The sky hangs low and bruised, streaked with smoke and torn clouds as the open field below is carved into ruin—craters smoking, grass scorched black, the distant echo of sirens swallowed by something far louder. The air vibrates with pressure, like the world itself is holding its breath. At the center of it stands Homelander, cape dragging through ash, chest rising slow and steady as if none of this chaos has touched him. Opposite him, Soldier Boy rolls his shoulders with a sharp crack of bone and armor, blood smeared across his knuckles, eyes burning with old, unfiltered violence. Around them, the fight fractures into scattered clashes—figures darting, explosions flashing, the desperate resistance of Billy Butcher and his allies trying to hold ground that’s already slipping through their fingers.

Homelander hovers a few inches off the ground, heat vision flickering faintly behind his eyes like a thought he hasn’t decided to act on yet. Soldier Boy lets out a low, humorless scoff, glancing across the battlefield with something between boredom and irritation, as if the entire war is just another bar fight that went on too long.

“Is this it?” Soldier Boy mutters, voice rough, dismissive. “This is what all the noise was about?”

Homelander doesn’t answer. His head tilts—just slightly. Not toward the fight. Not toward the chaos.

Toward you.

Far beyond the immediate destruction, at the edge of the field where the smoke thins and the world hasn’t quite been torn open yet… you’re there. Watching. Still. Out of place in a way that doesn’t belong.

His gaze sharpens instantly, locking onto you with unnerving precision. The battlefield noise seems to dull around him, like everything else has been pushed to the background. For a moment, he just watches—studying, measuring, deciding.

Then, slowly, he rises higher into the air, drifting forward with eerie calm. Soldier Boy notices the shift, following his line of sight, squinting toward the distance with a faint frown.

“What, you see somethin’?” he mutters, half-curious, half-annoyed.

Homelander lands again, closer now, boots touching cracked earth with deliberate softness. His cape settles behind him as his expression shifts—not anger, not urgency… something quieter. Controlled. Curious in a way that feels dangerous.

The chaos behind him continues—shouting, impact, distant explosions—but none of it seems to matter anymore. Not compared to you.

He takes a step forward, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to show interest.

“…You’ve been standing there a while.”

His voice is calm. Too calm. Smooth, measured, carrying easily across the distance like he’s speaking directly into your head.

“That’s a pretty bold place to watch from.”

Another step. Slow. Intentional.

Soldier Boy lingers behind, arms loose at his sides, watching with a growing edge of suspicion, but not intervening—yet.

Homelander’s gaze doesn’t leave you for even a second.

“People usually run when things get… messy.”

A faint smile pulls at his lips—not warm, not friendly. Something sharper. Curious in the way a predator studies something that doesn’t behave like prey.

“…So I’ll ask you nicely.”

A pause. Just long enough to make it feel deliberate.

His voice drops slightly, softer—but heavier.

“Who are you?”

The night air is ripped apart by shockwaves, the open ground reduced to a shattered wasteland of broken concrete and burning debris. Streetlights flicker uselessly, casting jagged shadows that stretch and snap with every impact. At the center of it all, Homelander stands—no, holds the battlefield together by sheer force of presence—his cape torn at the edges, suit scorched, eyes glowing faintly with restrained heat. Opposing him, Billy Butcher advances with relentless fury, temporary power surging through him, jaw clenched like he’s already decided how this ends. Beside him, Soldier Boy cracks his neck, chest humming with that dangerous, building energy, while Hughie Campbell flickers in and out of visibility, teleporting in sharp bursts, trying to keep up in a fight that’s far beyond him.

A blast tears through the ground—Soldier Boy’s energy detonates outward, forcing Homelander back a step for the first time, boots grinding against fractured asphalt. Butcher lunges in immediately, not giving him a second to recover, landing a brutal hit that actually connects. Hughie reappears just long enough to drag Butcher clear before the counterstrike comes, the coordination messy but desperate.

For a moment, just a moment—Homelander is pushed.

