The door of the abandoned warehouse opened with a creak.
Miles Vance walked in, greeted by a musty, damp odor.
Only a single hanging bulb illuminated the warehouse, casting a dim, yellow glow on the wall.
The entire surface was covered in photos of Vought’s heroes, connected by a chaotic web of red string like a giant spiderweb.
Butcher stood in front of the wall, a bottle of beer in his hand, not turning around.
“You’re here.”
“Yeah.”
Miles closed the door and walked over to the table.
Mother’s Milk sat in the corner, a stack of files spread out in front of him.
Frenchie leaned against the wall smoking, the tip of his cigarette glowing and fading in the dim light.
Kimiko sat on an old sofa clutching her knees, an untouched cup of tea resting in front of her.
Butcher turned around, pointing his beer bottle at the photos on the wall.
“The Deep is dead.”
“I know.”
“Do you know what that means?” Butcher looked at him.
“Homelander is cleaning house. The Deep took the fall for him. Who do you think is next?”
Miles didn’t say anything.
He walked up to the wall, studying the photos.
Homelander’s picture was right in the center, surrounded by the other members of The Seven—Maeve, Starlight, Black Noir, The Deep (now crossed out), and A-Train.
Further out were Vought’s other contracted heroes, dozens of faces packed tightly together.
The red lines radiated from Homelander’s photo to every single picture, linking everyone together like blood vessels.
Mother’s Milk looked up from his stack of files.
“We tracked the next stop for the Compound V.”
He slid a photo over.
It showed a white building surrounded by high iron fences, with a sign on the gate: “Red River Child Psychological Rehabilitation Center.”
“The Red River Institute,” Mother’s Milk said.
“On the surface, it’s a child psychological rehab center.”
Frenchie flicked his cigarette ash.
“In reality, it’s a Compound V experimentation base for children.”
Miles froze.
He stared at the photograph, his fingers halting on the edge of the table.
“Children?”
“Yeah.” Butcher walked up to him.
“They inject kids with Compound V. Four, five, six years old—the younger, the better. Kids have highly adaptable bodies, so their survival rate is higher.”
Miles felt his stomach churn.
He thought of Mrs.
Park.
He thought of the letter from her son, Nighthawk: *”Mom, if anything ever happens to me, don’t trust Vought.”*
“What’s the survival rate?”
Mother’s Milk flipped a page in his file.
“Over the past twenty years, more than three hundred children. The survival rate is twelve percent.”
Miles dug his fingernails into his palms.
Three hundred children.
Twelve percent survived.
The other two hundred and sixty-plus—dead.
“We’re going to tear it down,” Butcher said.
Miles raised his eyes.
“How?”
Butcher pointed to a blueprint of the Red River Institute pinned to the wall.
“Twelve armed guards. About forty kids. Our target is the laboratory on the second basement level. All the experimental records are kept there.”
“If we get those records, we can prove Vought is conducting human experimentation on children,” Mother’s Milk added.
“It’s the ironclad evidence we need to bring them down.”
Miles’s gaze fell upon the blueprint.
B2.
The lab.
The experimental records.
“When do we move?”
“Monday night,” Butcher said.
“Vought’s security system goes through a routine upgrade over the weekend, so Monday night is our window.”
Miles nodded.
Butcher looked at him.
“Are you sure you want in on this?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’re a fucking intern who’s never even touched a gun. You sure?”
Miles looked Butcher straight in the eye.
“I have my ways.”
Butcher stared back at him for a few seconds.
Then he smiled—not a friendly smile, but a “you’re a crazy bastard, I like you” kind of grin.
“Fine. I won’t ask how.”
“Don’t.” Butcher took a sip of his beer.
“Everyone has their secrets. As long as yours help us tear Homelander a new one, I don’t care.”
Miles didn’t say anything.
He stepped up to the wall, looking at the red lines.
“What are these strings?”
“The network,” Mother’s Milk said.
“Homelander controls everyone through Compound V. If you don’t fall in line, he cuts off your supply.”
Miles’s eyes followed the red strings.
They really did look like blood vessels, linking everyone together.
And Compound V was the blood flowing through them.
“Is the Red River Institute the source?”
“It’s one of them,” Frenchie said.
“The largest production facility is under Vought Headquarters. But Red River was the earliest—they started experimenting there twenty years ago.”
Miles turned around.
“Nighthawk—Ji-ho Park—did he come from Red River?”
Mother’s Milk flipped another page.
“Ji-ho Park, codename Nighthawk. Vought’s official records show he joined the hero training program at age eighteen. But our intel says he was sent to Red River when he was six.”
Miles’s breath caught for a second.
Six years old.
He pictured Mrs. Follow the newest chapters on novelping.com.
Park tucking his bedsheets.
He remembered the light in her eyes when she said, *”My son used to be just like you.”* He remembered that yellowing letter: *”Mom, if anything ever happens to me, don’t trust Vought.”*
She had waited ten years.
She had no idea her son had been sent to that hell when he was only six.
“Can I have a copy of these files?”
Mother’s Milk glanced at Butcher.
Butcher nodded.
Mother’s Milk pulled a folder from the stack and slid it over to Miles.
Miles took it but didn’t open it.
He tucked it under his arm.
“What time on Monday?”
“Eleven PM,” Butcher said.
“I’ll wait for you at the intersection east of Red River. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
Miles turned and walked toward the door.
“Kid,” Butcher called out.
Miles stopped, but didn’t look back.
“Red River isn’t a convenience store. There are armed guards. Cameras. Alarm systems. You make damn sure you come out of there alive.”
Miles glanced back over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry. I’m hard to kill.”
He pushed open the door and stepped outside.
It was raining.
A typical New York night rain—not heavy, but dense.
Miles stood in the rain without an umbrella.
The water ran down his hair, dripping from his jawline onto the pavement.
He looked down at the folder in his hand.
Six years old.
He clenched his fingers, nearly tearing through the paper.
Rain hit the cover, leaving dark, spreading watermarks.
He thought of the herbal tea Mrs.
Park had brewed for him.
He remembered her voice when she said, *”You’re a good person.”* He remembered her hunched back as she made his bed.
He owed her justice.
But those kids—the ones still trapped inside Red River right now—couldn’t wait ten years.
Miles looked up.
Rain beat down on his face, running into his eyes.
He didn’t wipe it away.
He pulled out his phone and sent a message to Starlight: “Don’t look for me Monday night.”
A moment later, Starlight replied with a single word: “Okay.”
She didn’t ask why.
She didn’t press him.
She understood.
Miles shoved his phone back into his pocket and walked into the rain.
The raindrops fell like glowing threads under the streetlights as his figure passed through the light and vanished into the darkness beyond.