The phone buzzed.
Less than three minutes after Miles Vance stepped out of the archives, the burner phone in his pants pocket vibrated like a death knell.
He pulled it out—it was The Deep’s number.
The text was only a single line:
“Atlantis base, save me! He’s going to kill me—”
The timestamp was thirty seconds ago.
Miles’s blood instantly ran cold.
He checked the time.
Driving from here to the Atlantis base would take forty minutes.
A cab would take an hour.
Not enough.
Absolutely not enough.
He ducked into the stairwell and shut the door behind him.
There was no one around.
“Dammit… Dammit…”
Miles grit his teeth and pulled that speed line out of his body.
The next second—
A loud crack exploded through the air in the stairwell.
His feet shattered three concrete steps, the sound of the crumbling concrete left far behind.
Flash-level speed.
This was a new ability he had rolled last week.
He hadn’t fully adapted to it yet.
Every time he activated it, the entire world slowed down, turning into a frame-by-frame old movie.
The sound of the wind froze beside his ears.
He burst through the back door of Vought Tower and sprinted down the street.
The traffic on the street stood frozen in place like statues.
A kid on a bicycle was suspended mid-tilt, his front wheel a foot off the ground.
Miles veered around him, vaulted over a taxi stopped at an intersection, and as his feet dug in to propel him forward, the asphalt beneath him shattered into a shallow crater.
Fifteen seconds.
He counted in his head.
The straight-line distance from here to the Atlantis base by the sea was eleven kilometers.
Twenty seconds.
He had already crossed the Third District.
Thirty seconds.
The scent of the sea breeze whipped into his nose.
Miles caught sight of the glass-and-steel dome—the ground entrance to the Atlantis underwater base.
Forty seconds.
He skidded to a halt at the entrance.
The security guard at the door was looking down at his phone, completely oblivious to his arrival.
In the guard’s perspective, nothing but a sudden gust of wind had passed by.
Miles pushed the door open and rushed inside.
The corridors were long.
Following the route The Deep had sent him, he flew down three flights of stairs and sprinted through a damp hallway.
Fifty seconds.
He saw the door.
On it was written: *The Deep – Private Area*.
The door was slightly ajar.
Miles slammed the door open—
And then he froze.
The room was dead silent.
The lights in the aquarium tanks were still on, casting blue watery ripples that danced across the ceiling.
A faint metallic tang of blood hung in the air.
The Deep lay on the floor.
There was a fist-sized hole in his chest.
The edges were charred from high-temperature heat, with blackened flesh curling outward.
The blood had already run dry, pooling into a dark crimson sheet across the floor.
His eyes were still wide open.
His mouth was agape, as if his final words had caught in his throat before he had a chance to say them.
Miles stood at the doorway.
One second.
Two seconds.
His breathing was heavy.
“You’re late.”
A voice drifted from the depths of the room.
Miles looked up.
Homelander stood at the other end of the room with his back to the aquarium, holding a white handkerchief.
He was wiping his hands.
Finger by finger.
From index to pinky, he wiped each one meticulously.
The handkerchief was stained with blood, so he folded it inward, exposing a clean section to continue wiping.
“I told him so many times,” Homelander said casually, as if making small talk about the weather.
“Don’t send messages to outsiders. He just wouldn’t listen.”
Miles didn’t say a word.
The edges were perfectly neat.
A single, fatal blast of heat vision.
He hadn’t even had time to struggle.
“Do you know how he begged for mercy?” Homelander tilted his head.
“He cried like a little bitch.”
Miles’s fingers clenched.
His nails dug deep into his palms.
But he didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
He glanced at The Deep’s right hand.
The hand was pinned beneath his body, trapped.
But just past his fingertips was a faint scratch carved into the floor.
It was words.
Carved with the last of The Deep’s strength before he died.
Miles’s pupils contracted.
He made sure Homelander didn’t notice him looking at the floor.
He drew his gaze back, straightened up, and looked Homelander in the eye.
“You’re right.”
Miles’s voice was dead flat.
“That’s another one.”
Homelander paused in wiping his hands.
He looked at Miles as if looking at an amusing toy.
“What, do you want to avenge him?”
“No,” Miles said.
“I’m just keeping score.”
Homelander smiled.
He tossed the blood-stained handkerchief onto the floor and walked toward the exit.
As he passed Miles, he paused.