He straightens slowly, rolling his shoulders like the idea of resistance itself irritates him more than it hurts. Blood—just a trace—marks the corner of his lip. He wipes it away with his thumb, staring at it like it’s something offensive rather than painful.

Then—

He looks at you.

Not by accident. Not in passing.

Directly.

Through the chaos, through the movement, through the noise—his gaze locks onto you like you’ve always been part of this equation.

Time doesn’t stop. The fight doesn’t pause. But somehow, everything feels like it’s narrowed down to that single line of sight.

He tilts his head slightly, breathing steady again, expression smoothing back into that controlled calm that’s somehow worse than anger.

“…You’re still here.”

Another blast goes off behind him—Soldier Boy charging again, Butcher circling—but Homelander doesn’t look away. Not from you.

There’s something calculating in his eyes now. Not curiosity this time.

Assessment.

He takes a slow step back, repositioning, heat vision flickering for half a second before dimming again—like he’s holding it in on purpose.

“You’ve been watching all this…”

A faint, almost amused exhale leaves him, though nothing about it feels light.

“…and you haven’t run.”

Hughie reappears behind him—too close—only to be forced back instantly with a sharp, almost effortless movement. Homelander doesn’t even turn fully. His attention keeps snapping back to you, like you’re the variable that doesn’t make sense.

His voice lowers, quieter now, but heavier—cutting through the chaos instead of rising above it.

“So what are you?”

A beat. His eyes narrow just slightly.

“…Spectator?”

Another impact—Butcher coming in again, Soldier Boy’s energy flaring brighter—yet Homelander doesn’t fully engage. Not yet.

Because he’s still watching you.

Waiting.

There’s no invitation in his tone. No kindness.

Just a decision hanging in the air.

His jaw tightens, voice dropping to something colder, more direct.

“…Or are you going to do something about it?”

The conference room at Vought International gleams like a polished lie—glass walls, a skyline dripping gold, and a long obsidian table that reflects everyone seated at it like a mirror that judges back. The air smells faintly of expensive cologne and something colder… control. The remaining members of The Seven sit in uneasy silence, their postures stiff, eyes flicking toward the head of the table where power isn’t just implied—it’s absolute.

At that seat, Homelander leans back with effortless confidence, one arm draped along the chair as if the entire room belongs to him. Because it does. His expression is calm, almost pleasant—but his eyes… his eyes are already on you. Studying. Measuring. Deciding.

You’re new. Fresh. Untested.

And everyone knows what that means.

Homelander tilts his head slightly, the faintest smile touching his lips as he finally speaks, his voice smooth enough to almost feel reassuring—if not for the weight behind it.

“So… this is our newest addition.”

His gaze drifts slowly from your face down to your stance, your posture, the way you hold yourself—cataloguing everything in seconds. He stands, unhurried, the soft scrape of his chair echoing louder than it should. The room tightens instantly. No one interrupts. No one breathes too loud.

Step by step, he walks toward you.

Not fast. Not threatening.

Just certain.

He stops just close enough to invade your space without touching you, his presence pressing in like gravity suddenly doubled. For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches. The silence stretches—uncomfortable, deliberate.

“You look confident.”

A small pause. His smile fades—just slightly.

“I like that.”

Another beat. His eyes sharpen, the warmth gone completely now.

“But confidence is cheap.”

He circles you once, slow, like he’s inspecting something he hasn’t decided to keep yet. The others remain still—no one daring to intervene, not even to glance too long.

“See… everyone wants to be here.”

His voice drops, quieter now—but heavier, like it’s meant only for you.

“They want the spotlight. The cameras. The applause.”

He stops in front of you again, closer this time. Too close.

His head dips just slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“But I don’t care about any of that.”

A faint flicker of red glows behind his pupils—gone in an instant, but not unnoticed.

“I care about loyalty.”

Silence. Then—softly, almost conversational:

“And I don’t know what you are yet.”

He straightens, looking down at you like a verdict still being written.

“So…”

A small, expectant tilt of his head.

“Go on.”

His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.

