was very enthusiastic."
The words were meant to provoke.
But then Homelander's expression shifted slightly.
"Here's what I don't understand," he went on. "How are you so sure I killed her?"
Butcher hesitated.
He had never possessed direct evidence of Becca's death. Only footage showing her entering a room with Homelander—and leaving hours later, distressed and bloodied.
Eight years of disappearance.
A suicide conclusion without a body.
Everything pointed to rape and murder.
But it was circumstantial.
"You're not going to tell me this entire crusade is based on speculation," Homelander pressed.
He was smiling now.
Butcher remained silent.
Homelander had already reexamined inconsistencies in the official account. Discrepancies in Dr. Bob's medical report about a miscarriage. Tiny contradictions in Madelyn's explanations.
He had gone back to verify.
And discovered the truth.
Becca was alive.
And she had borne his child.
The absurdity of it all amused him. So much chaos. So many deaths. All stemming from a man chasing an assumption.
Translucent.
Black Noir.
Now this.
Madelyn's baby began crying from the rising tension.
"Please," Madelyn whispered urgently. "Take him away from this."
"Shut up," Homelander snapped, not even looking at her.
She flinched.
He turned slowly back to her.
"You and Bob should've aligned your stories better," he said quietly. "You almost convinced me."
Almost.
For years, he had craved parental approval. Madelyn had played that role. Stan Edgar another.
Now the illusion was shattered.
When he learned he had an actual biological connection elsewhere, Madelyn's importance diminished instantly.
Homelander faced Butcher again.
"You wanted to hurt me?" he asked thoughtfully. "Blowing her up would've been… creative."
He stepped closer to Madelyn.
"But if I do it instead…"
He placed both hands gently on either side of Madelyn's face.
"…how will you respond?"
Butcher's mind was still reeling from the revelation about Becca.
Before he could react—
Homelander's eyes burned red.
Twin beams of heat vision fired directly into Madelyn's eyes.