Miles Vance pushed himself up from the ground and spat out a mouthful of blood.
A few shattered teeth were mixed in with the crimson—but his healing factor was already at work, and the itch of new teeth budding from his gums made him want to scratch.
He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear of blood on his sleeve.
Black Noir stood his ground, making no move to pursue.
Miles stood up and brushed the dirt off his clothes.
His coat was torn, and there was a heavy footprint on his chest—Black Noir’s kick had packed a massive punch.
But his ribs had already mended.
His breathing had returned to normal.
He could feel his fractured bones fusing back together under the influence of the healing factor, a bizarre sensation of heat and itching.
“Bring it,” Miles said.
Black Noir tilted his head slightly.
The movement was subtle—as if he were studying him, evaluating him, looking at something he wasn’t quite sure how to handle.
Then, Black Noir raised a single finger and shook it from side to side.
—*You are no match for me.*
Miles understood.
He clenched his fists, and his bone claws slid out once more.
Black Noir didn’t move.
Miles lunged forward—his razor-sharp claws thrusting straight for Black Noir’s throat.
His speed was incredible; Wolverine’s explosive power allowed him to close the five-meter gap in an instant.
Black Noir sidestepped the strike, moving so quickly it looked like teleportation.
At the same time, he drove a fist into Miles’s ribs.
Miles went flying, slamming into the van and denting the door.
The metal shrieked under the impact, and the window glass shattered everywhere.
Yet he stood up again.
Black Noir raised his finger once more and shook it.
Miles panted.
He noticed something—on the edge of Black Noir’s neck, just where his armor met his skin, there was a small patch of discolored flesh.
It wasn’t the dark color of his tactical suit—it was a pale, irregular scar, about two centimeters long, lighter than the surrounding skin.
He memorized that spot.
Then, Black Noir turned and walked away.
No follow-up attack.
No finishing blow.
He simply—left.
He walked back to the SUV and climbed inside.
The door shut.
The five vehicles started up simultaneously, turned around, and vanished into the night.
Their red taillights faded into the distance until they were completely swallowed by the darkness.
Miles stood where he was, breathing heavily.
His fingers were still dripping blood—not his own, but the blood he had spit out earlier.
His healing factor had already mended the wounds inside his mouth.
Butcher’s voice crackled in his earpiece: “You alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Black Noir left?”
“Yeah.”
“Why the hell did he leave?”
Miles stared in the direction where Black Noir had disappeared.
Under the night sky, the headlights grew fainter and fainter until they were entirely gone.
The night wind blew past, carrying the scent of dirt and gasoline.
“I don’t know,” Miles said.
“But when he looked at me—it was like he recognized me.”
Butcher fell silent for a few seconds.
“Get in the truck. We’ll talk back at base.”
Miles climbed into the van.
Butcher hit the gas, and the vehicle sped away from Red River into the night.
The engine’s roar echoed down the deserted road.
Miles leaned back against the seat, clutching the backpack to his chest.
The experiment records inside were heavy, like a brick. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
He pressed his hand against the bag, feeling the thickness and stiffness of the paper.
He closed his eyes.
His mind was flooded with the images from earlier.
The deformed specimens in the vats—the winged rat, the two-headed puppy, the scaled human fetus.
The children on the operating tables—IV tubes in their arms, transparent liquid dripping into their bodies.
Black Noir’s tilted head.
Black Noir’s wagging finger.
And that pale scar on Black Noir’s neck.
It was an old wound.
Wolverine’s claws had only managed to leave shallow marks on Black Noir—what kind of attack could have left an old scar like that on him?
The van drove for an hour before pulling up to an abandoned warehouse.
The warehouse’s metal door was covered in rust.
Butcher cut the engine, the headlights died, and darkness enveloped them.
Miles followed Butcher inside.
Only a single hanging bulb illuminated the warehouse, casting a dim, yellow glow on the walls.
Mother’s Milk was already there, hunched over a laptop, the screen’s light reflecting off his face.
Frenchie leaned against a wall, smoking a cigarette, the cherry glowing in the dark.
Kimiko sat on an old sofa, hugging her knees, a cup of untouched tea sitting in front of her.
Miles placed his backpack on the table, unzipped it, and pulled out the experiment records stack by stack.
The rustle of paper sounded exceptionally loud in the quiet warehouse.