“Prove it.”

Night drapes the city in velvet, skyscraper lights glittering like a field of artificial stars beneath the observation deck of Vought International Tower. The glass walls reflect everything twice—once as it is, and once as something sharper, colder. The wind hums faintly this high up, tugging at loose fabric, carrying the distant pulse of traffic far below. It’s quiet here… the kind of quiet that feels owned.

You don’t hear him arrive.

One moment you’re alone—then suddenly, Homelander is there behind you, boots touching down without a sound, cape settling like a shadow that decided to stay. He doesn’t speak immediately. Just stands there, close enough that you can feel it—the shift in the air, the way space itself seems to acknowledge him first.

“…You picked a good view.”

His voice is low, smooth, almost casual. Not quite a compliment. Not quite anything simple.

He steps beside you, close but not touching, his gaze drifting over the skyline for a second before it slides back to you—slower this time. More deliberate. There’s no rush in him, no uncertainty. Just attention… focused entirely on you now, like the city below has already lost its relevance.

“Most people come up here to feel small.”

A faint tilt of his head, studying you again, sharper now.

“You don’t look like you do.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy, filled with everything he’s not saying out loud. His hand lifts slightly, like he might reach out… then pauses mid-air, fingers curling back just enough to show restraint. Control.

For someone like him, that hesitation says more than anything else.

“You’re interesting.”

Simple words. Dangerous weight.

His gaze drops for half a second—to your lips, your expression, something he’s quietly memorizing—before returning to your eyes with that same unblinking intensity. Not soft. Never soft.

But closer.

He leans in just enough for his voice to lower, meant only for you now, the world outside reduced to distant noise.

“…Do you know how rare that is?”

The room is dim, city light slipping through the curtains in fractured gold, painting everything in soft shadows. The air feels different tonight—heavier, charged, like something unspoken has finally decided to surface. You barely register the shift before Homelander is suddenly there, close… too close, his presence swallowing the space around you like gravity tightening its grip.

His hand catches your wrist—not rough, but firm enough that there’s no mistaking the intent. In one smooth motion, he steps forward, guiding—no, pressing—you back until the mattress dips beneath you. The movement is controlled, precise, like he’s already calculated every inch of distance between you. His other hand braces beside your head, caging you in without quite touching, his face hovering just above yours.

“…You don’t back away.”

It’s not a question. It’s an observation, quiet and sharp.

His gaze flickers over your face, slower now, something darker threading through it—curiosity tangled with something possessive, something he’s not used to holding back. For a moment, he just watches you, like he’s deciding whether to stop… or not.

He doesn’t.

His hand lifts, fingers brushing your jaw—gentler than expected, but deliberate. Tilting your face just enough.

Then—

He kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not careless. It’s controlled, deep in a way that feels intentional rather than desperate, like he’s learning you in real time—testing, claiming, holding himself just at the edge of something stronger. The kind of restraint that feels more dangerous than losing control.

When he pulls back, it’s only slightly—just enough for his breath to ghost against your lips, his eyes still locked onto yours, searching for something he hasn’t fully named yet.

“…Careful.”

His voice drops, quieter now, but heavier.

“You don’t get to start something like that…”

A pause. His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who’s above you.

“…and pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

The assault on the White House had gone wrong almost immediately. Following Ashley Barrett’s stolen blueprints through the underground maintenance tunnels beneath the west wing, Butcher pushed the group forward while emergency sirens screamed above them through layers of concrete and steel. Annie stayed close to Hughie the entire way, constantly glancing back at him every few seconds as if expecting the walls themselves to turn hostile. MM kept rechecking ammunition with shaking hands while Kimiko moved silently beside him, tense and alert like she could already feel the violence waiting ahead. Then the blast doors slammed shut behind all of you with a deafening metallic crash.

The sonic emitters activated instantly.

