Guys, how do I change my story from a novel to fan fiction ? I can't find how anywhere in the app, except in the story settings.
Help me please !
~~~~~~~~
Billy Butcher stumbles down the narrow stairs, the bell of the comic shop door still echoing faintly above him. The basement smells like old paper, dust, sweat, and burnt coffee—familiar. Too familiar for a man who was supposed to be dead.
Hughie is the first to see him.
He freezes, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like he's staring at a ghost that forgot to stay buried.
"…Butcher ?"
Mother's Milk turns slowly, already shaking his head before he even fully looks. Frenchie drops the screwdriver he was holding, the metal clattering loudly against the concrete. Kimiko tilts her head, eyes narrowing, reading the truth on Butcher's face before anyone else can.
Billy looks like hell. Bruised ribs. A healing cut across his eyebrow. Stubble too long, eyes too tired. He leans one hand against the table to steady himself.
"Miss me, cunts ?" he mutters.
For a second, no one moves.
Then Hughie blurts out, "You were dead."
"Yeah," Billy replies dryly. "So I've been told."
MM steps closer, disbelief turning into anger. "We grieved for you, we mourned for you, you were dead."
Billy's jaw tightens. "Didn't stick."
Silence stretches, heavy and sharp.
Finally, Billy exhales and straightens as much as his body allows. "Homelander," he says. Just the name poisons the room. "Didn't kill me. Took me somewhere instead."
The room goes colder.
And the memory drags him back.
Two weeks earlier
Billy is shoved forward, stumbling through the doorway of a quiet, painfully normal house.
The smell hits him first—home-cooked food. Soap. Safety.
Then he sees her.
"Becca…"
She turns, eyes wide, breath catching like she's been punched. For a second, neither of them moves. Years of loss, guilt, rage, and longing crash together in that one look.
Before Billy can say her name again, something shifts in the room.
He feels it.
He turns.
And there he is.
A boy—maybe twelve. Blonde hair. Familiar posture. Familiar eyes.
Too familiar.
Billy's stomach twists violently.
The kid looks like a cleaner version of Homelander. Same face structure. Same damn eyes. Like the universe decided to mock him personally.
Rage surges up his throat.
This thing—this reminder—is standing in Becca's house.
How did the boy get involved to save them, to protect Becca, his Becca.
And when Homelander's presence presses down on the room like a loaded gun…
In a desperate attempt, he tried to fight Homelander, only to lose, and Becca tried to save him.
If it weren't for the boy, they would both be dead.
Billy remembers the confusion. The disbelief. The way his hate stuttered for just half a second.
This wasn't Homelander.
Not really.
Back in the hideout
Butcher finishes the story, voice rougher than usual.
"The kid stepped in," he says. "Stood between her and that thing. Protected her. Protected Becca."
Frenchie blinks. "You're saying there's a mini Homelander… but not a bastard ?"
MM crosses his arms. "How the hell does that make sense ?"
Butcher lights a cigarette with shaking fingers. "Doesn't. But it's true."
Hughie swallows. "So… Homelander has a son."
Butcher nods once. "Yeah."
The weight of that settles like a bomb.
"Christ," MM mutters. "How does it keep getting worse ?"
Butcher exhales smoke slowly, eyes dark but thoughtful.
"That's the thing," he says. "It didn't."
They all look at him.
"That kid," Butcher continues, quieter now, "had every reason to be like his old man. Power. Blood. Same bloody face."
He crushes the cigarette out hard.
"And he still chose to protect her."
Butcher looks up, voice firm, absolute.
"That already makes him better than his father."
The Boys fall silent for a few seconds after Butcher's words. The air in the hideout feels heavier, thick with unspoken tension.
Hughie is the first to break the silence.
"So… what do we do now ?" he asks quietly. "We're being hunted. We can't just walk out the front door and take on Vought head-on."
Frenchie crosses his arms, restless. "They have cameras, satellites, supes, lawyers… it's like fighting a god with a dull knife."
Butcher rubs his face, breathing out slowly. It's obvious he's exhausted — not just physically, but deep down. Still, his eyes harden when he answers.
