"What are you smiling at?"
Butcher opened the door before Jude could even turn around. The question carried the sharp edge of a man who assumed he was the punchline.
"Nothing. Just a thought."
Jude stepped inside. He glanced back once as Butcher engaged four separate locks—a deadbolt, a chain, a slide, and a padlock—moving through the sequence with fluid, unthinking muscle memory. Jude's expression settled into quiet satisfaction.
Butcher led him straight through the living room, past bare-minimum furniture, toward a low door near the back wall. He pulled it open, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.
The air rising from the basement was stale, heavy with the scent of concrete and old dampness, overlaid with the faint, persistent tang of antiseptic and dried blood that never truly left a room. Jude cataloged it instantly.
He patches himself up down here. Or patches up others.
"After you," Butcher said. "Unless you're afraid of the dark."
He had been like this since their first meeting—always needling, trying to claw back a verbal advantage when he couldn't establish a physical one. Jude understood the pattern. Every time Butcher felt cornered or outmatched, his tongue got sharper. It was a reliable barometer of where they stood.
Jude ignored the jab and let Butcher take the first step into the pitch-black basement.
The wooden steps whined beneath them, a predictable soundtrack to an unpredictable dynamic. But midway down, the rhythm broke. Butcher stopped. The sudden stillness was louder than the creaking wood.
He looked back up at Jude, his face cast in sharp shadows, searching Jude's expression for whatever phantom noise had just shattered his confidence.
The bravado was gone, replaced by a tense, vibrating silence.
Jude leaned in slightly, invading his space. "Are you afraid of the dark?" Jude asked. "Should I take the lead?"
Butcher's jaw tightened. He turned without a word and walked the rest of the way down.
The basement was bare and functional. Medical supplies were stacked neatly along one wall—bandages, dressings, alcohol, and iodine next to canned food and sealed water containers. No paperwork, no visible weapons. Butcher had organized the space to ensure nothing incriminating lay in plain sight. The important things were kept elsewhere.
"Get to the point," Butcher said. "I don't have time for a theatrical performance."
"Agree on a price first."
If Jude expected pushback, none came. Butcher studied him for a moment, running a quick mental calculation before settling. He had spent years dealing in black market secrets, access, and leverage. The rules of that world were consistent: no one gave away anything valuable for nothing, and anyone demanding payment before delivery was usually a professional, not a con artist. Amateurs either spilled the information first hoping for a payout, or resorted to empty threats. A professional set terms.
Jude's demand actually made Butcher relax a fraction.
"Depends on what you have," Butcher said. "If it's common knowledge, a lie, or something I already know, you leave empty-handed. And you'll be lucky if you can walk out. Deal?"
"Is a private conversation between the mayor of Baltimore and Madelyn Stillwell worth anything to you?"
Something shifted in Butcher's eyes. He knew the name. He knew exactly what access to that conversation implied. Madelyn Stillwell didn't hold press conferences for the things she said in private, and the mayor of Baltimore was a heavy piece on the board.
The kid has something real.
"Go on," Butcher said, keeping his voice flat. "I'm not saying it's useful yet. I'm saying I'm listening."
"It's useful. First, agree on the price."
Butcher's face hardened into a familiar scowl. Jude cut in before he could speak.
"Think about this carefully. My first offer is always the best one. Before your reflexes take over," Jude glanced pointedly at Butcher's forearm, "remember how the last three encounters ended."
The reminder hit its mark.
There was a tense silence. Then Butcher's stubbornness won out.
"You came to me," Butcher said, his voice dropping into a low monotone. "That puts you in a different position than last time. Tell me what you know, and I'll decide what it's worth."
Jude wasn't surprised. He had anticipated this. Butcher had only lost to him once—one arm, one fight. A single loss wasn't enough to rewrite the survival instincts that had kept him alive for a decade. A single setback wouldn't make him abandon his principles.
He hasn't lost enough yet.
"Fine," Jude said. "Since you insist, I'll give it to you straight."
He walked slowly toward the medical supply table as he spoke.
"Superman was at the Vought building today and overheard a private meeting. Madelyn Stillwell met with Mayor Steve. She offered a three-year exclusive superhero placement: Nubian Prince stationed in Baltimore, backed by full PR support, for three hundred million dollars a year. The mayor was also offered a personal cut of the revenue—nine and a half percent."
Butcher stayed silent, absorbing every word.
"The mayor countered with two hundred million. Stillwell refused and mentioned Atlanta was also interested. Then the mayor dropped a name."
Jude paused. "He said he knew about Compound V. He said it was enough to tear down everything Vought has built."
Butcher repeated the name in his head.
Compound V.
He had spent years fighting Vought, tracking their heroes, and dissecting their operations. In all that time, he had never heard that name.
"Sounds like something he made up," Butcher said. "A bluff to get leverage."
"A mayor doesn't invent a random term during a high-stakes negotiation just to split hairs over a price." Jude reached the table, picked up a bottle of iodine, turned it over, and unscrewed the cap to sniff it. "That's too specific for a bluff. And Stillwell stopped negotiating the second he said it. The meeting ended right there."
Butcher didn't argue, but the skepticism left his face, replaced by a grim focus.
"It's worth something," Butcher said eventually. "Thirty thousand. That's the number. Take it or leave it. It's one useful phrase, and it isn't even a complete file. I'm being generous."
"Generous," Jude echoed smoothly. He held up the bottle. "But I don't want your money. This information is free."
The basement went quiet.
"Free," Butcher repeated, staring at him. "Why?"
"You chose not to agree on terms upfront. That was your choice. But when you reject the first offer, the rules of the exchange change." Jude smiled. "You've already triggered the second payment option. Cash isn't the currency here."
Butcher watched Jude's face, sensing the shift in the room. There was something behind that smile he couldn't decipher, and his instincts told him that meant trouble.
"What does that mean?" Butcher asked.
"This," Jude said, "is the price."
He spun and flung the iodine.
The pale yellow liquid sprayed out in a wide arc, then abruptly halted in mid-air. It didn't splash against the wall or fall to the floor. Instead, it clung to an invisible form standing in the corner of the basement, outlining a shoulder, a chest, and the rough silhouette of a person who shouldn't have been there.
Two separate voices cursed simultaneously.
Translucent had been standing perfectly still since reaching the bottom of the stairs. He thought he had been silent on the steps, too. He had focused so much on not making a sound that he forgot his weight still registered on the wood just like anyone else's. Now, coated in iodine against the dim basement light, his hour-long advantage vanished in an instant.
Butcher drew his gun before Translucent could even twitch toward the stairs. Years of fighting supes had drilled a single rule into his muscle memory: the moment a target is exposed, strike immediately and strike hard. Hesitation meant death.
Three loud cracks echoed through the small space.
The nine-millimeter rounds hit the iodine-stained silhouette square in the chest and head with pinpoint accuracy.
Two metallic clangs followed. Sparks flew. The bullets ricocheted off skin that didn't dent, crack, or bruise. One round embedded itself in the far wall; another shattered a bottle on the shelf.
Translucent stood frozen.
His initial instinct when the iodine hit had been to bolt for the stairs—a panicked reaction to being discovered. But looking at the three spent shell casings on the concrete and feeling absolutely no pain, his confidence returned.
He looked at Butcher, then at Jude.
Just two ordinary men in a basement.
The panic in his chest subsided, replaced by a cold, calculating calm. This supposed underground organization consisted of nothing but regular humans.