At two in the afternoon, Manhattan was bustling. Pedestrians swarmed the sidewalks of Broadway, the entrance to Madison Square Park, and the luxury storefronts on Fifth Avenue.
The wind swept through the streets, weaving through the district—until suddenly, a piercing siren cut through the noise.
Several brand-new Ford police cruisers screeched to a halt at the intersection of Broadway, Fifth Avenue, and 23rd Street, immediately drawing sidelong glances from the surrounding crowd.
The sergeant stepped out of his car and quickly issued orders: surround the Flatiron Building. Then he pointed at two rookie officers and told them to set up a perimeter.
At that moment, the crowd also noticed the special forces teams on the roof of the Flatiron Building, rapidly rappelling down the sides, ready to breach through the windows at any moment.
The two rookies, pulling out the caution tape, headed toward the intersection, lowering their voices to mutter between themselves.
"So, Vought says there's a superpowered criminal in there? Then why call us?"
"How should I know? Vought has that agreement with the Department of Defense. They have the authority to use lethal force in violent incidents. It makes sense they'd call us in for support. Besides, Vought sponsors our department—a lot."
Thinking about the new espresso machine back at the station, Rookie Number Two unconsciously curled his lips. That thing was really convenient. Good coffee, free of charge. What more could you want?
Still, when he thought about the "hero" assigned to their district and how his family had been affected by the hero's inaction, he couldn't help grumbling.
"In my opinion, Vought's about to become the second police department. Guys like us, we're gonna be out of a job soon, replaced by these 'heroes.'"
"Keep it down. Do your job. Who do you think we are to mess with those heroes? Besides, they're superheroes."
"So what if they're superheroes? You think we haven't seen how bad they can be? If you ask me, they're gonna get what's coming to them one day!"
Before they could finish, they saw the special forces team at the building suddenly hurl chemical grenades through the windows. Shards of shattered glass rained down, grazing the tops of their heads and scattering across the pavement.
The two rookies, nearly hit by the falling debris, suddenly snapped. They glared up at Vought's special forces and cursed:
"Hey! Watch where you're throwing that shit!"
They had just flipped them off when the team smashed through the windows and stormed inside. But not two seconds later, the hero in black tactical gear came flying out through a window. Gunfire erupted from inside the building.
The sergeant, seeing something was wrong, drew his sidearm and ordered most of the officers to enter the building. According to protocol, the two rookies were supposed to stay outside, maintain the perimeter, and keep the crowd under control.
But they had barely turned around when a deafening crash came from behind them, followed by the shriek of twisting metal. They spun around and saw Black Noir trying to climb off the roof of a smashed police cruiser.
It all happened so fast that both rookies stood frozen—unsure whether to go check on Noir or continue securing the perimeter.
The bystanders, however, reacted quickly. A stunned roar erupted from the crowd, people screaming Noir's name at the top of their lungs.
The two officers snapped out of it. They rushed over to support Noir, who looked far from his usual composed self, and asked respectfully:
"Sir! Are you alright? Do you need assistance?"
Before they could finish, more gunfire crackled from above. Noir flinched, shoved them both three meters back, and—to the crowd's astonished applause—
fled.
By the time his dark figure had vanished completely into the crowd, the spectators finally understood what had just happened and gradually fell silent.
Wait.
He ran?
Black Noir—the ruthless killer, the night knight, the consummate professional, the elite operative, one of the Seven—had abandoned his mission in broad daylight and fled?
As superhero fans began to question whether their eyes were playing tricks on them, a drowsy Butcher emerged from the building with two fresh red marks on his face. He glanced at the two rookies, flashed his trademark crooked grin, and pulled out his ID.
"Federal Bureau of Transhuman Affairs. I need to file a report."
"You… what did you say?"
"I said, Vought International attempted to murder an agent of the Federal Bureau of Transhuman Affairs. Got it?"
————————————————————————————————————————————————
By the time Butcher finished his call with his former CIA boss, Grace, and made his way back upstairs, he passed a medical team carrying severed limbs down the staircase.
When he returned to the hideout, the "bodies" on the floor had been cleared away. Only Hughie, who had just woken from unconsciousness, and Locke—who had taken on his new form—remained.
Locke sat on the sofa, casually spinning a golden knife. When he saw Butcher return, he asked:
"All set?"
"She said she'll think about it."
"Just wait and see. That's about what I expected. It's how they've always treated Homelander."
Locke wasn't surprised by the CIA's reaction. The government's attitude toward Homelander had always been the same—terrified he might lose control, yet never truly taking seriously the man Vought had kept chained like a dog.
In their eyes, Homelander was like an elephant chained since birth. Even after growing to full size, he never dared to break his chains. Naturally, they didn't consider him a real threat.
What a shame they didn't realize Homelander had long been teetering on the edge of losing control. When that day came, there would be nothing they could do.
But that was exactly what Locke wanted to see. He just wanted Cyfer and Stan dead. He just wanted to watch Vought slowly crumble.
Despite the fact that Locke had just saved their lives, Butcher still had questions. Of course, maybe he was just trying to get back at him for the slap.
Butcher sat down among the wreckage and looked Locke up and down. "So, what's your grand plan, oh Prophet?"
"First, keep a low profile."
Locke stood up and stretched slightly.
"Stan is as nervous as an ant on a hot skillet right now. The more anxious he gets, the calmer we need to be. Today's raid was a warning. Lucky for us, they sent Noir. If they'd sent Homelander instead, do you think you'd still be alive?"
At that, Butcher and Hughie fell silent. With temporary Compound V, they could hold their own for a short time. But if they'd faced a situation like today, there wouldn't have been time to take the drug.
For so long, they had operated in the shadows, in the gray areas. Vought had never taken them seriously, which was why they were still alive.
But now, after breaking into Elmira and freeing Locke, everything had changed.
Now they had to face the full force of Vought International—a corporation with no bottom line, willing to pay any cost.
The weight of it pressed down on Hughie. Today, Vought had sent a strike team to their doorstep. What would they do tomorrow? Go after their families?
Butcher looked up at Locke and saw no trace of anxiety in his eyes—only calm confidence. He almost found himself asking Locke what to do next.
As if "Mr. Hope" had truly become their only hope.
But then he caught himself and felt a chill run down his spine. Why was he starting to trust this superpowered bastard after knowing him for only two days?
Butcher's expression darkened. He swallowed the question that had been on the tip of his tongue, determined to find his own way out of this mess, instead of relying on this shapeshifting bastard.
Until—
Hughie spoke up: "So what do we do next?"
Butcher turned to stare at Hughie in disbelief. Locke glanced at him, then at Hughie, and smiled as if he knew exactly what Butcher was thinking. He answered:
"Simple: stall for time. Let them tear each other apart. Give them some internal problems to deal with. So—"
"Hughie, call Neumann. Tell Stan Edgar's head-popping foster daughter to get ready to declare war on Vought."