And that doubt reached its peak during his trip to Metropolis.
He had found himself crying while watching old footage of Superman.
That mysterious old man in the gray shirt—Soren had noticed it right away.
The man looked like an aged version of Superman.
Why had he spotted Soren so quickly, pulled him out of the combat zone between Homelander and the monster, and gotten him to safety?
Every time Soren thought about the man—those white hairs, the wrinkles, the raspy voice, the warm yet solid chest, and that rough, calloused hand—his heart ached.
It was as though his chest had been submerged in saltwater, the pain both bitter and sharp.
Soren couldn't help but think that he must've known Superman before.
And that old man… could very well be Superman.
Homelander hadn't been able to deal with the mutated creature—it was Superman who took the monster away.
But why had Superman aged so much, so suddenly?
There had been no news or reports mentioning this.
The latest photo of Superman was from a few months ago at Moscow Airport, where he'd caught a falling plane and posed for pictures with the passengers he saved.
He looked as youthful and handsome as ever in that image.
Soren glanced over at Red Hood.
Then he thought back to the bar they had just left, to the scenes he had witnessed inside.
Suddenly, a bold idea formed in his mind—
What if he had once been a supervillain captured by Superman?
That would explain why he knew Red Hood, why he had no friends, and why the sight of Superman had made him break down in tears.
Everything made sense if he had once been a criminal!
Perhaps he was an incorrigible supervillain, steeped in evil and burdened with a long list of crimes...
Soren pondered the possibility.
Red Hood, clearly irritated by his thoughts, let out a cold snort, his chest tightening with annoyance.
He turned around abruptly, straddling his heavy motorcycle and tossing the helmet hanging from the handlebar over to Soren. "Get on."
Soren caught the helmet, his gaze still cautious as he studied this man who, by all appearances, was no good.
The idea that this person might have once been his partner in crime made Soren feel a strange sense of kinship.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
Red Hood glanced back, tilting his chin toward him. "Taking you for a ride."
Soren hesitated, looking from Red Hood to the beastly, powerful motorcycle.
Eventually, he couldn't resist the lure of the bike, so he slung his bag over his shoulder, put on the helmet, and climbed on.
—After all, he had the wristband Tony had given him.
He could fight back at any time, so there was nothing to fear.
Settling into the black leather seat of the bike, Soren placed his feet on the footpegs and gripped the handles.
The seat was short, forcing him close to Red Hood's back.
His voice buzzed in the helmet as he said, "I'm good. Let's go."
Red Hood let out another low grunt before starting the engine.
The roar of the four-cylinder turbocharged motor sounded like a beast unleashed, and the widened special tires screeched against the pavement, leaving behind a trail of white smoke as the bike shot out of the alley like an arrow from a bow.
The bike tore through the streets of the Metropolis, the city lights blurring into neon streaks as they sped past.
Soren's heart pounded in rhythm with the motorcycle's thunderous engine.
Despite his swirling doubts and the confusion gnawing at his mind, there was a strange freedom in the speed, in the rush of the wind whipping past him.
Red Hood, silent and stoic as ever, leaned into the ride, effortlessly navigating the narrow streets and sudden turns.
Soren tightened his grip on the handlebars, not because he was afraid of falling, but because his thoughts kept spiraling back to Superman—to the aged man who had pulled him to safety.
The idea that he might have been a villain, that his memories had been wiped or lost in some strange twist of fate, gnawed at him.
It explained so much: his lack of history, his familiarity with Red Hood, the haunting images of Superman that brought him to tears.
But why couldn't he remember?
As they roared past another street corner, a distant explosion echoed behind them—no doubt more chaos brought by the battle between Homelander and whatever monstrosity had appeared tonight.
It was a familiar scene in Metropolis, a city used to constant threats from super-powered beings.
Soren leaned forward, close enough to feel the heat from Red Hood's back.
He hesitated, then spoke over the rumble of the engine. "Why are you helping me?"
Red Hood's shoulders tensed.
He didn't answer immediately, his gloved hands gripping the throttle a little tighter.
For a second, Soren thought he wouldn't respond at all.
Then, his voice came through the helmet's comm.
"Because I know what it's like to be lost."
It was a vague answer, but there was something raw in Red Hood's tone.
Soren could feel the weight of history in those words.
Something about this man—about the way he carried himself, the way he looked at Soren—made him think Red Hood had his own share of scars, both physical and emotional.
The bike slowed as they approached the edge of the city, entering a more industrial area.
Abandoned warehouses lined the streets, their shadows long and menacing under the dim streetlights.
Red Hood pulled the bike to a stop near a rusted, closed-off gate.
He killed the engine, leaving the two of them in the quiet aftermath of the ride, the distant sounds of sirens and the clash of titans far behind them.
Soren took off the helmet, his hands trembling slightly as he glanced around the desolate area. "Where are we?"
Red Hood swung his leg over the bike and stood up, his form a dark silhouette against the night. "Old safehouse. Used to be ours."