Eleven o’clock on Monday night.
The van sat parked at the intersection east of Red River.
Its headlights were switched off, though the engine still vibrated with a low hum.
Butcher sat in the driver’s seat, holding a shotgun as he stared at the white building in the distance.
“Twelve security guards,” he said, his voice dropping to a low whisper.
“Roughly forty kids. The target is the lab on the second basement level. All the experiment records are kept there.”
Miles Vance sat in the passenger seat, wearing a pair of black gloves—underneath which lay Wolverine’s bone claws.
He stared at the Red River Institute through the windshield.
The building was even larger than it had appeared in the photographs.
The iron fence was wrapped with barbed wire, and security cameras with blinking red indicator lights sat mounted above the main gate.
“Grab the experiment records and we go,” Butcher said.
“Don’t get bogged down in a fight.”
“Got it.”
Miles pushed the car door open and jumped down.
The night wind was chilly, making his coat rustle loudly.
He stood by the roadside, flexing his fingers.
The bone claws slid out from between his knuckles—puncturing the gloves and gleaming with a cold light under the moon.
Butcher leaned his head out of the car window.
“You bloody well better make it back alive.”
Miles didn’t look back.
He walked toward the iron fence of the Red River Institute.
The iron fence was about three meters high, topped with coiled barbed wire.
But Wolverine’s sharp claws sliced through the wire as if it were butter.
Miles gripped two of the iron bars and swiped his bone claws horizontally—the bars severed instantly.
With two more quick slashes, he carved out a hole large enough to crawl through.
As he squeezed through, the jagged edges of the cut metal tore his gloves.
However, his healing factor closed the scratches on his skin within seconds.
The institute’s courtyard was empty.
A white van sat parked in a corner.
The main building was a three-story structure with curtains drawn over every window; only two windows on the second floor were lit.
Miles crept forward, pressing himself against the base of the wall.
His footsteps were virtually silent—Wolverine had given him not only claws and self-healing, but also heightened senses.
He could hear the sounds coming from inside the main building—people speaking, machinery running, and…
crying.
As he rounded a corner, two patrolling guards approached from the opposite direction.
One was tall, the other short.
The tall one held a flashlight, sweeping the beam across the ground, while the short one yawned.
Miles didn’t hesitate.
Wolverine’s speed—not so fast as to be invisible like the Flash, but quick enough to close the distance before they could react—carried him right in front of them.
He didn’t extend his claws; instead, he used his fists.
A single punch caught the tall guard in the temple, sending his eyes rolling back as he slumped to the ground.
Before the short one could even open his mouth, Miles’s hand struck him like a blade across the back of his neck.
Two muffled thuds.
Both men collapsed.
Miles crouched down and checked their pulses—both were still alive.
He dragged them into the shadow of the wall, tore off the tall guard’s tie, and bound their hands together.
Butcher’s voice crackled through his earpiece: “You didn’t bloody kill them? They’re going to call the cops the moment they wake up.”
Miles replied, “They’re just working a job. Not the masterminds.”
He stood up and continued forward.
The crying wasn’t out of fear.
It was the sound of agony.
The back door of the main building was a metal door secured with an electronic lock.
Miles glanced at it—an older model, a four-digit combination.
He pressed his ear against the door and turned the dial.
*Click.
Click.
Click.* The techniques Batman had taught him were still in his mind—though his abilities were gone, the memories remained.
After the fourth click, the lock popped open.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint green glow of emergency exit signs.
The air smelled of disinfectant—not the clean kind found in hospitals, but a stale, musty odor mixed with rust.
Rooms lined both sides of the hallway, their doors marked with labels: “Observation Room A,” “Observation Room B,” “Storage Room,” “Laboratory 1.”
Miles walked to the door of Laboratory 1 and peered inside through the small window.
His stomach churned.
Three operating tables sat in the lab.
A child—seemingly no older than ten—was strapped to each table.
IV tubes were inserted into their arms, and a transparent liquid dripped from bags down the lines and into their bodies.