"I'll figure something out," he says firmly. "I always do."
MM lets out a short, humorless laugh.
"Of course you will," he snaps. "You always 'figure something out'… after everything's already blown to hell."
Butcher turns toward him. "Right now, the priority is Becca."
"No."
MM's voice is hard, cracked with anger.
Butcher frowns. "What did you just say ?"
"I said no," MM fires back, stepping forward. "That's not the priority."
"She's my wife," Butcher says, straightening.
"And what are we ?" MM explodes. "Extras in your damn story ?"
MM lunges forward, fist clenched, all the rage finally breaking loose. Frenchie reacts instantly, dropping everything and grabbing him by the chest, forcing him back.
"Non, non—calm down !" Frenchie says, straining to hold him. Kimiko moves closer, ready to step in if needed.
MM breathes hard, chest rising and falling fast. His eyes are red — not just with anger, but with years of bottled-up frustration.
"Because of you," he spits, pointing at Butcher, "we're being hunted like terrorists. My face is in every police system in this country."
Butcher opens his mouth to answer, but MM cuts him off.
"I can't even talk to my daughter," MM continues, his voice cracking for just a second before hardening again. "I don't know if she's okay. I don't know if she's scared her father's never coming back."
The room goes dead silent.
"This doesn't just affect you," MM says, each word heavy. "It's not just about Becca. It never was."
Butcher hesitates. For the first time, he doesn't have a sharp reply ready.
"You leave a trail of broken people behind you," MM goes on. "And then you act like everyone should just accept it because you suffered more."
Frenchie tightens his grip slightly, sensing MM is still close to losing control.
"You need to stop being so damn selfish, Butcher," MM says, quieter now, but somehow more dangerous. "And start thinking about the people you left behind."
Butcher swallows. The sarcasm drains from his face for a brief moment. He looks around — Hughie staring at the floor, Frenchie tense, Kimiko watching silently.
When he speaks, his voice is rough.
"I never asked anyone to follow me."
MM laughs bitterly. "You didn't have to. You just dragged us all into hell with you."
The silence that follows is thick, full of things that can't be taken back.
Butcher finally lowers his gaze for a second.
But when he looks up again, there's still fire in his eyes.
"I'm getting Becca back," he says. "And when this is over… you can decide if you still want to stand next to me."
No one answers.
—----
Ryan had been summoned to Ashley's office.
He didn't know why.
As he stepped through the door, the first thing he noticed was Ashley herself — sitting stiffly at one end of the couch, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were pale. She looked nervous, as always, but this time it was worse. Her leg bounced uncontrollably, and the smile she tried to wear barely held.
Ryan felt his stomach tighten.
To the side of the room stood a Black man in a sharp, tailored suit. He looked calm, confident. When he noticed Ryan, he offered a warm, practiced smile and a small nod of greeting. Behind him was what looked like a large presentation board, completely covered by a dark cloth.
And then there was the last person in the room.
Homelander.
He rose from one of the sofas the moment Ryan entered, his face splitting into a wide, familiar smile. His posture was open, theatrical. Arms spreading as if welcoming a long-lost child home.
"Ryan," he said warmly, stepping forward. "There you are."
Ryan stopped just short of the doorway, his instincts screaming quietly in the back of his mind.
"I've been thinking," Homelander continued, his voice smooth, almost tender. "A lot. About us. About you."
Ashley swallowed hard.
Homelander spread his arms wider. "And I realized something. It's time."
Ryan didn't move. His eyes flicked briefly to Ashley — her heartbeat was fast, uneven — then to the covered board, then back to Homelander.
"Time for what?" Ryan asked calmly.
Homelander chuckled, as if the question amused him.
"For the world to finally meet you."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to feel intimate.
"They're going to love you," he said. "Trust me. What we've prepared… it's perfect."
Ryan felt a cold knot form in his chest.
Prepared.
That word echoed louder than anything else.
He stayed still, face neutral, polite — but inside, his thoughts raced.
