The elevator stopped at the forty-seventh floor.
Miles Vance checked his watch.
23:04.
The security shift change window: three minutes and seventeen seconds.
Three days.
He had cased the route for three days straight.
What time the shift guards arrived, which direction the cameras pointed, what kind of lock secured every door—he had memorized it all.
Batman-level precision deduction wasn’t just for show.
The fire door closed softly behind him.
The hallway lights were motion-activated, so he stepped delicately.
His footsteps sank into the carpet fibers, barely audible even to himself.
The archives room was at the end of the hallway.
A gray iron door with a combination pad and card scanner.
He crouched down and pulled a white card from the inner lining of his shoe sole.
Alan had given it to him.
An access card belonging to the former VP of Legal, which should have been revoked three years ago.
But Vought’s IT department had a flaw—the privileges of departed staff were merely frozen, never deleted.
As long as nobody audited it, the card remained active.
He swiped the card.
Entered the passcode.
*Beep.*
A green light flashed.
The door swung open.
Miles Vance slipped inside.
The archives room wasn’t large—four rows of steel shelves, files cataloged by year.
The air conditioning hummed coldly, filling the room with a chill like a meat locker.
He walked straight to the final row, to the section marked with ‘S’.
2016.
S-017.
The folder was thin.
Kraft paper cover, edges worn fuzzy.
He brought out his phone and took pictures page by page.
The shutter sound was muted, with only the flash of light sweeping across the paper.
He kept his breathing shallow, keeping his ears open—for footsteps outside, elevator chimes, or any sign of movement.
Page one: Experiment ID.
Compound V batch records.
Page two: Participant list.
Seven names, six crossed out.
Page three: Death reports.
Page four:
He flipped to a photo.
A laboratory.
Funeral wreaths.
A body covered under a white sheet.
It was identical to the photo in Alan’s safe.
He snapped twenty-one photos in total.
Then he closed the folder, opened it again to check if any pages were caught, and confirmed everything was in order.
He put it back in its original position, backed out of the room, and verified that the door locked securely behind him.
Turning around, he headed toward the emergency stairwell.
He took seven steps.
The elevator chimed.
*Ding.*
The corridor lights instantly flooded the hallway.
Footsteps echoed from behind—light, but distinct on the tile floor.
“Working late?”
Miles Vance turned around.
Homelander stood by the elevator doors.
He wore dark blue pajamas and held a glass of warm, steaming milk.
Leaning against the doorframe, he tilted his head to look at Miles Vance.
“Wandering around the company at this hour.”
“I got hungry. Heading downstairs for a late-night snack.”
Homelander chuckled softly.
He lowered his head to take a sip of milk, then raised his eyes to look at him.
His blue eyes shone brightly under the lights—abnormally bright, like surgical lamps.
“Take a guess—do I believe you came out for a late-night snack?”
Silence fell over the corridor, save for the low hum of the air conditioner.
Miles Vance could hear his own heartbeat.
He didn’t answer.
Homelander took two steps forward, walking barefoot across the floor.
Every step seemed spring-loaded—as if he could pounce at any moment.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while, intern.”
He stopped right in front of Miles Vance, half a head taller than him.
The sweet, warm steam from the milk drifted onto Miles Vance’s face.
“Last week you went to Vermont. You rented a gray car. As for who you met—I don’t need to spell it out, do I?”
Miles Vance didn’t move, though his palms began to sweat.
His shirt stuck uncomfortably to his damp back.
“Alan Foster,” Homelander said the name with a curl of his lip, as if he had chewed on something disgusting.
“That old bastard is still alive. I thought he was dead.”
He paused, tilting his head.
“Do you know what happened to the last person who went looking for Alan?”
Miles Vance stayed silent.
Homelander leaned closer, his nose nearly touching Miles Vance’s forehead.
His voice dropped an octave.
“They all died.”
Three words.
Delivered lightly, like stating a trivial matter.
Miles Vance’s stomach twisted tightly, stomach acid rising to his throat.
But he didn’t step back.
His feet felt planted like lead.
Homelander scanned his face, like flipping through a book.
Then he smiled—a look of genuine satisfaction.
“You’re afraid of me.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a statement.
Miles Vance took a deep breath.
His mouth was dry.
He swallowed hard once, then again, looking directly into those blue eyes.
“You guessed right. I’m not here for a snack.”
Homelander’s smile didn’t fade, but the curve at the corner of his eyes narrowed slightly, like a window cracking open a fraction.
“Came to take what?”
“Something you don’t know about.”
The corridor fell silent once more.
For about three seconds, cold air surged from the vents, chilling to the bone.
Homelander stared at him, holding the glass of milk near his mouth without drinking.
“You think you can hear everything,” Miles Vance said, his voice completely steady.
“Conversations through glass windows. Whispers through concrete walls. Your hearing is incredible.”
He paused.
“But you can’t hear everything. You just *think* you can.”
It wasn’t anger, but curiosity.
Like watching an ant stand up to address him.
Novel.
“Go on.”
“When you’re on the roof, you can’t hear the lower hallway. When you’re in your office, you can’t hear the fire stairwell. When you’re eating, in meetings, doing interviews—your ears are focused elsewhere.”
Miles Vance met his eyes.
“You can’t see what you don’t see.”
Homelander’s hand holding the milk stayed motionless.
The light in his blue eyes flickered—like a filament flaring bright before dimming.
“Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
He stepped back half a pace, tilted his head back, and drained the remaining milk.
The bottom of the glass caught the light for a split second.
He turned toward the elevator.
After two steps, he paused.
“I’ll let you off this once.”
Miles Vance remained still.
“Not because you convinced me,” Homelander said without turning back.
“But because you think you’ve won. That look on your face—I like it.”
He pressed the elevator button.
*Ding.* The doors slid open.
He stepped inside and turned around, looking at Miles Vance through the closing doors.
“Pick a different time next time. Don’t interrupt my milk.”
The doors closed completely.
The floor numbers ticked downward one by one.
Eighteen.
Seventeen.
Sixteen.
Miles Vance stood frozen in place.
His back was entirely drenched in sweat.
His fingers began to tremble—only now did the shaking start, vibrating up his entire arm.
He drew a long breath and forced himself to turn around.
Pushing open the fire door, he headed down the stairs.
His legs felt like jelly with every step, nearly causing him to trip, but he grabbed the icy metal railing.
One floor.
Two floors.
Another floor.
He walked all forty-seven floors down.
His knees protested with every step.
Stepping out through the main building doors, the night breeze hit his face, cool and refreshing.
The streets were mostly empty under the glow of the streetlights.
Across the road, a convenience store glowed with stark white light.
He crouched by the curb, his hands still trembling.
He pulled out his phone, taking two swipes just to unlock the screen.
Scrolling through the twenty-one photos taken during those forty seconds, every single page was sharp and clear.
The handwriting was completely legible.
He whispered something under his breath.
It sounded like “enough.”
Or perhaps something else entirely.
A notification banner popped up at the top of the screen:
[Parsing S-017 File… Analysis Progress: 40%, Approver: M.E.]
He stared at those words, unmoving.
Approver M.E.
Madelyn Stillwell.
She was still alive.