The frequency ripped through the chamber hard enough to make the walls vibrate. Annie dropped to one knee with a cry, blood immediately spilling from her ears as she threw herself over Hughie’s body while automatic gunfire erupted from hidden turrets above the corridor. Bullets sparked violently across the concrete around them while Hughie tried desperately to drag her behind cover. Across the chamber, Kimiko physically tackled MM behind reinforced piping just before another burst of gunfire shredded through the space where he had been standing seconds earlier. The sound was unbearable. It drilled through bone and thought alike, reducing even Supes to barely functional wrecks trapped inside the kill box.

Then everything suddenly stopped.

The alarms cut out. The sonic emitters died. The security doors slowly unlocked with a hiss of escaping pressure, revealing Ashley Barrett standing on the other side in an oversized cream blazer, visibly trembling despite trying to force herself into some version of presidential composure. Her hair was uneven again where stress had gotten the better of her. “Move,” she snapped quickly, eyes darting nervously down the hall behind her. “Homelander’s in the Oval Office. You don’t have much time.” Without waiting for a response, she rushed all of you through restricted corridors deeper inside the White House before disappearing again like she regretted helping the second she’d done it.

The first room you breached looked more like a collapsed hotel suite than part of the White House. Broken furniture smoldered beside shattered glass while The Deep sat near a ruined fireplace, soaked in sweat and openly crying, muttering to himself about everything falling apart. The second Annie saw him, she lunged. Both of them crashed violently through the balcony doors overlooking the storm-covered beach below, disappearing into rain and thunder as their fight continued somewhere outside. The rest of you barely made it down the eastern hallway before O-Father emerged from the smoke ahead, towering and furious in bloodstained white robes, his scream cracking the walls hard enough to send plaster raining from the ceiling.

Hughie reacted first. He fired directly into the overhead ANSUL IGS-300 suppression system, detonating the chemical canisters above the corridor in a violent burst of white gas that instantly blinded the entire hallway. O-Father charged blindly toward the gunfire while MM unloaded rounds through the smoke and Kimiko dragged Hughie behind overturned furniture before the priest-Supe could reach him. Somewhere deeper inside the White House, explosions continued shaking the building apart as Butcher finally reached the Oval Office doors. With black veins spreading across his face and tendrils twisting behind him like living shadows, he slammed through the entrance alongside Kimiko and you… and found Homelander waiting inside the burning remains of the Oval Office itself.

The battle that followed nearly destroyed the White House entirely. By the end of it, fire consumed half the west wing while shattered marble and debris covered the lawn outside. Ryan’s arrival through the Oval Office windows had changed everything, the impact of his tackle sending both him and Homelander crashing through the presidential floor while Kimiko’s unstable blast ripped apart the room around them. Now, in the aftermath, rain poured across the ruined White House grounds while smoke drifted through the wreckage like ghosts. Homelander remained on one knee within the crater left behind, blood dripping from his mouth as Butcher, Kimiko, and Ryan slowly surrounded him through the ash and flames… until all of them noticed someone standing silently beyond the destroyed front gates.

You.

Completely still beneath the flashing emergency lights and falling ash.

Homelander slowly lifted his head toward you. And despite the blood, despite the exhaustion, despite the damage shaking visibly through his body… he smiled. “Would you look at that”

The White House looked less like a government building and more like the final room of a dying empire. Sirens screamed somewhere outside while smoke crawled through shattered hallways, red emergency lights flashing across marble floors slick with blood and ash. Following the stolen blueprints Ashley had risked everything to leak, Butcher led the way through the lower basement tunnels with grim focus, MM close behind while Annie kept Hughie moving despite the tremor in his hands. You barely had time to process the steel blast doors slamming shut before the hidden sonic emitters activated. The entire chamber erupted with that unbearable frequency. Annie collapsed to one knee instantly, blood running from her ears as she covered Hughie’s body with hers while Kimiko physically dragged MM behind reinforced piping, shielding him as bullets tore through the chamber walls. The sound drilled straight into bone, into thought itself, reducing even Supes to screaming wrecks trapped like animals in a cage.

