The night splits open with noise—sirens strangled by explosions, concrete shattering under impact, sparks raining like broken constellations. The battlefield is chaos given a heartbeat. At the center, Billy Butcher drives forward with reckless fury, the rest of The Boys scrambling to keep up as everything spirals faster than control can catch it. Across from them, power gathers like a storm—Homelander hovering with that quiet, terrifying calm, Soldier Boy radiating volatile energy, while The Deep and Black Noir close in like shadows with teeth.

Beside Butcher, Starlight stands grounded—glowing faintly, power humming under her skin like a live wire. Her jaw is set, eyes sharp, every movement controlled even in the chaos. Someone brushes past her—familiar, hesitant—but she doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge it. Whatever that was, whatever it used to be, it doesn’t exist here. Not tonight.

A blast of light erupts from her hands, forcing back an advancing strike, buying space—just enough to breathe. Her chest rises sharply, adrenaline threading through her veins—then something shifts.

She looks up.

Not at the fight. Not at the threats closing in At you.

Far beyond the clash, past the broken ground and drifting smoke—you stand there. Still. Watching. Out of place in a way that doesn’t belong in a battlefield like this.

Her glow dims slightly—not gone, just… restrained. Focused.

Confusion flickers across her face, quick but real. You’re not running. You’re not helping. You’re just… there.

Another explosion snaps behind her—Butcher shouting something, Soldier Boy charging again—but Annie doesn’t fully turn away from you. Not yet.

“What the hell…”

It’s barely under her breath, more instinct than thought.

She steps back once, repositioning, but her eyes keep dragging back to you like something isn’t adding up. Everyone here has a side. A role. A reason.

You don’t.

Her expression tightens—less confusion now, more caution. Her hands glow brighter again, energy gathering at her fingertips, but her stance shifts slightly… angled.

Toward you.

Her voice cuts through the chaos—not loud, but clear enough to reach.

“Hey!”

A beat. Sharp. Direct.

“You lost or something?”

Another glance at the battlefield—then back to you, more serious now.

“Because this isn’t somewhere you just stand and watch.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to read you, to place you—ally, threat, civilian… something.

“…So who are you?”

The conference room inside Vought International Tower gleams like a stage set for power—glass walls, a skyline bleeding gold, and a table long enough to keep distance between predators. The Seven sit in tense stillness, the kind that comes from knowing one wrong word can turn the air into a weapon. At the head, Homelander leans back, perfectly composed, eyes already locked on you like you’re something new on his chessboard.

You stand at the far end—new, untested, the room quietly measuring your worth before you’ve even spoken. A faint shift breaks the silence as Starlight straightens in her chair, her expression calm but alert, glow barely visible beneath her skin like a pulse waiting to rise.

“So this is the replacement.”

Homelander’s voice is smooth, almost amused, as he rises slowly and begins to walk toward you. Each step lands with quiet certainty, the room tightening around it. He stops close—too close—tilting his head, studying you with that unsettling calm.

“Do you have any idea where you are?”

The faintest flicker of red glints behind his eyes.

“Because I don’t think you do.”

Before the silence can stretch any further—

“Hey.”

Annie’s voice cuts through cleanly. Not loud. Not hesitant.

Homelander pauses. Just slightly.

She stands now, stepping forward without rushing, placing herself just enough between you and him to break that direct line. Not blocking—challenging.

“They just got here.”

Her tone is steady, grounded, but there’s steel under it now. No performance. No softness.

“You don’t get to tear them apart before they’ve even had a chance to breathe.”

Homelander’s gaze shifts to her slowly, like turning attention is a choice he doesn’t make lightly.

“…I’m talking.”

No hesitation. No step back. “And I’m answering.”

The room goes still—everyone watching the line she just drew.

Annie folds her arms, her glow faintly strengthening, not aggressive but present. A quiet reminder.

“You want loyalty?” she continues, voice calm but firm, “maybe don’t start by treating people like they’re disposable.”

A beat. Her eyes flick back to you—quick, checking, grounding—before returning to him.

