The 68th floor.
When the elevator doors opened, the corridor was empty.
The low hum of the air conditioning drifted down from the ceiling, making it feel like a completely different world from the noisy gala downstairs.
Miles walked out, the trash can lid pressed against his chest, concealed beneath the inner lining of his suit jacket.
His steps were incredibly light—not because he was consciously trying to quiet them, but because Batman’s abilities were automatically taking control.
With each step, his feet landed outer-edge first then inner, rolling silently across the thickest parts of the carpet.
At the end of the corridor was a white door.
There was no room number, no sign.
It was just an ordinary white wooden door, identical to the other office doors on this floor.
If he hadn’t heard Homelander mention “come in through the white door” on his wiretap, he would never have noticed anything special about it.
Miles reached out and took the doorknob.
It was unlocked.
He pushed the door open, slipped inside, and quietly shut it behind him.
*Click.* The sound of the latch catching echoed in the silent hallway like a gunshot.
He held his breath and waited five seconds.
No one came.
He turned around.
The living room was absurdly large.
The ceiling was at least five meters high, with a crystal chandelier hanging down like an inverted iceberg.
Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned an entire wall, offering a sweeping view of Manhattan—the Empire State Building, the faint glow of the Statue of Liberty, and the scattered lights of boats on the distant Hudson River.
The furniture was made of dark solid wood, the sofa was white, and on the coffee table sat an open magazine—*Vought Weekly*, with Homelander’s face on the cover.
Miles quickly scanned the space.
A living room, an open kitchen, and a hallway leading to a bedroom—this was a penthouse apartment, not an office.
Homelander had converted this entire floor into his private residence.
His eyes fell on the second door at the end of the hallway.
The study.
Miles walked over and pushed it open.
The study was smaller than the living room, but still ridiculously spacious.
Bookshelves lined three of the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling, packed with books.
But Miles noticed something—many of the book spines were brand new, without a single crease from being read.
Some hadn’t even been unwrapped from their plastic shrink-wrap.
All for show.
Moving his gaze away from the bookshelves, he began to scan the room.
Batman’s detective skills kicked in automatically—locate the safe.
Not an obvious safe, but the place where a safe *ought* to be hidden.
Behind the bookshelves?
He tapped the wall—solid.
Under the floorboards?
He squatted and tapped twice—also solid.
Behind the painting?
A large oil painting hung on the wall, depicting Homelander standing atop a mountain peak, his cape billowing in the wind.
Miles walked over and lifted it—
No safe.
He stepped back, re-evaluating the room.
The desk, the lamp, the leather chair, the bookshelves, the painting, the carpet, the potted plant…
The potted plant.
In the corner stood a massive Monstera plant, its leaves as large as washbasins.
It sat in a white ceramic pot that was at least half a meter in diameter.
Miles walked over and tried to push the pot.
It didn’t budge.
He squatted down and ran his fingers along the base of the pot—he felt metal.
He pulled the pot aside.
Thanks to Captain America’s strength, the heavy pot was nothing to him.
The Monstera’s leaves brushed against the ceiling with a dry rustling sound.
A hidden compartment.
Miles lifted the metal plate.
Beneath it lay a safe.
It was gray, embedded in the floor with only its top face exposed.
It had a rotary combination dial requiring four numbers.
He reached out, grabbed the dial, and tried to wrench it with raw force.
With Captain America’s strength, the safe’s door groaned and deformed slightly, but it didn’t budge further.
High-strength alloy—brute force alone wouldn’t crack it.
He let go and flexed his fingers.
Hearing it is, then.
Miles pressed his ear against the safe door, his fingers gently spinning the dial.
One rotation, two, three—calibration.
Then he began to turn it clockwise, listening intently to the sound of the tumblers falling inside with every increment.
*Click.*
The first number—14.
He took a deep breath and spun it counterclockwise.
*Click.*
The second number—27.
His hands were steady.
His heartbeat was steady.