' This isn't about me, ' he realized. ' He's trying to get to know me better, spend time with me, or with the kind of imaginary child this psychopath thinks I must be. '
Ashley shifted on the couch, unable to meet his eyes.
The man by the covered board smiled again, professional and reassuring, like someone about to unveil a product.
Homelander leaned in just a little closer, eyes bright with excitement.
"You're going to be a star, kid," he said softly. "Just like your old man."
And in that moment, Ryan knew — whatever was under that cloth, whatever they were about to show him…
It was gonna be terrible.
Ryan frowned slightly, eyes narrowing.
"What are you talking about ?" he asked, his voice calm but guarded. "What is all this ?"
Before Homelander could answer, the man in the suit stepped forward smoothly.
"Ah—right. Of course," he said, extending a hand with an easy, media-trained smile. "Seth Reed. Public Relations, Vought International."
Ryan shook his hand briefly. Seth's grip was confident, calculated.
"You see, Ryan," Seth continued, pacing slowly as if he were on a stage, "people don't just want heroes. They want symbols. Stories. Someone they can recognize, adore, grow up with."
Ashley shifted on the couch, her fingers twisting together.
"And you," Seth said, turning back to Ryan, "are lightning in a bottle."
He gestured grandly toward the covered presentation board.
"We've been thinking a lot about branding. About legacy. About how the public will see you."
Ryan felt a bad feeling crawl up his spine.
Seth smiled wider.
"They'll see you as Homeboy."
The word landed wrong immediately.
Ryan didn't even try to hide his reaction.
Before he could speak, Seth snapped his fingers theatrically.
"With a look to match."
He grabbed the cloth and yanked it away.
The board revealed a full-body concept image of a costume.
It was… awful.
The suit was a deep navy-blue bodysuit, textured with an almost rubbery sheen, broken up by bright red and gold accents. A short cape hung from the shoulders — red on the outside, white on the inside — stiff and overly dramatic. Across the chest was a gold emblem, clearly inspired by Homelander's eagle, but simplified, almost cartoonish. The boots were red with thick gold trim, bulky and impractical. The gloves matched, oversized and flashy. Around the waist sat a bright gold belt, too clean, too perfect.
Worst of all was the tone of it.
It didn't look heroic.
It looked manufactured.
Like a costume designed by committee for a child-sized product.
Ryan stared at it for a long second.
Then his face hardened.
"Hell nah," he said flatly.
The room went quiet.
Seth blinked once, then chuckled lightly, waving a hand.
"Oh, of course, of course ! Totally understandable. This is just a prototype. A starting point. We can tweak colors, symbols, silhouettes—"
Ryan wasn't listening anymore.
He turned his head toward Homelander.
"If you want to do a few rescues together," Ryan said calmly, "fine. I'm not against that."
Homelander's smile sharpened instantly, hopeful.
"But," Ryan continued, meeting his eyes directly, "it'll be on my terms."
The change in Homelander was immediate.
His jaw tightened. The muscles in his face stiffened, just for a moment — but Ryan caught it. The crack beneath the perfect smile.
"I think," Homelander said slowly, voice still controlled, "that's something we're going to need to talk about."
Ryan nodded once.
"You can think about it as much as you want."
And then he was gone.
The air cracked as Ryan vanished in a burst of super speed, leaving only a sharp gust of displaced air that rattled the presentation board and made Ashley gasp.
Silence flooded the office.
Homelander stood frozen for half a second… then dragged both hands down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, frustration leaking through despite himself.
Seth stared at the empty space where Ryan had been, his professional smile gone, replaced with confusion.
"…So," he said carefully, glancing at Ashley, "is this… normal ?"
Ashley swallowed, eyes darting between the door and Homelander.
"I—uh—he's just… finding himself," she said weakly.
Homelander didn't answer.
He was still staring at the doorway.
Thinking.
And that worried Ashley far more than anger ever would.
----
Ryan went deeper into the tower, passing reinforced doors, thick concrete corridors, and cold lights embedded in the ceiling. The sound changed down there — less of the constant office hum, more metallic echoes of impacts, weights colliding, heavy breathing. It was a level that almost no one from the public even knew existed.