“Next time,” he said, “you’d better not show up in front of me.”
Then he walked out.
His footsteps gradually faded down the hallway.
Miles stood in the room, motionless for a long time.
In the aquarium, a fish bumped against the glass with a soft thud.
He knelt down.
Right beside The Deep.
This was the first time he had seen a corpse from this close.
No.
This was the first time he had seen someone he actually knew lying dead right in front of him.
Yesterday, The Deep had still been at the dining table complaining to them about the Vought cafeteria.
Today, he lay here with a hole in his chest and eyes wide open.
Miles reached out and gently closed The Deep’s eyelids.
Three seconds.
They shut.
“You were right,” Miles whispered.
His voice was so quiet only he could hear it.
“You weren’t a coward.”
He stood up and looked down at the words carved on the floor.
The letters had been scratched out with fingernails.
The blood had dried, but the strokes were clear.
“Waterproof case under third reservoir, code 0704.”
Miles read it twice, committing it to memory.
He turned and walked toward the water tanks on the other side of the room.
The third reservoir.
It was tucked in a corner.
The hatch wasn’t locked.
He pulled it open, revealing a pitch-black water channel below.
He took a deep breath and dove in.
The water was freezing.
Miles opened his eyes and swam downward.
Visibility was poor, with only a few underwater lamps casting a sickly white glow.
He swam deeper.
It grew darker and darker.
About ten meters down, there was a concrete platform at the bottom.
Several crates were stacked on top of it.
Miles swam over.
His flashlight beam swept back and forth through the water.
He rummaged through one crate—not it.
Another—not it.
The third one.
It was a black waterproof case with an electronic lock, smaller than the others.
His heart leaped into his throat.
What if it was empty?
What if the code was wrong?
What if Homelander had already taken it?
He steadied his nerves.
0704.
Beep.
The lock clicked open.
Miles pulled open the case.
Inside was a waterproof document pouch.
It was thick.
He unsealed the pouch and shone his flashlight inside.
On the very first document, there was a signature.
Stan Edgar.
Miles’s eyes lit up.
He quickly flipped through them—it was all there.
Every bit of it was Vought’s internal black ledger.
Funding supervillains.
Staging “accidents”.
Covering up the truth behind shipwrecks.
Destroying experimental records.
Every single page bore Edgar’s signature.
Miles clutched the document pouch to his chest, zipped up the waterproof seal, and kicked his legs to swim back up.
When he broke the surface, he gasped for air.
His chest burned with the taste of saltwater.
He placed the document pouch on the floor and sat down.
Three seconds of silence.
Then he laughed.
Not a happy laugh.
It was a dark, cynical “Holy shit, this is enough to destroy Edgar” kind of laugh.
“Deep…” he muttered, “you really came through.”
His phone rang.
Butcher.
Miles picked up.
“What’s the situation on your end?”
“The Deep’s dead,” Miles said.
Silence fell on the other end of the line.
“Homelander killed him. Right in front of me.”
Another long pause.
Butcher’s voice was incredibly low.
“The Deep was a piece of shit. But he shouldn’t have gone out like a dog.”
“He didn’t die for nothing.”
Miles looked down at the document pouch in his hand.
“I got Vought’s black ledger that The Deep hid. Signed originals by Edgar.”
Miles heard Butcher take a deep, sharp breath over the line.
“Does it carry weight?”
“Enough to bring down the entire Vought board of directors.”
Butcher fell silent for three seconds.
“Good lad.”
“And one more thing,” Miles said.
“Speak.”
“From today on, this isn’t just a mission.”
Miles stared at the pool of blood on the floor, which had yet to dry.
“This is a debt.”
Butcher didn’t speak.
After a long while, he said in a gravelly voice,
“Add mine to the tab.”
The call disconnected.
Miles sat on the floor.
He pulled out his personal phone and opened the chat with Mrs.
Park.
He typed: “The Deep is dead.”
He deleted it.
He typed again: “Are you free tonight?”
Deleted.
Then: “It’s nothing, get some rest.”
Deleted.
He stared at the chat window for a long time.
Then he slipped his phone back into his pocket.
He stood up.
Picked up the document pouch.
And walked out of the Atlantis base.
Outside, darkness was falling.
The sea breeze blew hard.
Miles turned back to glance at the brightly lit glass dome.
“Deep,” he said.
“I’m keeping your tab.”