Homelander leaned against the stairwell wall, letting the report fall from his hand.
The wall was cold, the chill seeping through the fabric of his hoodie and into his skin, but he felt absolutely nothing.
His gaze was fixed on a small crack in the opposite wall, but his vision was unfocused; his X-ray vision pierced through the wall, the hospital, and all of New York.
He had a father.
But no one had ever told him.
Soldier Boy was his father.
The researchers in white coats hadn’t told him, Madelyn Stillwell hadn’t either, neither had Barbara nor Stan Edgar.
In his cognitive framework, the word “father,” like the perfect families in breakfast cereal commercials, was something that belonged to other people.
It was an illusion scripted into the scripts, in the greeting images that Vought’s PR department posted on Twitter every Father’s Day.
Suddenly, someone had told him it was real.
A father who would hit him and discipline him.
He opened the report to the first page again and read it again.
Then he read it once more.
The third time, his hands began to tremble.
Not from excitement.
It was from hatred.
He hated Stan Edgar.
He hated that damn man who sat behind the boardroom table, always looking at everyone with a kind smile.
He hated Vought, hated that laboratory that was like a cage that had kept him in a growth tank for as long as he could remember.
He hated Black Noir, hated that silent, dark shadow who never spoke.
He had patted that man on the shoulder countless times, called him “partner” countless times.
Yet that man had known about his father from the beginning, and had even been one of the people who framed him.
His hatred needed an outlet.
The wound on his face throbbed in the sunlight; the dried bloodstain still clung to his left cheek, and he didn’t wipe it off.
…
Night, Vought Tower.
Homelander stepped out of the elevator with the paternity test report clutched in his hand, the paper already crumpled from rubbing.
He walked down the hallway, constantly looking around, searching.
Finally, Homelander found him.
In the lounge at the end of the hallway, Black Noir was sitting on the sofa.
He wore his iconic black suit, the mask covering his entire face.
On the coffee table in front of him, there was an untouched glass of water, and nearby, a tablet screen was lit, playing a black-and-white comedy from the silent film era.
Black Noir was watching it intently, or rather, he seemed to be watching it.
His posture was rigidly upright, his hands resting flat on his knees.
Homelander stopped at the lounge doorway.
He said nothing, just stood there, scrutinizing the silent figure on the sofa with a look unlike any he had used before.
Black Noir noticed his presence, slowly turned his head, and aligned the eyeholes of his mask with the doorway.
They looked at each other.
“Black Noir.” Homelander spoke with an unusually calm voice.
“Did you know my father?”
Black Noir tilted his head slightly.
Then Black Noir shook his head.
Homelander walked into the lounge at a slow pace.
He unfolded the crumpled ball of paper in his hand and threw it forcefully at Black Noir’s face.
“My father, Soldier Boy, has a paternity probability of over 99.9999%.
Sample A is the biological father of Sample B.
As a member of my father’s team, didn’t you know?”
Black Noir’s gaze fell on the paper.
He stared at it for a long time. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
The only sound in the entire room was the exaggerated piano soundtrack of the silent film, and a comedian on screen tripped and silently rolled down the stairs, looking shockingly comical.
Then Black Noir nodded and then shook his head.
He wanted to defend himself, but he couldn’t speak.
“You knew from the beginning.”
Homelander’s voice suddenly became very soft, so soft that it was almost as if he were talking to himself.
“Every time you stood by my side, every time I patted you on the shoulder and called you partner, you knew.”
“And you were also one of the culprits who framed my father.”
Black Noir remained motionless, like a silent black mirror.
He knew it was all over.
Homelander stopped talking.
He extended his right hand with fingers together, pointing the tips toward Black Noir’s chest.
The instant his fingers touched the black suit, the fabric tore like paper.
Then came the skin, the muscle; Homelander’s fingers penetrated, centimeter by centimeter.
Black Noir’s body trembled slightly.
His gaze never left Homelander’s face for an instant.
Black Noir was dead.
His hands slid from his knees and hung at his sides, fingers slightly curved.
The silent film continued playing.
In his eyes, several cartoon characters also appeared.
…
Homelander withdrew his hand.
He looked down at his hand for a moment, then turned and left the lounge.
He didn’t even spare an extra glance at the cooling corpse on the sofa.