"According to the latest reports, a 6.3 magnitude earthquake struck Elmira, New York yesterday. The Elmira Adult Rehabilitation Center, located at the epicenter, has completely collapsed."
"According to an internal report released by Vought International, the superpowered patients undergoing rehabilitation at the facility have escaped en masse."
"It is reported that these individuals typically exhibit symptoms of mental illness, and their superpower conditions are extremely unstable, posing a significant security risk."
"Vought International reminds residents not to harbor or contact the individuals in question. If you have any information, please contact your local police department immediately."
The Flatiron Building, Manhattan — the Boys' hideout.
Locke lay sprawled across the sofa, a half-eaten chicken leg in one hand, grease dripping down his fingers. His other arm rested on the armrest, heavy metal music blaring from his earbuds, yet his eyes were fixed on the television, utterly absorbed.
Hughie, flushed with excitement after meeting Annie, burst through the door—and froze.
The table was piled high with takeout containers, nearly overflowing. Cream from a dessert had been squeezed out; condensation from a cold drink dripped down the bottle. Several bottles of high-end whiskey stood open, the smell of alcohol mingling with the food, permeating the entire room.
The excitement he had been holding onto vanished in an instant, replaced by a surge of irritation.
"Locke! Have you lost your mind?! Why did you buy so much stuff? Can you even finish all this? Do you have any idea how much this—this is a fortune!"
As he roared, he noticed the store names on the takeout boxes. Those gilded letters made his scalp prickle—they were all from incredibly expensive, top-tier restaurants.
He pulled out his phone. A flood of credit card transaction data poured across the screen. The deductions made his head spin; even breathing became difficult.
Locke gnawed the bone in his mouth until it cracked, then tossed it to the floor. Without taking his eyes off the TV, he casually replied to Hughie:
"What's the problem? I didn't sleep for a whole year. I didn't have a single proper meal. I drank tasteless glucose solution and ate food paste that was worse than toothpaste. If you could last a month, you'd be ten times crazier than me."
Hughie's mouth fell open. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, hung his head, and accepted his fate.
He secretly calculated in his heart, hoping the CIA would reimburse him for part of it. Otherwise, this mountain of bills would crush him. In the end, he might have to ask Annie for help to break the vicious cycle of bank loans and avoid the risk of getting killed.
Remembering the true face of Newman, a chill ran through his heart. The boss who had made him feel like he finally had a comrade, who had made his life better—had turned out to be a cold-blooded woman, a head-popper.
His life had glimpsed a sliver of light, only to fall back into the dark abyss in an instant.
Locke glanced at Hughie's face, which looked bitter enough to drip juice, and his thoughts churned.
Forget it. No need to push the guy too hard. I have to rely on these people to survive now.
Finally, he turned his head, his voice softening: "So, how did it go?"
Speaking of which, Hughie set his phone down with a click, sank onto the sofa beside Locke, covered his face with his hands, and let out a heavy sigh.
"Stan was absolutely furious. Even though there was no solid evidence that it was Annie who leaked the news, she was still stripped of her co-captain position."
In the end, Annie had only provided a few financial reports. But Stan, enraged, had pulled everyone who could have possibly caused this disaster and eliminated them.
Ultimately, losing Locke was far more to him than a simple financial loss—it was the power, the foundation, and the sense of security he had built over the years, all shattered.
"That's good news." Locke said casually. "Your little girlfriend can stay out of Homelander's line of sight for a while. His target will be Stan alone."
He grabbed a bottle of Homelander-approved beer from the dazzling mess on the table, crossed his legs, and stared at the Elmira incident report being delivered by Vought's CEO, Stan, on TV. A smirk curled on his lips.
"Let them tear each other apart. But I'm sure we won't have to worry about Stan much longer—he's definitely going to lose."
"You think Stan is going to fall into Homelander's hands?"
Before Hughie could finish asking, he heard someone at the door pose the question. He turned to see Butcher, just back from Queen Maeve's, stepping inside. He casually pulled off his hood, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as they landed squarely on Locke.
He was curious why Locke was so certain Stan would lose. Anyone with half a brain could see that Homelander was a child who only knew how to throw tantrums, losing control over whatever he wanted.
In contrast, Stan was clearly far more formidable. He had been the cold-blooded head of Vought International for decades; his caliber was obviously above Homelander's.
Faced with Butcher's question, Locke just smiled and said nothing.
How did I know Stan would lose to Homelander? I watched the trailers. It's been playing in my head for four seasons. You don't even have to think about it.