A researcher in a white lab coat stood nearby, clipboard in hand, jotting down notes.
Miles’s bone claws slid out.
It wasn’t an intentional act—it was a visceral bodily reflex.
Anger had forced his claws to deploy on their own.
Taking a deep breath, he retracted them.
He couldn’t afford to alert the facility.
His target was the second basement level.
He kept moving forward.
At the end of the hallway was a stairwell.
He pushed the door open and headed down.
The air on the second basement level was even colder, and the lights were brighter.
Metal walls lined the hallway, and fluorescent lights buzzed every few meters.
A heavy metal door stood at the end of the corridor.
Written on it were the words: “Core Laboratory. Unauthorized Personnel Strictly Prohibited.”
Miles approached the door.
It was locked—an electronic lock far more complex than the one on the back door.
But he didn’t need a passcode.
The bone claws slid out.
He sliced a hole through the metal door, reached his hand inside, and unlocked it from the other side.
The door swung open.
The Core Laboratory was larger than he had expected.
Spanning roughly two hundred square meters, it was packed with various equipment—centrifuges, microscopes, refrigeration units, and three massive glass incubation vats.
The vats were filled with a pale yellow liquid, and floating inside…
Miles took a step closer.
The vats contained deformed biological specimens.
One vat held a rat with wings—wings that sprouted from its shoulder blades, stretching about thirty centimeters.
Another vat held a two-headed puppy—both heads had their eyes closed, as if sleeping.
In the third vat—was a human fetus.
It looked to be about five or six months old.
Its arms were covered in scales.
Miles’s stomach turned.
He averted his gaze, forcing himself not to look.
Then, he heard footsteps.
Three people in white lab coats emerged from the depths of the laboratory.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Miles didn’t answer.
The balding researcher’s gaze fell upon the bone claws on Miles’s hands.
His expression shifted instantly.
He reached out to press the alarm on the wall.
Miles moved.
Wolverine’s speed—not so fast as to be invisible like the Flash, but quick enough to reach the man before his hand could touch the alarm.
His bone claws swiped across—the alarm was sliced in two, sending sparks flying.
The three researchers collapsed to the floor in sheer terror.
“Where are the Compound V experiment records?” Miles demanded.
The balding researcher pointed toward a waist-high steel safe in the corner.
Miles walked over.
The safe was made of steel, its walls at least two centimeters thick.
He drove his bone claws into it—metal shrieked in protest.
He sliced a circle around the edge and gave a hard wrench.
The safe door fell to the floor with a heavy thud.
Inside lay a thick stack of manila folders.
On the cover of the topmost folder was written: “Red River Institute Experiment Records – Volume 1, 1986-2006.”
Miles grabbed the stack of documents and flipped through a few pages.
Every page detailed a subject—their ID number, age, injected dosage, survival time, and cause of death.
The earliest records dated back twenty years.
Butcher’s voice crackled in his earpiece: “Five cars just pulled up outside. Vought’s. Get the hell out of there.”
Miles stuffed the experiment records into his backpack and zipped it shut.
He turned to glance at the three researchers—they were still paralyzed on the floor, their faces pale as sheets.
He turned and bolted.
As he burst through the main exit, five black SUVs had already blocked the entrance.
Their headlights blared, blinding him.
A car door opened.
A figure stepped down.
He wore full black tactical armor.
A featureless mask.
Two white eye lenses gleamed in the glare of the headlights.
Black Noir.
Miles’s bone claws slid out once more.
Black Noir said nothing.
He stood there like a wall of solid black.
And then, he moved.
He was fast—inhumanly fast.
Miles didn’t even see how he moved—he only felt a massive force slam into his face.
He flew backward, crashing through three trees before finally coming to a halt.
He lay prone on the ground, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
A few shattered teeth were mixed in with the blood.
But his healing factor was working furiously.
His broken ribs snapped back into place within seconds.
New teeth sprouted from his gums to replace the shattered ones.
He pushed himself up off the ground.
Black Noir stood before him, barely five meters away.
Miles wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and smirked.
“Is that all?”