The morning sun streamed through the floor to ceiling windows of the penthouse, bathing the living room in a deceptive golden warmth. Inside, it was a scene of domestic tranquility that stood in stark opposition to the chaotic reality of the world outside.
I sat on the plush leather sofa, a mug of coffee in my hand. Beside me, sitting with her legs pulled up to her chest, was Kimiko. Her eyes were glued to the massive flat-screen TV mounted on the far wall.
On the screen, a breaking news banner ran across the bottom in urgent red: FLIGHT 37 TRAGEDY: NO SURVIVORS.
Above the banner, the camera focused on a podium set up on a windswept beach. Behind it, the final resting place of a hijacked airliner. Standing at the podium, flanked by Queen Maeve, who looked pale and visibly shaken, was Homelander.
He looked perfect. His cape fluttered in the sea breeze, his hair was immaculate, and his face was the grieving father of a nation.
"We arrived... just three minutes after the plane went down," Homelander said, his voice breaking perfectly on the last word. He paused, looking down, composing himself. "Three minutes. If we had been notified sooner... if we had been part of the chain of command... we could have saved them. We could have saved them all."
He looked up, staring directly into the camera, his blue eyes filled with a righteous intensity.
"But we aren't in the chain of command," he continued, his voice gaining strength. "We are kept on the sidelines. And because of that... because of that... one hundred and twenty-three people are dead. Including children."
Kimiko made a soft noise in her throat. Her hands were gripping her knees so tightly her knuckles were white. She hated him. She hated all of them, but there was a special kind of loathing reserved for the man in the flag.
"It is a performance," I said softly, speaking in Japanese.
She looked at me, her eyes questioning.
"Look at his eyes," I said, pointing at the screen. "There is no sadness there. He is standing on the graves of these people just to push the propaganda and force the military's hand."
"Vought wants Supes in the military," I explained, keeping my tone neutral. "They want the government contracts. This tragedy... it is exactly what they needed to convince the public. Now, everyone who watches this will think, 'If only Homelander had been in charge.' They will demand it."
Homelander leaned into the microphone, his voice dropping to a whisper that was broadcast to millions. "Never again. I promise you. Never again."
Kimiko snatched the remote from the coffee table and clicked the TV off. The screen went black, silencing the lie. She stared at the black screen for a moment longer, then let out a long breath.
She stood up and looked at me, then pointed towards the kitchen. She rubbed her stomach.
I smiled. "Lunch. Good idea."
We moved into the kitchen. It was an expanse of stainless steel and marble that I suspected Aryan Spencer had rarely used for anything more complex than pouring a drink.
"What are we thinking?" I asked her. "Something simple? Or do we try to recreate that dish from the show we watched last night?"
She walked over to the massive refrigerator and pulled out a variety of vegetables, bell peppers, onions, carrots, and a package of chicken breasts. She set them on the island and looked at me.
"Stir fry it is," I said.
I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and washed my hands. Cooking with Kimiko had become a silent ritual. It was one of the few times we interacted as complete equals, working towards a shared goal.
She took the knife block. Her movements with a blade were efficient. The carrots were reduced to uniform matchsticks in seconds. The onions were diced with the precision of a machine.
I handled the meat, slicing the chicken into thin strips.
"Pass the garlic," I said.
She slid the bulb of garlic across the marble counter to me without breaking her rhythm on the peppers.
I fired up the wok, the oil shimmering as it heated. I tossed in the garlic and ginger, the kitchen instantly filling with the savory aroma. Kimiko swept the vegetables into the pan at the perfect moment.
We worked around each other, a dance of avoidance and cooperation. I reached for the soy sauce, she handed it to me before I could ask. She needed the sesame oil, so I slid it into her hand.
"Careful with the chili oil," I warned as she reached for the bottle. "Last time you nearly burned a hole in the pan."
She looked at me, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and deliberately added an extra splash. She looked back at me with a triumphant smirk.
I laughed. "Fine. If we die of spice poisoning, I'm blaming you in the afterlife."
We plated the food and sat at the kitchen island. We didn't move to the formal dining table. That felt too formal. Here, we were close.
The food was spicy, thanks to her, but good. She ate with a focused intensity, a holdover from a life where meals were not guaranteed.
I watched her for a moment. She had tied her hair back while cooking, revealing the sharp line of her jaw and the soft curve of her neck. She looked so normal, just a young woman enjoying a hot meal.