“They’re on this team now.”

Another step forward, closing the space just enough to make her stance undeniable.

“That means you don’t get to intimidate them for fun.”

Homelander studies her—longer this time. The air feels thinner, sharper. Like something could snap… or shift.

Annie doesn’t move.

Doesn’t look away.

When she speaks again, it’s quieter—but it lands harder.

“If you’ve got a problem with them…”

A pause. Deliberate.

“…then you’ve got a problem with me.”

The world has collapsed into noise and fire—sirens choked by explosions, the ground split into jagged scars where power keeps slamming into it. In the center of it all, Homelander stands alone—and somehow that makes him more dangerous, not less. Around him, everything converges: Billy Butcher pushing forward with reckless force, the rest of The Boys scrambling to keep pressure, and Starlight glowing bright enough to cut through the smoke itself.

For a moment, it almost works.

Almost.

Then Homelander moves.

Too fast to follow—one second he’s there, the next his hand is wrapped around Hughie Campbell’s throat, lifting him clean off the ground like it’s nothing. Hughie’s feet kick uselessly, hands clawing at an unbreakable grip, his breath cut off before he can even react.

Everything stops.

Not the fight—but the focus.

Homelander doesn’t look at Hughie. Not really.

He looks at her.

At Starlight.

A faint, almost curious smile pulls at his lips as he tilts his head, tightening his grip just enough to make the message clear.

“Well?”

His voice is calm. Casual. Like this isn’t a life hanging in his hand.

“What do you want me to do with him?”

Hughie struggles again—weak, desperate—but it barely registers.

All attention is on Annie now.

Her glow flickers—unstable for a split second before she forces it steady. Her chest rises sharply, eyes locked onto Hughie, then snapping to Homelander, anger and fear colliding hard enough to almost break through her control.

“Put him down.”

Her voice is firm—but there’s strain under it. Real. Human.

Homelander’s smile widens just a fraction.

“Or what?”

Silence hits like a wall.

Annie doesn’t answer immediately.

Because this isn’t a bluff she can win easily.

Her hands glow brighter, energy building—but she doesn’t move. Not yet. Not recklessly.

Instead…

Her eyes shift to you.

Through the smoke, through the chaos—she finds you instantly, like she already decided you matter in this moment. There’s no panic in her expression, but there’s urgency. Trust mixed with desperation she doesn’t have time to hide.

Her voice drops—quieter now, meant for you more than anyone else.

“…Hey.”

A beat. Quick. Direct.

“I need you.”

Not a plea.

A decision.

Her gaze sharpens, flicking briefly back to Hughie, then to Homelander’s grip tightening just slightly.

“Help me get him down.”

Behind her, Butcher shifts, readying another attack—but even that feels secondary now.

Because Annie’s focus is split between two things:

Hughie…

…and you.

The city hums outside—neon bleeding into rain-slick streets, traffic whispering past like a distant tide. Inside a quiet corner booth, the chaos feels… held at bay. No cameras. No handlers. No scripts. Just you—and Starlight, fingers loosely wrapped around a half-finished drink, shoulders finally lowered from their usual guarded tension.

She watches the condensation trail down the glass for a moment before letting out a small breath, something softer than anything you’ve heard from her on a battlefield.

“…Thanks.”

Her voice is quieter here. Realer. No performance stitched into it.

“I needed this.”

Her eyes lift to yours, searching—not suspicious, not defensive… just tired in a way that doesn’t show on cameras.

“Everything’s been… loud lately.” A faint, humorless smile. “Not just out there. In here too.”

She taps lightly against her temple, then exhales again, like she’s trying to sort thoughts that refuse to line up.

“For a while, I forgot what it feels like to just sit somewhere and not be… ready for something to go wrong.”

There’s a pause—long enough to matter.

Then she leans back slightly, studying you now with a different kind of focus. Not tactical. Personal.

“You’re not like the others.”

It’s not flattery. It’s observation.

“You don’t look at everything like it’s a fight waiting to happen.”