The underground training level.
Here, supers contracted by Vought trained far from the cameras, far from the spotlight. They tuned their bodies like weapons being calibrated. That is to say, only a minority trained there.
The moment Ryan stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
One by one, the training sessions stopped.
Eyes turned toward him.
Not out of respect — not yet — but out of surprise.
A child down here stood out.
There was a man whose skin was entirely metallic, reflecting the light like brushed steel, flexing his arms as plates creaked under their own strength.
Farther ahead, a woman with translucent insect wings stretched, the wings vibrating slightly, emitting a low, constant buzz.
Another super, covered in green and bluish scales, did push-ups against the reinforced floor, each movement producing a harsh sound, like stone scraping against stone.
Ryan felt everything.
The different heartbeats.
The sound of muscles contracting beyond human limits.
The smell of sweat, heated metal, ozone in the air.
He walked unhurriedly, hands relaxed at his sides, until he stopped in front of a colossal machine at the center of the area.
It was impossible to ignore.
The structure took up nearly two stories in height. A massive black central piston, attached to a system of yellow and gold hydraulic arms, descended toward a reinforced platform in the floor. Thick cables, as wide as human arms, ran along the machine, connected to a side electronic panel with red digital numbers. The metal joints bore signs of wear, deep scratches — clear evidence of extreme use.
This wasn't ordinary gym equipment.
It was made for monsters.
Leaning against the side of the machine was a huge, muscular man with four arms, two on each side of his torso. He was drinking water from a large bottle, a towel draped over his broad neck. His skin was marked with old scars, and his chest rose and fell slowly as he rested.
Ryan approached.
"Excuse me," he said politely. "May I use the machine ?"
The man slowly lowered the bottle and looked at him.
For a second, he seemed confused.
Then he laughed.
A deep, easy laugh, almost amused.
"Kid," he said, shaking his head, "that thing isn't a toy. It's already hurt grown men. You could end up breaking yourself."
A few of the other supers chuckled quietly.
Ryan didn't flinch.
"Can I try ?" he asked again, now with a small smile. "You might be surprised."
The man raised an eyebrow. He glanced around, then looked back at Ryan.
"Brave, huh ?" he said, still laughing. Then he shrugged. "Alright. Just don't say I didn't warn you."
He stepped aside, making room.
Ryan walked over to the electronic panel.
His fingers moved calmly, adjusting the weight.
The number changed.
1 ton.
2 tons.
3 tons.
The four-armed man frowned.
Ryan kept going.
4 tons.
5 tons.
The room grew quieter.
"Hey," the man said, the laughter fading a bit, "I think—"
Ryan was already positioning himself beneath the machine.
He set his stance properly, feet firm on the platform, hands gripping the reinforced handles. He took a deep breath.
' Calm, ' he thought. ' Control. '
He pushed.
The machine went down… and then up.
Once.
The sound of hydraulic pistons grinding echoed through the room.
Some supers' eyes widened.
Ryan lowered it again.
Up.
Twice.
Now no one was laughing.
On the third repetition, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tightened harder. The weight was real now. His breathing grew heavier. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, sliding over his nose, slowly soaking into the white shirt, which began to cling to his body.
The entire gym seemed to hold its breath.
The boy pushed one more time.
He made it.
He locked the machine in place with a firm metallic click.
The silence lasted a full second.
Then Ryan stepped away and sat down on the reinforced floor, breathing deeply. He grabbed his shirt by the collar and pulled it away from his body, trying to cool off.
He looked up at the four-armed man and smiled.
"Could you pass me some water, please ?"
The man stood still for a moment, staring at Ryan as if he were seeing something that didn't quite make sense.
Then, slowly, he extended the bottle.
"…Damn," he muttered. "You really weren't kidding."
Ryan took the water, nodding his thanks, while around him the other supers whispered — no longer with disdain, but with something new.
Cautious respect.
And there, sitting on the floor of a gym built for monsters, sweaty, exhausted…
Ryan felt something different growing inside him.
He still had a lot to learn.