Batman’s training helped him control his heart rate, regulate his breathing, and eliminate even the slightest tremor in his fingers.
Clockwise.
*Click.*
The third number—8.
Counterclockwise.
*Click.*
The fourth number—33.
Miles opened his eyes, gripped the handle, and pressed down.
The safe opened.
He checked his watch—four minutes and seven seconds.
Inside the safe was a stack of documents.
White A4 sheets without any Vought logo.
Each page consisted of a single form: *Compound V Special Orders*.
Order number, product quantity, recipient, and remarks.
Miles picked up the top sheet.
Order Number: S-017-004.
Quantity: 50 vials.
Recipient: None.
Remarks: Stan Edgar.
He flipped to the second sheet.
S-017-007.
75 vials.
Recipient: None.
Remarks: Stan Edgar.
The third sheet.
S-017-012.
100 vials.
Recipient: None.
Remarks: Stan Edgar.
Miles flipped through them one by one.
Every single sheet listed the recipient as “None,” and every single remarks section bore the exact same name—Stan Edgar.
Stan Edgar.
The CEO of Vought.
The man at the helm of the entire Vought empire.
The old man who always wore a polished smile and spoke flawlessly at press conferences.
The man who famously claimed that Vought didn’t need superheroes—Vought needed a brand.
Miles pulled out his phone and took photos page by page.
His hands were perfectly steady, ensuring every shot was crystal clear.
The sound of the shutter was exceptionally distinct in the quiet study—*click, click, click*.
He took twenty-three photos in total.
He placed the documents back into the safe, closed the door, and spun the dial to scramble the combination.
Then he pushed the ceramic pot back into its original position.
The Monstera’s leaves swayed briefly before settling back into silence.
Just as he stood up—
Footsteps echoed from outside.
They weren’t in the corridor, but inside the living room.
The footsteps were heavy and firm.
This wasn’t the gait of a security guard—no guard walked with that much confidence.
Miles’s pupils dilated.
Homelander.
He quickly scanned the study—there were no windows.
The only way out was the door leading back to the living room.
He listened to the direction of the footsteps—they were in the center of the living room, heading straight for the study.
There was no time to escape.
With a quick roll, Miles slipped behind the sofa.
It was a high-backed, dark brown leather sofa, just large enough to conceal a person.
He curled into the gap between the sofa and the wall, holding the trash can lid over his chest, and held his breath.
The footsteps drew closer.
The door opened.
The study light was switched on with a sharp *click*, pouring light from overhead.
Then, silence.
*Thump, thump, thump.* Miles could hear his own heartbeat.
He tried to suppress it using Batman’s techniques, but this time, he couldn’t keep it down.
Homelander stood in the center of the room.
Silence.
Those few seconds dragged on like an eternity.
Every single nerve in Miles’s body was taut, his fingers gripping the edge of the trash can lid so tightly that the sharp metal bit into his palm.
Then, Homelander spoke.
“My friend behind the sofa, are you going to come out on your own, or should I throw you and the couch out the window from the sixty-eighth floor?”
Miles’s fingers tightened on the edge of the lid, then slowly relaxed.
He stood up.
He stepped out from behind the sofa, still holding the silver trash can lid—holding it right in front of his chest.
He knew it was stupid.
A trash can lid couldn’t stop Homelander’s heat vision.
But it was the only thing he had.
Homelander looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
“The intern?”
Miles said nothing.
Homelander stared at the trash can lid in his hands, the corners of his mouth slowly curling up.
It wasn’t an angry smirk, but a look of pure amusement.
“You brought a trash can lid to rob me?”
Miles lowered the lid.
“Trash can lids are actually pretty handy,” he said.
“Lightweight, environmentally friendly.”
Homelander stared at him for two seconds.
Then—he laughed.
It wasn’t his usual fake smile; he actually burst into laughter.
The sound echoed through the study, carrying a tone of disbelief.
“You’re pretty fucking interesting!” Homelander said.