The golden streak cut across the night sky like a burning star returning to Earth.
Satellites picked it up first, alarms rippling through hidden networks. Within minutes, eyes turned upward — eyes that belonged to men who could not ignore power crossing their skies.
Two shapes rose from the clouds, cutting through the atmosphere with impossible speed. One cloaked in red, white, and blue. The other draped in a cape of deep crimson.
Chris slowed as they closed in, hovering above the curve of the Earth. His aura shimmered faintly in the dark, eyes burning gold. And there they were.
Homelander. Smiling, too perfect, too polished.
Omni-Man. Mustached, broad, carrying that same subtle weight Chris had seen in every Viltrumite.
Chris's stomach knotted. He didn't need words to recognize Nolan for what he was. The look. The build. The presence. It was Viltrum, through and through.
Homelander spoke first, voice dripping with charm. "Well, well, look at you. A golden boy blazing through the sky. You'll forgive us for checking in — not every day something like that drops into our atmosphere." He smirked, gesturing toward Nolan. "But hey, you're in good company. This guy? Biggest hero on the planet."
Chris said nothing. He could feel Nolan's eyes on him.
Omni-Man's gaze lingered on the suit — the cut, the seams, the style. Not Viltrumite white, not entirely, but close. Familiar. Too familiar. His jaw tightened beneath the mustache. Is he one of us? An agent? Sent here to check on me?
But before the tension could ignite, the air split with a sharp ripple of light. A shimmering doorway opened between them, and out stepped Cecil Stedman. He stood firmly on a compact anti-gravity platform, its surface humming faintly as it held him aloft in the upper atmosphere. His trench coat swayed lightly in the high-altitude winds as the portal sealed shut behind him.
For a moment, he froze. His cigar dropped from his lips.
"…Chris?" His voice was low, almost broken.
Chris turned, golden light dimming around him. "Cecil."
The silence stretched. Then Cecil barked out a laugh that cracked under its own weight. "Jesus Christ… I thought you were dead. Everyone thought you were dead." His eyes scanned him, disbelief warring with recognition. "You should be pushing seventy, but you—hell, you look thirty."
Chris gave a small, lopsided smile. "Perks of the job."
Cecil stepped closer, the mask of the hardened director slipping just for a moment. "It really is you…"
Homelander blinked, confused, his grin faltering. Nolan's eyes sharpened, the suspicion in them burning hotter now. If this man was Viltrumite… why would an Earthling know him by name? Why would he call him Chris?
Cecil straightened, mask snapping back into place. He jabbed a finger toward Chris. "We're not doing this out here. You and I have a lot to talk about. The world's changed since the forties, and… hell, you've got some explaining to do."
Chris nodded. "Yeah. We both do."
The tension didn't vanish. Nolan's eyes stayed locked on him, suspicion gnawing at the edges. But Cecil's recognition had shifted the ground beneath his feet, raising questions Nolan couldn't yet answer.
For the first time since leaving Viltrum, Chris felt the weight of Earth again — its dangers, its allies, its fragile balance. And with it, the truth he carried like fire in his chest: he had come home.