The next afternoon, Miles Vance ran into Black Noir in the hallway of Vought Tower.
It wasn’t a chance meeting.
Black Noir stood at the end of the hallway like a black sculpture.
Hands clasped behind his back, he faced the window, looking out at the city.
The afternoon sun streamed through the glass, casting a faint halo over his black armor.
Miles’s pace slowed.
There was no one else in the hallway.
It was lunchtime, and most people had gone out to eat.
The hum of the fluorescent lights vibrated in the air, casting a cold white glare on the tiled floor.
A faint scent of disinfectant lingered—the cleaning lady had just mopped.
Miles hesitated for two seconds.
Then he kept walking.
His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, each stride steady and deliberate.
He paused briefly as he passed Black Noir.
Black Noir didn’t turn his head.
Miles didn’t turn his, either.
But he spoke—his voice kept low, audible only to the two of them.
“That scar on your neck—who left it?”
Black Noir didn’t answer.
There was no reaction at all.
He stood there like a real statue.
Miles continued forward.
He didn’t look back, but he could feel Black Noir’s gaze boring into his spine—like a needle pricking his skin.
The sensation of being watched made the muscles in his back tense involuntarily.
He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the forty-eighth floor.
The moment the elevator doors slid shut, he leaned against the wall and let out a long, slow breath.
His back was slick with cold sweat.
His shirt clung to his skin, ice-cold.
That night, he sat in his apartment, flipping through the experimental records he had brought back from the Red River Institute.
The desk lamp illuminated the pages, casting a warm glow on the neat, printed font of the yellowed paper.
He found the page for S-017 and read it carefully.
[Subject S-017. Age at injection: 4 years old. Compound V dosage: Unknown. Ability: Unknown. Status: Transferred to the White House. Special custody.]
He flipped to the next page.
Blank.
He turned another.
Still blank.
In the entire logbook, this was the only page that mentioned S-017.
There were no follow-up records.
No description of abilities.
No experimental results.
No photos.
Nothing that could identify who this person was.
It was as if they didn’t exist.
Miles closed the logbook and leaned back.
The chair creaked under his weight.
He stared at the ceiling, his mind racing.
The old scar on Black Noir’s neck flashed through his mind again.
What kind of attack could leave a scar on Black Noir?
Homelander’s heat vision?
Some unknown power?
Or…
S-017?
He picked up his phone and sent a message to Butcher: “Is there anything else on S-017 besides that one page in the records?”
Miles stared at the screen.
Completely wiped.
In Vought, only one person had the power to do that—Stan Edgar.
Images of the files in the White House safe flashed through his mind.
The recipient on every special order was listed as “None,” but one name appeared repeatedly in the remarks column—Stan Edgar.
He had taken photos of those documents and saved them on his phone.
He opened his gallery, scrolled to the photos, and went through them one by one.
Edgar knew what S-017 was.
Edgar knew where S-017 was.
Edgar…
was the only one who might know the truth about S-017.
Miles put down his phone and lay down.
The springs of the folding bed creaked.
The crack in the ceiling was still there.
Headlights from the street swept across it like slow-motion lightning.
He stared at the crack, his mind a jumble of fragments—Black Noir’s scar, the painting in the White House, S-017’s record, Stan Edgar’s name.
He closed his eyes.
The memory of Black Noir tilting his head came to mind.
That gesture hadn’t been a threat.
It was…
curiosity.
Black Noir was curious about who he was.
Miles opened his eyes.
Black Noir recognized him.
Not as “Miles Vance,” but he recognized something inside him.
Something similar to S-017.
He looked down at his hands.
Wolverine’s abilities were still there.
The bone claws stirred between his knuckles, ready to burst out at a moment’s notice.
He clenched his fists, his joints popping softly.
He recalled the single finger Black Noir had raised.
*You’re no match for me.*
Yet, Black Noir hadn’t killed him.
Why?
Miles sat up.
He unlocked his phone and pulled up a photo—one he had taken of the White House’s interior during the gala.
It showed a wall with a painting hanging on it.
The painting depicted a woman holding a child, standing in a wash of light.
The frame was gilded and looked expensive.
He hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time.
Back then, he had been too busy searching for the safe to care about wall decorations.
Looking at it now, though…
the child’s eyes were black.
Completely black.
No whites at all.
Miles zoomed in.
The resolution wasn’t high enough, so it blurred when enlarged, but he could still make out the detail—the child’s eyes were indeed pitch-black, like two black glass beads.
Pitch-black eyes.
He recalled S-017’s record: “Ability: Unknown.”
He set the phone aside.
Outside, dawn was approaching.
A faint, pale gray washed over the eastern horizon.
The streetlights were still on, but their glow had begun to dim.
He had one more thing to do that night—go meet Starlight.
He stood up and locked the logbook away in a drawer.
The desk lamp was already off, leaving the room in a dim hush.
Outside, the New York skyline gradually sharpened in the morning light—the silhouettes of skyscrapers emerging from the darkness like a developing photograph.
He walked to the window and looked down at the city.
A few early risers were already moving along the streets.
A paperboy rode his bicycle through the block, a stack of newspapers piled high in his basket.
A stray dog scrounged for food near a trash can, its tail drooping.
He recalled that raised finger again.
*You’re no match for me.*
Yet Black Noir hadn’t killed him.
And Black Noir was entirely capable of doing so.
The punch back at the Red River Institute had already proven that Black Noir’s strength was at least on par with Captain America’s.
If Black Noir had wanted him dead, that punch wouldn’t have missed.
If he wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have just raised a single finger in the hallway.
Black Noir was hesitating.
Or rather…
he was waiting.
Waiting for what?
Miles didn’t know.
But he knew one thing—Black Noir recognized something inside him.
Something connected to Zero.
Connected to S-017.
Connected to Stan Edgar.
He looked down at his hands.
Wolverine’s power was still there.
The bone claws slept beneath his skin—ready to be awakened at his command.
It was a strange feeling, like hosting a beast inside his body.
Usually, it curled up quietly, but at a single word from him, it would roar and tear its way out.
He unclenched his fists.
Now was not the time.
First, he needed to see Starlight.
She had texted him yesterday saying she had something important to tell him—about how she had joined The Seven, the things she had been forced to do, and the secret she had kept locked in her heart for three years.
He picked up his phone and checked the time.
5:40 AM.
Still a few hours before their meeting.
He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes.
But sleep eluded him.
His mind was filled with Black Noir’s head tilt—not a threat, but curiosity.
Black Noir was curious about who he was.
He rolled over.
The crack in the ceiling was barely visible in the dim light.
He thought of the painting in the White House—the woman holding the child in the wash of light.
The child’s pitch-black eyes.
Black eyes.
Just like Zero’s.
Just like S-017’s.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
What was the connection between Black Noir and Zero?