Don't ask. Asking is spoilers. Asking is breaking the fourth wall.
"You'll see." Locke stood up, holding the beer can, its body slightly dented. "He's been winning his whole life. He's too complacent. He underestimated Homelander's madness. He's going to lose."
He turned and walked away, leaving behind a tall, enigmatic silhouette. As he reached the living room door, he suddenly turned sideways, an inscrutable smile on his face.
"Oh, and by the way, just so we can have a pleasant cooperation, I want to give you a piece of advice."
"Don't try to play me. I... I know everything."
The door closed heavily. Butcher withdrew his gaze, sweeping it across the table laden with food and wine, then back to where Locke had been sitting. He took a seat, half-jokingly.
He casually grabbed a box of leftover fried noodles, took a big forkful, watched the news on TV, and slowly asked Hughie: "What do you think of this guy?"
"He's way too easy to talk to. It's abnormal." Hughie leaned back on the sofa, frowning. "He was locked up for a year, went crazy in a different way, and his heart is full of revenge. But he... I thought he'd be... uh..."
"A madman with nothing but hatred in his eyes? A cynic full of revenge who wants to use every hole in Homelander's body?" Butcher chewed on the noodles, his tone a little teasing.
"Uh... actually, I was going to say, like you used to be."
The moment Hughie said it, Butcher choked. He coughed violently, reached out, and smacked Hughie on the back of the head. The motion was a bit rough, but different from his usual demeanor.
"Fucking squid! Fucking squid!" Butcher coughed so hard his face turned red, but there was no real anger in his voice.
As the laughter subsided, Butcher's expression instantly turned serious. His gaze fell toward the living room, where Locke's figure had already disappeared behind the door.
He leaned back on the sofa, unconsciously rubbing the edge of the fried noodle box with his fingertips, but his heart tightened.
This Locke—born with superpowers, never used Compound V, spent a year in captivity—and yet remained so calm.
Vought had regarded him as hope, but now it seemed this guy might bring nothing but despair to Vought. Because even he, Butcher, felt like he couldn't see through Locke.
Still, Butcher concealed his thoughts and called out to Hughie, feigning excitement: "Fuck, we've hit the jackpot! A superpowered bastard who hates Vought this much—might even be able to take down Homelander directly, Hughie! This ticket is worth it!"
"So what now? We can't just wait forever, right?" Hughie frowned and asked.
"Wait!" Butcher spat out the word, his tone absolute. "Wait for Mother's Milk and the others to get back from Russia with the weapon that can kill Soldier Boy."
As he spoke, a gleam appeared in his eyes. The hostility around him instantly rose.
"Once we have that thing in hand—on one side, a Locke who can suppress Homelander; on the other, a weapon that can destroy Soldier Boy—as soon as I find a loophole, I will wipe every last piece of Homelander filth off the face of this earth!"
Butcher's phone suddenly screeched. An international call notification flashed prominently on the screen. They exchanged a glance, both recognizing the gravity in the other's eyes—it was Mother's Milk.
Butcher practically lunged for the phone.
"Hello?"
"Mother's Milk?"
The voice on the other end trembled with urgency, carrying an indescribable heaviness—more like suppressed anger, weighing on the heart.
Just as Butcher and Hughie sensed something was wrong, Hughie's gaze swept across the messy table. Amid the piles of fried chicken and desserts, he found a crumpled ball of paper.
"We found the location of the weapon," Mother's Milk exhaled, as if he had been through something. "But you'd never guess—it's not a weapon. It's a living person."
Hughie's fingertips went numb. He subconsciously unfolded the paper ball and found it was originally a takeout order. On it, several names were written in meat sauce, the handwriting scrawled, the sauce dripping down the edge of the paper, leaving small dark red stains on the table.
At that moment, Mother's Milk's voice came through the phone, heavy as a stone dropped into water:
"It's Soldier Boy. He's not dead at all."
"Fuck!" Butcher was startled by Hughie beside him. Just as he was about to ask, Hughie shoved the sauce-covered takeout order in front of his face.
Butcher looked down. His pupils contracted sharply.
On the paper, a line of words was clearly written in sauce:
[Soldier Boy: Biological father of Homelander. Values loyalty. Can be used. Must be killed.]
For an instant, Butcher felt his brain explode. All sound vanished, leaving only dead silence.
The sound of the TV faded. The heavy metal music became chaotic. Mother's Milk's voice on the phone grew distant and blurred.
Only Locke's mocking words echoed endlessly in his mind, reverberating again and again:
"Don't try to play me. I... I know everything."