The Vought International building. Starlight lay on the bed in her living room—the same spot where she usually kept up with her figure—but now she was sipping a double-sugar frappuccino, humming a tune, her calves swinging cheerfully. She was in an excellent mood.
After meeting with Hughie and learning the truth about Homelander's defeat, it was hard for her not to be happy. Even though a furious Stan had stripped her of her co-captain position in the Seven, she couldn't bring herself to care.
After all, given the current situation, losing that title might actually be a blessing.
Just as Starlight was savoring the moment, a commotion erupted outside her door. Not wanting to miss any news, she set down her drink, tiptoed to the door, and pressed her ear against it.
At that moment, Ashley's voice came through—the assistant who served as Homelander's handler.
"What?! Homelander went to see Mr. Edgar?! Why didn't anyone warn me in advance?! Didn't anyone try to stop him?!"
Assistant: "…?" (Us? Stop Homelander?)
"Damn it! A bunch of useless wastes! My anxiety disorder is all because of you! If any of you were even remotely competent, things wouldn't be such a disaster! Get out! Go to the PR department for me and handle things there!"
Starlight knew it was morally questionable, but she couldn't help the smile that crept across her face. She had endured enough of Ashley's groveling before Homelander to last a lifetime. Seeing her act tough now… was quite satisfying.
As for Ashley, after dismissing her subordinates—whom she had used as verbal punching bags—she collapsed onto a bench in the hallway like a marionette with cut strings. Her fingers pressed hard against her temples, her chest still heaving from the anger and frustration that had just exploded out of her.
She tried to catch her breath, but the sounds escaping her throat were choked with suffocating gasps. The pressure of being Homelander's handler was clearly immense.
Starlight stood by the door for a while, listening to the muffled, restrained sobs, and was about to turn away when the urgent ring of a cell phone suddenly cut through the silence of the corridor.
She paused, then quietly pressed her ear back to the door.
"Hello? Yes, it's me… What?" Ashley's voice was hoarse, as if she'd been choking back tears, and then came an uncontrollable gasp of surprise: "Black Noir led a security team on an operation? You want me to sign off? Okay, where is it? … The Flatiron Building?"
The Flatiron Building. Those three words exploded in Starlight's ears like a thunderclap.
She instantly recalled Stan's veiled, secretive gaze from before, and the faint rumors that had been circulating within Vought recently. Her heart seized.
She wasn't being paranoid. Stan would rather kill the wrong person than let the matter drop—he was going after Hughie and the others!
"Where did they go?!"
With a loud crash, Starlight burst through the door. The shattered door panel slammed against the floor with a deafening bang.
Ashley was so startled she nearly dropped her phone. Her voice instantly trembled, and she blurted out instinctively: "Starlight? You… aren't you supposed to be in the gym?"
Starlight ignored her completely. She strode forward, closed the distance, and leaned in, her eyes locking onto Ashley's.
"I said—where did Black Noir go?!"
————————————————————————————————————————
Hughie woke up to the urgent need to use the bathroom. He found himself buried under a pile of empty wine bottles. Glancing at Butcher, who was still passed out on the sofa, he stumbled, wrapped in his clothes, and headed for the communal bathroom on their floor.
As he entered the bathroom, still groggy from last night's alcohol, he instinctively pulled out his phone. The screen was dim, barely a flicker of battery left. Just then, a message from his girlfriend, Annie, popped up.
Before the hangover could fully clear, he only had time to make out the word "be careful" before the phone died completely.
Feeling a flicker of annoyance, Hughie shook himself off and turned to head back to charge his phone. He stepped up to the sink, bent down, and splashed a handful of cold water on his face—when a figure appeared in the mirror, wrapped tightly in black tactical gear.
In that instant, the alcohol in his system evaporated.
Because he recognized the man in black tactical gear. It was Black Noir.
Before he could even get the word "Black…" out of his mouth, Black Noir raised a hand and struck him precisely on the neck with a knife-hand blow. Hughie didn't even have time to grunt; his body went limp, and he lost consciousness. Noir hoisted him over his shoulder without breaking stride, stepped out of the bathroom, and handed him off to the special forces team waiting outside.
He glanced down the corridor. Mercenaries and Vought's own special ops teams packed the hallway so tightly there was barely room to move.
Noir, accustomed to working alone, hesitated for a moment, unsure how to proceed discreetly. Finally, he simply raised a hand to give a tactical signal, turned, and led the way toward the office the Boys had rented.
They needed to maintain silence—no alerting the mission's potential targets.
Inside the office, Butcher finally stirred from the fog of his hangover.
His eyelids felt like lead. He struggled to crack them open, his bleary gaze sweeping across the disheveled office. Hughie was nowhere to be seen.
He was about to call out when the back of his neck suddenly went cold, a piercing chill racing down his spine.
This isn't right. Danger!
In the next second, several sharp thuds echoed through the room. Dark objects flew in through the broken windows, shattering the glass and landing inside.
They were chemical grenades. After a couple of bounces on the floor, they erupted, spewing a milky-white fog with a sharp, sweet odor.
Sevoflurane.
