Homelander got all the press—he screamed Vought’s rage for the world to see—but really, you didn’t have to worry about him.
He couldn’t help himself: loud, dramatic, never able to walk past a shiny surface without stopping.
The real threat was the one who never said a word.
I sat back on my penthouse balcony, glass of bourbon in hand, tuning my Viltrumite hearing to a spot fifty floors below.
Not a boardroom.
Not a lab.
A cramped, windowless server hub buried in Vought’s cybersecurity maze.
No suits, no cameras, just the harsh staccato of a single keyboard.
Mechanical clacks, steady and relentless.
Black Noir was at work.
Everyone else on The Seven chased headlines and TV ratings, but not Noir.
He was Vought’s deadliest weapon—a silent hunter, unleashed to track down whoever blew apart that warehouse in Newark.
Bad news for Billy Butcher, because Noir never missed his mark.
I followed the sound of his typing.
Noir ignored Vought’s sluggish AI; he tore right through hours of city traffic feeds, toll booths, ATM cameras, hunting for anything out of place.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
Then his terminal dinged, a sharp, impatient chime.
Facial recognition just flagged a hit.
I zeroed in, listening to the faint hum as the hard drive pulled up an image—a grainy shot from a red-light camera not far from the Yonkers clinic.
Rusted van.
Through tinted glass, a fractured reflection—scruffy beard, dark eyes.
William Butcher.
Noir punched in a few more commands, pulling the van’s plate for a live satellite sweep.
Beep.
The satellite tagged the van in an alley in the Flatiron District, parked over a condemned pawn shop.
I caught the creak of Noir’s boots as he stood, the rasping hiss of sheathes as he slid knives into his bandolier.
He didn’t call Homelander.
Didn’t radio for backup.
Noir worked alone.
And he was heading for that basement.
If he walked in, he’d cut down Butcher, Hughie, Frenchie—thirty seconds, tops.
Kimiko might put up a fight, but Noir would cram her back in a Vought cage before she caught her breath.
My chessboard was on the verge of being wiped clean.
I put down the bourbon.
One heartbeat later, I was airborne.
Not fast enough for a sonic boom—no need for headlines—but more than fast enough.
The city turned to streaks of light as I cut through the night, silent and focused.
In the basement, tension hung thick and heavy.
Frenchie crouched in the corner near a cold steel pipe, holding out a battered chocolate bar to Kimiko.
“Put the gun away, Butcher.
You’re scaring her.” Butcher barely looked up from cleaning his massive sniper rifle.
“She just tore five men into shreds, Frenchie.
She’ll survive seeing a gun.” Kimiko glared at them both, eyes wild.
She hadn’t spoken since the rescue.
Still, she reached out, snatched the candy from Frenchie, and sank back against the wall, tearing open the wrapper with shaking hands—chains rattling as she moved.
Hughie paced by the stairs, gnawing at his nails.
“I don’t like this.
Starlight knows who we are.
She warned you we’re being hunted.
Why are we still here?
We should be halfway to Canada!” “We’re not running, Hughie,” Butcher snapped, ramming the bolt into place.
“The cape’s having a crisis of conscience.
She’ll crack.
All we need to do is keep our heads down—” THWACK.
A fist-sized chunk of concrete crashed through the tiny window just above street level.
Flew across the room like a bullet—so close it kissed Butcher’s hair—and sunk two inches into the brick wall.
Butcher dropped to the floor, rifle raised and ready.
Hughie shrieked, vanishing behind a pile of boxes.
Kimiko snarled at the broken glass, ready to pounce.
Nothing happened.
No guns, no grenades.
Just that sudden, bottomless quiet.
Butcher crept to the wall, eyes locked on the concrete.
Black tape held a patch of torn paper.
He ripped it off, hands steady but white-knuckled.
Four words.
Block letters, sharp as a knife: BLACK NOIR.
TWO MINUTES.
Color drained from his face.
Everybody in the underground heard the stories—what happened when Vought let Noir off the leash.
“Pack it up!” Butcher bellowed, shoving guns into his bag.
“Move!
Now!” Hughie scrambled up, barely breathing.
“What?
What?” “The bloody boogeyman!” Butcher barked.
“Frenchie, get the girl!
We’re leaving right now!” Frenchie grabbed his cutters, snapped Kimiko’s chain.
She flinched, but he held out his hands.
“Come, love.
We have to fly.” They thundered up the stairs and out the back, pouring into the rusted van.
Butcher jammed the gas and they tore out of the alley, running the nearest red light and losing themselves in New York’s chaos.
Ninety seconds later, a shadow dropped from the roof.
Black Noir landed without a sound.
He drew his knife, sliced through the backdoor lock, and slipped inside.
Downstairs, he moved ghost-like—no footsteps, no breath.
Empty basement.
Chains broken, gun rags left on the battered table, all signs of a quick escape.
Noir stood still, unreadable behind his featureless mask.
He studied the wreckage, traced a gloved finger over the crater in the brick.
Whoever threw that rock wasn’t normal.
Far above, hidden by clouds, I watched Noir step into the alley.
The wind tore at me, cold and fierce, but I was grinning.
He’d missed them by seconds—just enough for Butcher to believe in ghosts.
He had no idea who’d thrown that warning, only that someone was watching Vought’s deadliest shadow.
It’d crank up his paranoia, but even better?
He’d start to depend on me.
Starlight was holding her ground at Vought Tower.
Butcher was running scared.
And with Noir stalking the city streets, the pressure was building nicely.
All I had to do now was keep turning up the heat.
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