Marvel: Starting with the Homelander Template

Without question, Henry's chest caved in under Alex's powerful stomp, his sternum collapsing like a crushed shell. The sound was sickening—an ugly blend of snapping cartilage and bursting flesh.

In an instant, ribs shattered like brittle twigs, organs ruptured, and the light in Henry's eyes dimmed. His body convulsed once, then fell utterly still.

There was no mistaking it.

Henry was dead. Beyond doubt.

Alex's expression remained calm, almost detached, as though he had swatted an insect instead of ending a life. His shadow stretched long across the dimly lit alley, each step deliberate as he walked toward the other two men sprawled helplessly on the ground. Their ragged breaths and trembling limbs betrayed the terror rooting them in place.

"Stop!"

"Don't—!"

Batman's voice rang out, raw and desperate, cutting through the night like a cracked bell. But his body betrayed him. Battered and drained, he had no strength left to move, let alone intervene.

He could only lie there, cape torn and caked with grime, watching as Alex carried out his grim intent. His fists curled weakly against the asphalt, rage and helplessness burning in his chest.

Not again… I can't stop him…

Crack!

Crack!

Two sharp reports echoed, bones breaking under merciless weight. The other men spasmed, their cries cut short, their lives snuffed out in moments.

Silence followed for the briefest second.

Then—

Wee-oo! Wee-oo!

Wee-oo! Wee-oo!

The shrill wail of police sirens swept through the night, bouncing off the towering walls of Gotham's narrow streets.

Alex paused only a fraction, his posture unbothered. Then, without hurry, he pivoted on his heel and began to walk away, each step as casual as if he were leaving a dinner table. His figure soon melted into the labyrinth of shadowed streets until he was gone entirely.

Batman, left in the dirt and pain, strained to listen, but with his injuries he lacked Alex's super-hearing. All he caught was the faint ringing in his own ears.

Then came the voice.

Grave, calm, familiar.

"Master Wayne, the police are closing in on your location. You must leave immediately," Alfred urged over the comms, his tone clipped but steady.

Police.

The word landed heavy. Batman's jaw tightened, teeth grinding together. He couldn't allow himself to be caught— not like this, not while framed beside fresh corpses.

With sheer grit, he forced his battered body upright. Every movement felt like fire tearing through his muscles. He staggered toward the nearest wall, glancing once over his shoulder at the mangled bodies sprawled across the pavement.

His eyes hardened.

Whoever you are… I will catch you. No matter how strong you are.

Whoosh!

The grapple gun fired, its claw snapping onto a ledge high above. Batman launched upward, the city swallowing his figure into the night before the approaching lights could reach him.

Screech!

Moments later, two police cruisers braked hard, doors flung open. Commissioner James Gordon stepped out, trench coat whipping in the siren-lit wind, flanked by several officers.

Their faces darkened at the sight before them. Four corpses lay twisted on the ground, bones protruding grotesquely beneath torn flesh.

Even in Gotham—a city built on crime and blood—four deaths in a single alley demanded attention. And yet, what chilled them wasn't just the carnage. It was what else lay scattered on the ground.

Gordon bent down, his gloved hand brushing against a familiar shape. He lifted it into the flashing red-and-blue light.

A Batarang.

His jaw set grimly.

"Batman…" Gordon muttered.

The officers exchanged uneasy glances. Everyone in Gotham knew: Batman never killed. It was his one unshakable rule. And yet, the evidence was undeniable—Batman had been here, and now four men were dead.

That contradiction gnawed at Gordon, planting a seed of dread.

---

Meanwhile, far from the scene, Alex strolled unhurriedly into another district. The tension of Gotham's slums melted into something entirely different.

Street lamps here burned brighter, casting golden light on clean sidewalks. Restaurants gleamed with polished glass, boutiques shimmered with decadent displays. Laughter and conversation spilled from cafés. It was the wealthy district—a different world altogether compared to the decay he had just left behind.

But Alex paid the glamour little mind.

"I just encountered Batman, but the system didn't trigger a mission." His voice was low, thoughtful, as he walked beneath the glow of neon signs.

He wasn't impressed. Compared to Krakoa's shining utopia, Gotham's wealth felt gaudy, superficial. His focus remained inward—on strength, on what truly mattered.

Cosmic energy levels here matched his original world. He could still absorb endlessly, feeding his power without resistance. That much was unchanged.

What was different was the system.

In his old world, missions had grown scarce. But this Gotham was untouched ground—ripe with opportunity. Based on past experience, Batman should have been a key target. A heavyweight. Yet, there was nothing.

No prompt. No mission. Just silence.

Still, Alex wasn't worried. He had only been in Gotham an hour. This city was a hive of corruption, crime bubbling up on every corner. Sooner or later, the system would react.

"Patience," he muttered. "This city is crawling with villains. I refuse to believe no mission will come."

For now, his stomach rumbled, grounding him.

"Food first," he decided, lips curving faintly. As a man of wealth, he saw no need to eat poorly. His path veered toward the most luxurious hotel visible on the skyline, its golden lights gleaming like a beacon.

Tap, tap, tap.

A new sound joined the night. Sharp, rhythmic. Heels striking pavement. Alex's ears picked up instantly. Not only the sound, but the fragrance carried with it—feminine, sweet, deliberate. Someone was approaching.

The scent grew stronger. Then—

"Help me!"

A desperate cry split the air just as a soft body collided with Alex's side. He turned slightly, gaze falling upon a striking woman. Curves that would make heads turn, eyes wide with feigned terror.

Even by Alex's strictest standards, she was beautiful. Her skin seemed flawless, glowing as if lit from within. For a moment, Alex idly wondered what kind of product she used to achieve such perfection.

"I'm being followed—thugs! Please, pretend to be my boyfriend!" Her voice shook, her body trembling as she leaned heavily against him, practically draping herself across his frame.

To any ordinary man, her plea would have been intoxicating—an irresistible mixture of vulnerability and allure. Pride and instinct would've swelled, drowning reason.

But Alex was not ordinary.

His eyes narrowed faintly. Beneath the trembling hands, beneath the breathless panic, he saw only precision. Calculation.

Swish!

A deft motion—so quick, so fluid that most would never notice. Her hand brushed against his wrist, and in that instant, the weight of his watch vanished. The theft was silent, almost elegant.

She was good. Very good.

Had Alex not been on guard, she might have succeeded.

"Thank you," she said with a bright, false relief. "Looks like they've gone. You were amazing."

Already turning to leave, her posture lightened—carefree now that her goal was achieved.

Slap!

Her escape ended abruptly. Alex's hand clamped firmly around her wrist. She froze, her practiced smile faltering as she met his gaze.

Alex's expression was calm, faintly amused, but beneath it lay an edge that made the air heavy.

"No," he said softly. "The thug hasn't left." His lips curved. "Because I'm the biggest thug here."

Her face stiffened, a cold dread flickering in her eyes.

"Sir, please, don't joke—" she stammered, the confidence in her voice thinning.

But Alex leaned closer, his voice low and unwavering.

"I just arrived in Gotham and plan to settle here for a while. I need a servant. And you seem suitable." He gave her a smile that wasn't really a smile at all. "I've decided—you'll be mine."

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