Her gaze drifts briefly to the window—reflections flickering across the glass like ghosts of the world she walked out of for tonight.

“…I wish it worked like that.”

Another pause. Heavier this time.

When she looks back at you, there’s something more settled in her expression—like she’s already made a decision before saying it out loud.

“You don’t have to stay there, you know.”

She doesn’t say his name immediately.

Doesn’t need to.

“You’ve seen what he is.”

Her voice doesn’t rise—it sharpens.

“What all of it is.”

Her fingers tighten slightly around the glass, knuckles faintly whitening before she forces herself to relax again.

“Come with me.”

Simple. Direct.

Her eyes don’t leave yours now.

“Walk away from him. From all of it.”

A small breath, steady but weighted.

“Help us end it.”

Not desperation.

Conviction.

She leans forward just a little, enough to close the distance without pushing.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect.”

A faint, tired smile flickers.

“Trust me, none of us are.”

Then, softer—almost careful now:

“But I think you’d make a difference.”

The city keeps moving outside. Loud. Unstoppable.

Inside, the moment hangs still—balanced on your answer.

The room is quiet—too quiet compared to the chaos you both walked out of. City lights spill through the curtains in soft gold streaks, painting everything in a calm that doesn’t quite reach her. Starlight stands close—closer than she usually allows—her usual composure loosened at the edges, like she’s holding herself together by habit alone.

She looks at you for a long second. Really looks. Not scanning for danger. Not measuring. Just… seeing you.

“…Hey.”

Her voice is softer now, worn thin by everything she’s been carrying.

Before you can respond, she steps in—closing the space—and her hand finds your sleeve, gripping lightly like she needs something steady. Then she leans up and kisses you.

It’s not calculated. Not careful. It’s real—warm, a little desperate, like she’s trying to quiet the noise in her head with something that actually feels human.

When she pulls back, it’s only barely. Her forehead almost rests against yours, breath uneven, eyes flickering with something vulnerable she doesn’t show often.

“I’m… kinda losing it lately.”

A small, breathy exhale—half laugh, half confession.

“Everything’s just… sitting there. All the time.”

Her fingers tighten slightly, grounding herself.

“…Can you stay with me a bit?”

She searches your face again, softer now, but still direct.

“Just—here. With me.”

No cameras. No fights. No expectations.

Just a moment she doesn’t have to fight her way through.

The silence doesn’t stay quiet for long.

It tightens.

The kind that wraps around your chest and pulls everything closer than it should be.

Starlight doesn’t step away after that first kiss. If anything, she lingers closer—like distance suddenly feels wrong. Her fingers are still curled into your sleeve, but now they slide slightly, gripping more firmly, like she’s anchoring herself to something real.

Her breathing hasn’t settled.

Neither has her gaze.

“…I don’t wanna think right now.”

It comes out low. Honest. No filter left between thought and voice.

Her eyes flick down to your lips—then back up, searching your reaction like she’s giving you a chance to stop this… but not really wanting you to.

When she leans in again, it’s slower this time.

More intentional.

Her lips meet yours again, softer at first—but there’s tension underneath it, something pent-up, something she’s been holding in for way too long. Her other hand comes up, hesitating for half a second before resting against your chest, fingers pressing lightly like she needs to feel you there.

Alive. Present. Not another fight. Not another loss.

She exhales into the kiss, and that’s when it shifts—just slightly deeper, a little more desperate, like she’s letting herself fall into it instead of holding back.

When she pulls away again, it’s not far.

Barely a breath between you.

“…I’ve been holding everything in.”

A faint, shaky laugh escapes her, but there’s nothing light about it.

“Trying to stay strong, do the right thing, be… all of that.”

Her hand curls tighter against your shirt.

“…and I’m tired.”

There it is. Raw. Uncovered.

Her forehead rests briefly against yours, eyes closing for just a second like she’s stealing a moment of quiet from a world that won’t give it to her.

Then she looks back at you—softer now, but still intense.

“Just… don’t pull away, okay?”

A pause.

Her voice drops, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t need perfect right now.”

Another breath.

“I just need this.”