INTERLUDE

Cherie Vasil didn’t waste time packing. The duffel bag slung over her shoulder held the essentials: cash, burner phones, clothes, and the tools she needed to stay under the radar. She’d survived too much—her monstrous family, the hellish trials of the Slaughterhouse Nine, and now the chaos of Brockton Bay—to foolishly allow herself to be caught in the crossfire. Nor was she stupid enough to think Jack’s gambit in Brockton Bay would end with a tidy victory for them as Superman, of all people, had shown up. 

She wasn’t going to die in this mess. And that meant leaving. 

Cherie checked her reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. Red hair perfect. Lipstick bold. She looked like she could charm her way through customs at any airport, provided her luck hadn’t run out and her identity was leaked to the PRT and they flagged her. Maybe she’d head south, find a quiet corner to lie low. The Nine were good at finding people, but only if they cared enough to try.

Glancing at the motel room one last time, she stepped out into the cold night air, pulling her coat tight. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional wail of distant sirens. Cherie kept to the shadows, her boots crunching softly on the gravel as she headed toward the edge of town. She had a plan—well, the beginnings of one. Get out of Brockton Bay, find a place to lay low, maybe even a way to fake her death if it came to that.

But her escape route was cut short as the sound of footsteps was heard from in front of her. Too heavy for Bonesaw, too deliberate for Jack. Siberian wouldn’t bother with walking at all. No, this was someone else.

“Running away, Cherish? That’s a bold move.”

Cherie backed away as a figure stepped into view under the flickering light of a streetlamp. Though her face was partially obscured by shadows and a scarf, she could still see the damage Jack had done. The jagged scar ran from the corners of her mouth, a cruel, permanent grin carved into her face. 

Tattletale.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cherie muttered under her breath.

Before she could backtrack, more figures emerged from the shadows: Grue, his dark silhouette imposing; Regent, twirling his sceptre lazily; and Hellhound, flanked by two of her snarling, hulking dogs. The Undersiders.

Cherie’s eyes darted between them, her power brushing against their emotions—Tattletale’s confidence, Hellhound’s irritation, Grue’s controlled anger, and Regent’s infuriating calm. They were here for her, and they weren’t happy.

“I don’t suppose this is a social call,” Cherie said, trying to keep her voice light.

“You know, running away is a classic move,” Regent said, his tone mocking. “But you should’ve been sneakier about it.”

Tattletale’s lips curled into a bitter approximation of a smile. “You think we wouldn’t notice?”

“Look, I don’t want trouble,” Cherie said. “I’m just leaving. No harm, no foul.”

“You think we’re just going to let you walk out of Brockton Bay while the Nine are still here? After everything they’ve done? After everything you’ve done?”

Cherie bristled, her fingers tightening on the strap of her bag. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like you’re some kind of moral authority. Your actions have killed people too, Tattletale. All of you have blood on your hands, directly or indirectly.”

Grue stepped forward, his voice low and cold. “We’re not talking about morality, Cherish. We are talking about consequences.”

Cherie stumbled back, panic rising in her chest as his oppressive darkness pressed in around her.

“Let me guess,” she spat, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound defiant. “You’re here to kill me? Toss me to Jack and let him finish the job?”

“Jack’s not the one you need to worry about,” Tattletale said, her sharp eyes glinted in the dim light. “You think you can run from the Nine, from us, and come out unscathed? That’s not how this works.”

Cherie’s mind raced, searching for a way out. She could feel the weight of their intent pressing down on her, the inevitability of what was coming. But even as fear coiled in her gut, she couldn’t shake the flicker of defiance burning in the back of her mind.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We want you to understand,” Grue said. “There’s no running from this. You don’t get to walk away.” A pause. “Bitch.”

Hellhound gave a sharp whistle and her dogs lunged without warning, massive jaws snapping around Cherie. Her scream was cut short.