Seven volumes in total.
Each was over two hundred pages long.
The covers were plain kraft paper, stamped with the logo of the Red River Institute—a red “R” enclosed in a circle.
Mother’s Milk picked up the top volume and flipped to the first page.
His face slowly paled under the light, shifting from his normal complexion to a dull gray, and finally to a stark white.
His lips pressed into a tight line.
“What is it?” Butcher asked.
Mother’s Milk didn’t answer.
He kept flipping.
One page.
Two pages.
Ten pages.
His fingers were trembling.
The paper rustled softly in his hands.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“What the hell is it?” Butcher walked over.
Mother’s Milk slid the records toward him.
“See for yourself.”
Butcher looked down and read for a moment.
His expression didn’t change—but his grip on his beer bottle tightened.
His knuckles turned white.
The neck of the glass bottle let out a faint creaking sound.
Frenchie walked over and glanced down.
“Mon dieu.”
Kimiko said nothing.
She stood up, walked to the table, picked up one of the files, and flipped it open.
Her eyes scanned the text—then she shut the book and set it back on the table.
She turned, walked back to the sofa, sat down, and hugged her knees again.
Her movements were quiet, but every step was slow.
Miles picked up a volume and opened it.
The first page:
“Subject ID: R-001. Age at Injection: 4. Compound V Dosage: 5ml. Outcome: Subject suffered cardiac arrest 3 minutes and 27 seconds post-injection. Resuscitation failed. Cause of Death: Compound V anaphylactic shock.”
The second page:
“Subject ID: R-002. Age at Injection: 5. Compound V Dosage: 5ml. Outcome: Subject suffered severe convulsions post-injection, dying after 12 hours. Cause of Death: Irreversible nervous system damage.”
Third page.
Fourth page.
Fifth page.
Miles kept flipping.
His fingers traced the pages as he read line by line.
R-010, age 4, died 6 hours post-injection.
R-023, age 5, suffered organ failure and died 3 days later.
R-045, age 6, survived—Note: Ability unstable, died 3 months later due to loss of power control.
Every entry was neatly written.
It was as if the person writing the report was documenting a mundane laboratory test rather than the death of a child.
Miles flipped to the very last page.
ID: R-347.
Age at Injection: 6.
Compound V Dosage: 5ml.
Outcome—Survived.
He checked the date.
Ten years ago.
He kept reading.
Below R-347, there was a handwritten note:
“Subject R-347 exhibits excellent adaptation to abilities. Recommend transfer to hero training program. Codename: Nighthawk.”
Miles’s finger stopped on that line.
Nighthawk.
Ji-ho Park.
Mrs.
Park’s son.
Sent to Red River at age six.
Injected with Compound V.
Survived.
Recruited by Vought.
Ten years later—murdered by Homelander.
Miles closed the folder.
The kraft paper cover gleamed dully under the light.
The warehouse was dead silent.
Only the sound of Frenchie puffing on his cigarette broke the quiet, the cherry flaring in the dark.
The smoke drifted slowly up into the light like gray silk threads.
“Three hundred and forty-seven children,” Mother’s Milk said, his voice raspy.
“Only forty-one survived.”
“Forty-one?” Butcher said.
“Isn’t that twelve percent?”
“That’s just the number they release to the public,” Mother’s Milk said, flipping to the last page.
“The actual survival rate is eleven point eight percent. Close enough.”
Miles’s gaze fell on a specific file.
The ID didn’t start with an “R”—it started with an “S.”
“S-017.”
He picked up the file.
The paper was thinner than the others, its edges slightly yellowed.
There was no Red River Institute logo on the cover, only a handwritten ID—S-017.
“Subject S-017. Age at Injection: 4. Compound V Dosage: Unknown. Abilities: Unknown. Status: Transferred.”
Transferred where?
He flipped to the next page.
There was only a single handwritten line in the remarks column—”Transferred to the White House.
Special custody.”
Miles looked up.
Butcher stared at him.
“S-017 isn’t cargo. It’s a person.”
“A person who has been locked up in the White House since they were four years old.”
Miles’s phone buzzed.
He looked down—it was Starlight.
“Do you have time tomorrow? I want to see you.”
Sending a message at three in the morning meant she couldn’t sleep either.
Miles texted back a single word: “Okay.”