The score swelled—epic, thunderous, unmistakably Hans Zimmer–esque. Low brass rolled like distant thunder while soaring strings braided fate into sound.
On the screen, a massive nuclear missile tore through the sky, its tail flame slicing the clouds apart. Beneath it flew a red-and-blue figure, arms locked around the weapon, body angled forward with absolute resolve as he charged straight toward the alien wormhole ripping the heavens open.
This was the final scene of Homelander: Origin.
There were no overwrought monologues. No cheap Hollywood slow motion.
The camera cut to a close-up.
In the final second before plunging into the darkness of the wormhole, Homelander, played by Antony, turned his head and looked back at New York.
There was no fear on his face.
No hesitation.
Only a trace of longing—for the world he was about to leave behind.
In that moment, he wasn't a god.
He was a man walking toward death.
"For… home."
The line was barely audible, swallowed by roaring winds.
Then—
Light devoured everything.
The white flash of the nuclear detonation exploded across the IMAX screen, the shockwave rattling the entire theater.
Cut to black.
Silence fell over the Dolby auditorium—three thousand seats frozen in place.
No one spoke.
No one reached for popcorn.
Even breathing seemed to stop.
A few seconds later, the screen flickered back to life.
New York.
Ruins. Smoke drifting through shattered streets.
A figure descended from the sky, holding an alien escape pod.
Freeze frame.
White text appeared, carved into the darkness like words etched into obsidian:
"You are the real heroes." — Homelander
No warning.
No buildup.
Applause detonated like a dam bursting.
Not polite clapping—but raw, thunderous, cathartic applause that swallowed the entire hall.
The front rows stood first.
Then the middle.
Then the back.
Thousands of people rose to their feet, clapping until their palms burned.
Some screamed.
Some wiped tears from their eyes.
Many of them had lived through the Battle of New York.
This wasn't fiction to them.
The man who saved the world on screen was sitting among them.
That shattering of the fourth wall—the collision of reality and cinema—multiplied the emotional impact tenfold.
"Ding! Popularity +10,450!"
"Ding! Popularity +9,110!"
"Ding! Popularity +15,330!"
"… "
Listening to the system notifications ring nonstop in his head, Antony couldn't stop the smile curling at his lips.
Yes… this is right, he thought calmly.
Cry. Cheer. And then… love me.
He stood and turned to face the audience.
The applause surged even louder.
Tony Stark rose to his feet as well.
For once, the perpetually sarcastic billionaire wore a complicated expression instead of a smirk.
He glanced at the frozen image on the screen, then at Antony basking in the spotlight.
"…Alright," Tony muttered, skipping his usual barrage of insults. He leaned toward Steve Rogers and said quietly,
"I still hate this guy… but I'll admit it—the effects were damn good. Looked real as hell."
"That's because it was real," Steve replied, still applauding, eyes glistening. "That's what actually happened that day. He just filled in the parts we didn't see."
Steve's voice dropped.
"He captured that feeling, Tony. The feeling of charging forward knowing you won't come back—just to protect the people behind you. In that moment… he really was a hero."
Tony fell silent.
He didn't argue.
Instead, memories surfaced—
a cave in Afghanistan,
scraps of metal,
and a man named Yinsen who gave his life so Tony could live.
Don't waste your life.
"…Damn it," Tony muttered, draining his soda in one go.
That blond bastard…
He actually convinced me.
Nearby, Natasha Romanoff remained seated, quiet.
As one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most elite operatives—trained in the Red Room, shaped by lies—she rarely trusted what she saw.
Before the movie, she'd assumed this was just another narcissist mythologizing himself.
But now…
Her eyes lingered on the man waving to the crowd.
There was a scene in the film—Homelander imprisoned by the shadowy "Chaos" organization. Tortured. Experimented on. Curled up in a freezing cell, clutching a crumpled candy wrapper printed with the American flag.
His last anchor to hope.
That look in his eyes—
stripped of humanity, treated like an animal, yet still yearning for the light—
Natasha's chest tightened.
She'd seen that look before.
In Red Room mirrors.
"…Maybe," she whispered to herself, forcing down the unfamiliar ache,
"maybe beneath that perfect mask… there really is a broken soul."
For the first time, warmth flickered in her gaze.
Antony' performance—far beyond Oscar-level—had cracked open the Black Widow's defenses.
-----
The post-screening press area was chaos.
Or perhaps… celebration.
Hundreds of reporters surged like zombies, desperate for a single quote, a single photo—anything.
"Homelander! Opening weekend projections exceed $500 million—your response?"
"Mr. Starr! Is it true you were imprisoned in a lab for a full year?"
"Queen Jones! Are you dating Homelander? Is the relationship real?!"
Antony moved through the crowd under heavy security, wearing his flawless smile.
He paused occasionally, answering harmless questions with polished ease.
Then—
"Excuse me! Sorry—!"
"Watch your step!"
"Ah—sorry!"
A small figure wriggled through the crowd like an eel.
A boy.
Maybe eleven or twelve.
Faded plaid shirt. Overstuffed backpack. Thick black-rimmed glasses. Sweat-soaked hair sticking up in every direction. Small. Unremarkable.
Except for his eyes.
Bright. Burning.
He'd snuck out of Queens and spent three months' worth of allowance on a scalped ticket—just to see him.
And it was worth it.
Every second.
His heart was still hammering, threatening to burst.
A godlike being—
choosing to die for ordinary people.
Choosing pain to protect the weak.
With great power… comes great responsibility.
The boy repeated the line silently.
It struck him like lightning—splitting open his ordinary, timid world.
And somewhere deep in that boy's chest, something new began to grow.
--------------
T/N:
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