Vought’s Fiftieth Anniversary Gala.
Miles Vance stood in a corner, holding a glass of champagne.
The champagne was chilled, and fine condensation formed on the glass, rolling down drop by drop.
His suit was rented.
A deep navy, with cuffs that were a bit too long and a tie that hung slightly askew.
He had spent forty minutes adjusting it in front of the mirror before finally giving up—no matter how he tied it, it just didn’t look right.
He had been quick to master Batman’s combat skills, but when it came to tying a tie, Bruce Wayne had a butler.
He didn’t.
The hall was packed.
Vought executives, members of The Seven, politicians, reporters, and a few Hollywood stars whose names he couldn’t quite place.
Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting a bright glow on everyone’s faces.
A three-tier champagne tower shimmered under the lights like a small glass mountain.
Captain America’s abilities had his senses running at full capacity.
He could hear everyone’s conversations.
Not because he was trying to eavesdrop, but because he couldn’t help it.
Voices flooded in from all directions, pouring into his ears like a rising tide.
To his left, two executives were discussing the quarterly earnings report.
“Third-quarter profits are up twelve percent.
Madelyn is thrilled.” To his right, a reporter was on the phone: “Yes, Homelander hasn’t shown up yet.
Everyone is waiting for him.” Behind him, an actress complained about her high heels: “The designer of these shoes has clearly never walked a day in their life.”
Miles took a sip of champagne.
The cold liquid slid down his throat, tingling with fine bubbles.
He closed his eyes, trying to filter out the noise.
But it was useless.
Captain America’s heightened senses didn’t have an off switch—if it was spoken, he heard it, and every single sentence was crystal clear.
Then, he caught the sound of footsteps.
High heels, clicking at a moderate tempo, cutting through the crowd and drawing closer.
He opened his eyes.
Starlight was standing in front of him.
She wore a blue dress.
Not a flashy, glittering dress-blue, but a deep navy, like the sea at midnight.
The hemline stopped at her knees, revealing a pair of fair calves.
Her hair was styled in an updo, exposing her neck and collarbones.
There was a tiny mole on her collarbone.
Miles froze for a moment.
“You look like you’re about to make a run for it,” Starlight said.
Miles looked down at himself—holding champagne, leaning against a corner, his body slightly angled toward the exit.
It was indeed the posture of someone ready to bolt at any second.
“I actually am,” he said.
Starlight smiled.
It wasn’t her usual restrained smile—the corners of her mouth curved up a bit higher than usual, and her eyes crinkled.
She seemed genuinely amused.
“Don’t.”
Miles looked at her.
“We agreed to embarrass ourselves together,” Starlight said.
“If you run, where’s the fun in me looking foolish alone?”
Miles couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Fine. Let’s embarrass ourselves together.”
Starlight held out her hand. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Miles looked at it—her fingers were slender, her nails coated in clear polish that caught the light.
He hesitated for about half a second before placing his hand in hers.
Starlight’s hand was cooler than his, likely from holding a champagne glass.
But her palm was warm.
“Do you know how to dance?” Starlight asked.
“No.”
“Great. Me neither.”
They began to dance.
To call it dancing was generous; it was more like two people stepping on each other’s feet to the music.
Miles stepped on her three times—first on the hem of her dress, second on the toe of her shoe, and third on her instep.
Starlight stepped on him twice—once when he was turning, and once when he tried to correct his previous mistake.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“I stepped on you again.”
“Stop counting.”
Miles laughed out loud.
It wasn’t a restrained, polite chuckle—it was a genuine laugh that vibrated in his chest.
He didn’t know how long it had been since he last laughed like this.
Probably not since he had arrived in this world.
Starlight was laughing too.
As she laughed, she tilted her head back slightly, exposing the long curve of her neck.
The mole on her collarbone rose and fell with her breath.
“You know,” Starlight said, still catching her breath, “the last time I danced was at my high school prom.”
“And?”
“My date stepped on me fourteen times.”
“Then I’m doing better than him. I’ve only stepped on you twice.”
“Three times. You stepped on me three times.”
“Oh. Well, still better than him.”
Starlight laughed again.
This time it was soft, like the sigh of relief that follows letting go.
The music played on.
It was a slow jazz number, the sound of the saxophone drifting through the air like a thin mist.
The crowd flowed around them—clinking glasses, chatting, taking photos—but those sounds felt distant now, as if muffled by a pane of glass.
Starlight drew closer.
Her lips were almost brushed against his ear.
Her breath was warm, carrying the scent of champagne and mints.
“Do you have something else to do tonight?”
Miles’s body tensed for a fraction of a second.
“Your eyes keep darting toward the elevators,” Starlight said.
“Since we started dancing, you’ve looked over there six times.”
Miles remained silent.
“Now that you know, don’t stop me,” he said.
Starlight backed away slightly, looking into his eyes.
Her eyes shone brightly under the lights, as if something were swirling inside them.
It wasn’t tears, but something else—as if she, too, was making a decision.
“I won’t stop you.” You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Miles froze.
“But promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
“Come back alive.”
Four words.
So quiet they were almost swallowed by the music.
But Miles heard them loud and clear.
He looked at her, and she looked back at him.
The two of them stood in the middle of the dance floor as the crowd moved around them, the music playing, the crystal chandeliers glowing overhead.
“I will,” Miles said.
Starlight let go of his hand.
Miles turned and made his way through the crowd toward the elevators, keeping his pace steady.
He could feel Starlight’s gaze on his back—it wasn’t like Homelander’s.
Homelander’s gaze felt like needles pricking the back of his neck.
Starlight’s felt like a hand resting gently on his shoulder.
He reached the elevator lobby and pressed the up button.
The doors slid open.
He stepped inside and pressed the button for the 68th floor.
The moment the doors slid shut, he reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled something out—
A trash can lid.
Silver, circular, with slightly warped edges.
He had fished it out from behind a trash can in the banquet’s kitchen.
It wasn’t too big or too small, just the right size to cover his chest.
Vought Tower’s security system scanned for metallic weapons, but it wouldn’t flag a trash can lid.
Because it simply wasn’t a weapon.
Miles held the lid up in front of his face and looked at his reflection in the silver metal.
It was warped, stretching his face like a funhouse mirror.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
The elevator began its ascent.
The floor indicator numbers ticked up one by one.
35, 36, 37.
Miles took a deep breath.
He ran through his plan in his mind—Homelander was down at the gala and wouldn’t be able to slip away for at least another half-hour.
The 68th floor should only have a skeleton crew of security guards and cleaners right now.
He had already memorized the locations of the three security cameras.
His listening device was still planted under the desk.
He only needed ten minutes—get into the office, search the desk and the safe, and find any paper documents related to the White House.
38, 39, 40.
He remembered what Starlight had just said.
*Come back alive.*
He pressed the trash can lid tightly against his chest, its cold metal surface seeping through the fabric of his dress shirt.
41, 42, 43.
The elevator kept rising.
He closed his eyes.
*Come back alive.*
He didn’t know if he could keep that promise.