The soup is good," I said quietly, breaking the silence. "Better than the processed stuff Vought puts in the breakrooms."
She looked up, nodding slowly. She gestured toward the empty plate and then gave an appreciative thumbs-up before pointing at me. 'You are a good cook.'
She finished her meal and set her chopsticks down, aligning them perfectly parallel to each other. She looked at me, her expression softening. She reached out and touched the back of my hand for a brief second, a gesture of gratitude that carried more weight than a thousand speeches.
Then she stood up, took her plate to the sink, and washed it. She gave me a quiet nod before retreating to the living room to resume her vigil by the window.
"I have work to do," I told her, standing up. "I'll be in the office. Don't open the door for anyone but me or Marcus."
She nodded without looking away from the window.
I walked down the hall to my office, the heavy door sealing with a reassuring click. I sat in my chair and woke the monitors.
The screen flickered to life, showing the interior of a dimly lit apartment. Popclaw's apartment.
She was a mess. Her hair was a tangled nest, her eyes were red-rimmed, and she was sitting on the sofa smoking weed, the thick scent of it filling the small apartment. She looked like a woman on the edge of a cliff, just waiting for the wind to push her over.
A sudden gust of wind slammed through the room as A-Train arrived in a blur of high speed. The sheer force of his entrance made her jump, the joint nearly falling from her fingers.
"Reggie!" Popclaw gasped, her voice thick with shock. She scrambled up and threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeline. "Where have you been? It's been days."
"I've been handling business, baby," A-Train said, his voice tight. He hugged her back, but his eyes were darting toward the door. "But it's okay. It's okay now."
She pulled back slightly, looking at him with desperate eyes. "You said we were in serious trouble. Did you fix it?"
"I think I got it worked out," he said, forcing a small smile. "Actually, I have some good news. I talked to Madelyn. She agreed to let us go public."
Popclaw froze, her expression flickering between hope and suspicion. "Don't you lie to me, Reggie. Don't you dare."
"Hand on a Bible," he said, looking her straight in the eye with an earnestness that felt almost real. "But listen, before we go public, I have to know. Who did you tell about the Compound V?"
Popclaw hesitated, her lower back hitting the edge of the table. "I... I don't know their names. But there was this British guy, dark hair with a smug look. A real asshole. And a guy with a buzz cut, and a skinny white kid. They're all working together." Tears started to track through the grime on her face. "I'm so sorry, Reggie. I was just so scared."
"It's fine," he soothed, his hand moving to stroke her hair. "You know what I'm thinking about right now? I'm thinking about our first date. I remember looking at you and thinking, finally, there's someone who isn't just affected by my fame. I fell for you right then and there. I love you."
"I love you too," she whispered, leaning into him, closing her eyes as she let out a breath of pure relief.
In one blurred motion, A-Train's hand swept down. He pulled a lethal dose of pure heroin from his suit. Before she could even blink, he drove the needle deep into her hands and slammed the plunger home.
Popclaw gasped, her eyes wide open as the massive surge hit her heart. "Why?" she choked out, her voice a dying rasp. "Why?"
He just held her tight, watching the light fade from her eyes as she slumped against him, dying slowly in the middle of the room.
He stood up, wiping his eyes and began to toss the apartment. He ripped open drawers and overturned cushions. He stopped at a shelf filled with stuffed animals. He reached out and grabbed a generic looking teddy bear. With a snarl of frustration, he ripped the bear open. A tiny camera and transmitter fell out into his hand.
"Fuck," he muttered.
He looked around, realizing he was being watched. Or had been. He followed the wire from the transmitter. He searched frantically until he found a hidden hard drive taped under the side table.
He plugged it into Popclaw's laptop. The video was a jagged mess of movement on the screen. It showed Popclaw and him in a frantic embrace on the couch, the footage capturing the messy reality of their secret relationship.
A-Train sat there, scrolling the footage backward. The time stamp ticked in reverse until the room was empty. Then, the door on the screen swung open.
A man walked into the frame. He had a shaved head, goggles pushed up around his neck, and the restless energy of someone who lived in the shadows.
Frenchie.
The camera had recorded him perfectly. He was only in the shot for a few seconds but his face was captured in high-resolution.
A-Train froze the frame. He leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he zoomed in until Frenchie's features filled the screen.
He pulled out his phone and snapped a clear photo of the monitor. He opened a secure messaging app and attached the image. He sent it directly to the Vought Intelligence & Analytics Division.