Then the alarms suddenly cut out. Silence hit almost harder than the noise. The heavy security door unlocked with a metallic hiss, and standing there was Ashley Barrett, trembling in an oversized cream-colored blazer stained with sweat under the collar. Her hair was uneven again, fingers twitching toward it before she forced herself to stop. President Ashley Barrett now. God, even she didn’t believe it. “Move,” she snapped shakily, trying and failing to sound composed. “Homelander’s in the Oval Office. You’ve got maybe three minutes before the entire place locks down.” She flashed you all through a private corridor before turning away too quickly, like she couldn’t bear watching whatever happened next. Upstairs, the first room you breached revealed The Deep collapsed beside a broken fireplace, crying hysterically with bloodshot eyes, muttering that everything was falling apart. Annie didn’t hesitate. She lunged for him instantly, tackling him through the side doors as both of them crashed out toward the ruined White House balcony overlooking the beach below, their fight vanishing into thunder and ocean spray, as Annie landed with the deep at the beach fighting him.

The rest of you barely made it down the eastern hall before O-Father emerged from the smoke like a living tank, his roar shaking the walls hard enough to crack plaster from the ceiling. Hughie reacted on instinct, firing directly into the mounted ANSUL IGS-300 suppression system overhead. The canisters exploded in a violent burst of chemical gas, flooding the corridor in thick white suppressant that instantly blinded everyone. O-Father charged blindly toward the gunfire, exactly what Hughie wanted. MM opened fire through the smoke while Hughie dragged him behind overturned furniture, buying seconds. Just enough seconds. Butcher slammed his shoulder through the Oval Office doors with you and Kimiko right behind him, entering absolute chaos.

The Oval Office barely resembled itself anymore. Curtains burned beside shattered windows while papers spiraled through the air like dying birds. Homelander stood at the center of it all hovering inches above the floor, cape hanging still despite the destruction around him. His eyes locked immediately onto Butcher first… then you. Cold. Focused. Almost amused. Kimiko, now radiating unstable energy from the compound flooding through her system, fired a violent blast toward him that ripped apart half the room, but Homelander caught the attack mid-motion with raw force, redirecting it into the walls in a shower of molten debris. He moved faster than thought, smashing Kimiko across the room hard enough to crater the presidential desk before turning toward Butcher with a grin that looked almost relieved. “There he is,” Homelander said softly. “Thought you’d die before making it this far.” The fight detonated instantly after that. Butcher’s tendrils tore through marble pillars while Homelander countered with heat vision that sliced the ceiling open above you all.

Just as Homelander finally broke free and launched upward toward the shattered ceiling, the windows behind him exploded inward. Ryan crashed through them like a missile, tackling his father straight out of the air and driving him through the center of the Oval Office floor. The impact split the room apart. Homelander snarled in genuine fury now, grappling violently with Ryan while Butcher pinned one arm and you forced the other down. “NOW!” Butcher screamed. Kimiko rose unsteadily through the smoke, glowing brighter than before, unstable energy tearing through her veins as she unleashed everything she had directly into Homelander. The blast swallowed all of you. Walls disintegrated. The presidential seal beneath your feet vaporized. Fire consumed the room in one deafening eruption that blew the entire west wing outward into the night.

When consciousness finally crawled back, the Oval Office no longer existed. Rain poured through the exposed ruins while burning debris fell across shattered concrete. Ryan lay unconscious near the collapsed fireplace, blood running from his forehead. Butcher dragged himself upright beside you, coughing violently into one hand. And then… laughter echoed above the wreckage. Homelander floated slowly upward through the smoke, cape burned at the edges, blood streaking one side of his face. His heat vision flickered unevenly now, powers fluctuating in violent bursts around him, but the smile spreading across his face looked almost euphoric. He flexed one trembling hand, testing the unstable energy still coursing through him before staring down at all of you like fallen insects beneath a god’s throne. “Look at you,” he laughed, voice echoing through the ruins of the White House. “You threw everything at me.” His eyes glowed brighter again despite the instability, his grin widening into something monstrous. “And I’m still here and I am still a fucking GOD.”