Butcher's pupils contracted. Without a second thought, he pulled his coat over his mouth and nose, rolled off the sofa, and crouched low to the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the edge of the table. A vial of temporary Compound V glowed with an ominous green light.
He stretched his fingers toward the vial—just as a flash of cold steel shot from the doorway. With a sharp thunk, a short blade pinned the vial, sending the green liquid splattering across the floor, hissing as it frothed.
"Fuck!"
The curse barely left Butcher's lips before Black Noir—forced into a frontal assault by his incompetent backup—burst through the door like a cheetah. Short blade in hand, he lunged at Butcher, aiming to take advantage of his disorientation from the sevoflurane and finish him in one strike.
But in that critical moment, the living room door exploded inward. Amid a shower of splintered wood, a black-clad figure launched forward with the speed of a panther.
Before Noir's blade could touch Butcher, the figure had already closed the distance. A vicious kick sent Noir crashing against the wall with a muffled crack.
It happened too fast. The entire room seemed to freeze. Noir slid down the wall and crumpled to the floor, his movements suspended mid-motion. Butcher's hand remained clamped over his mouth and nose, his eyes wide with shock. The mercenaries at the door were so stunned they forgot to raise their weapons.
Noir struggled to lift his gaze, looking at the man before him—the suspected target of the mission. With striking V-shaped white hair, a cold expression, a powerful build, and a glint of amusement in his eyes…
Noir's nerves went taut. He knew at first glance that this was a tough opponent.
In a sudden, fluid motion, he flipped to his feet, snatched up the fallen short blade, and leveled it at his adversary. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight like a bowstring, his vigilance at its peak.
The mercenaries at the door and the special ops teams outside finally snapped out of it. They swarmed inside, weapons raised, black muzzles converging on the two men from all sides, sealing off every inch of the cramped space.
Seeing this, Butcher immediately moved back-to-back with Locke, keeping his coat pressed over his nose and mouth as he fought off the sevoflurane's effects.
"Locke?"
"Yeah."
"Fuck, I thought you knew everything. Didn't see this coming?"
Locke didn't answer. He tilted his head, revealing a smile that bordered on sinister. Butcher watched as he lifted his toes, hooked the sevoflurane canister at his feet into the air, then caught it with practiced ease. He brought it to his nose.
Closing his eyes, Locke took a deep breath. The cold gas flowed into his nostrils, but instead of drowsiness, he felt a faint sweetness—the first time he had ever experienced that.
"Bringing back memories."
Faced with Locke's casual, almost arrogant behavior, Noir's heart tightened. But before he could react, he saw Locke's eyes snap open. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a twisted, terrifying expression.
The five fingers gripping the canister suddenly clenched. With a sharp bang, he crushed the tank. White vapor erupted outward, instantly filling most of the room.
Under cover of the mist, Locke dropped low and exploded forward.
Noir's eyes tracked Locke's movement, but his body was a half-beat too slow. Locke slammed into him, driving his shoulder into Noir's chest. Noir's entire frame lifted off the ground like a ragdoll, crashing through the window with a shattering of glass and tumbling outside.
The mercenaries immediately opened fire on Locke. Gunfire erupted in the confined space.
Locke's form blurred. Pale blue afterimages were ripped from the air. The sevoflurane mist hadn't dispersed, and the muzzle flashes occasionally cut through the smoke, illuminating his figure for a split second before he vanished back into the haze.
Amid the torrent of bullets, shouts and screams from the mercenaries erupted one after another.
In an instant, the office was in total chaos. Tables and chairs overturned. Shards of glass mixed with spent casings scattered across the floor. Gunfire, screams, and the crash of heavy bodies formed a symphony of violence.
When Noir clawed his way back up to the window frame, pulling himself hand over hand to the sill, he looked through his goggles and saw the special ops team inside already down. Butcher's eyes were wide with disbelief, as if wondering if he'd had too much to drink.
Locke stood in the center of the room, his back to Noir, motionless.
Slowly, he raised his hands. His fingers opened, one by one. Bullets nestled in his palms, still smoking from the gunpowder, thin wisps of pale smoke curling upward.
The bullets fell to the cold floor. Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound was crisp and clear in the chaotic silence—a harsh, jarring rhythm.
When Locke turned his head, his handsome face was no longer twisted. He looked at Noir with a relaxed expression.
"Come on. Entertain me. The way you did with Soldier Boy. You did, didn't you, Earving?"
The moment the words left his mouth, the burns on Noir's face began to throb with sudden, vicious pain. His mind felt like it had been struck by a blunt object, followed by a pulsing ache that exploded behind his eyes. Hallucinations surged unbidden.
The figure before him began to warp. Locke's silhouette blurred and faded, replaced by the face of Soldier Boy.
The man he had cursed for so long stared back at him with a contemptuous smirk. The coldness in his eyes pierced like an ice pick, sending a shiver crawling through Noir's body, a chill rising from the cracks in his bones.
Noir stood frozen, forgetting to breathe.
In that moment, there was nothing left in his heart but a growing, consuming fear that threatened to swallow him whole.