In Brooklyn, at the far end of an alley, sat a small diner.
Miles Vance dipped a fry into some ketchup and popped it into his mouth.
Starlight sat across from him.
Her hair was tied up, and she wore a plain gray hoodie.
“Is it good?” she asked.
“Better than the Vought restaurant.”
“A steak at the Vought restaurant costs three hundred dollars.”
“That’s why I said this is better.”
“You’re not serious, are you?”
“Dead serious.”
“A three-hundred-dollar steak can’t beat a six-dollar plate of fries?”
“Price doesn’t equal taste.”
Starlight smiled.
A very soft, gentle smile.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“Scared of what?”
“Scared of them finding you.”
“Let them look. If they can find me, they’re welcome to try.”
“And after they find you?”
“I’ll beat them up first, talk later.”
“You always say ‘beat them up first, talk later.'”
“Because every time, they end up beaten.”
“How many times has that actually worked?”
“Every single time.”
The streetlamp outside the glass window flickered.
Miles put down his fork.
“What’s wrong?” Starlight asked.
“Don’t look back.”
“How many?”
“Twelve. All armed.”
Starlight took a deep breath.
Her hand slid under her hoodie, where a Glock was tucked into her waistband.
The diner door was pushed open.
*Clack.* The glass hit the doorframe.
The man who walked in was exceptionally tall—easily over six foot three.
He was bald, had a scar over his brow bone, and wore a black tactical jacket with a silver W embroidered on the chest.
The bald man’s gaze locked onto Miles.
He smiled.
It was the smile of a predator looking at its prey.
“Miles Vance.”
“Vought?”
“Vought Clean-up Crew. I’m the captain. Just call me Old Wolf.”
One by one, black-clad figures slipped through the door.
Eleven of them.
Counting the bald man, twelve in total.
They fanned out into a semi-circle.
The diner owner reached to press the panic button, but it didn’t make a sound.
“Don’t bother,” Old Wolf said without looking back.
“We’ve jammed the signal outside.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“If you walk out with me now, I’ll only break both your legs.”
Miles finished chewing his fry.
“I’m eating.”
“Then your girlfriend might need some plastic surgery on her face.”
Old Wolf’s eyes drifted toward Starlight, his gaze sliding from her face down to her neck.
“How much is this chick worth?” one of the men asked.
“Vought’s poster girl. What do you think?”
Miles took a deep breath.
“Can I finish my meal first?”
Old Wolf froze for a second, then laughed.
“Did you hear that? He said finish his meal—”
“Boss, should I give him a smack on the face first?”
The laughter suddenly died under Miles’s gaze.
It was a terrifyingly calm gaze, like the eerie silence at the very center of a hurricane.
“Fine. No dinner then.”
Miles stood up.
Starlight grabbed his wrist.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure.”
“Twelve guns.”
“I can see them.”
Miles patted the back of her hand.
“Sit tight. Don’t move. Just watch.”
Old Wolf stood up as well, the corners of his mouth curling upward.
“Kid, do you know who we are?”
“I do.”
“You know, and you still dare to stand up?”
“I stood up because I know.”
“Gutsy.”
“That’s more like a man.”
He swung a fist.
He wore iron knuckles with titanium alloy joints.
The punch whistled through the air.
Miles tilted his head.
The fist grazed his ear.
*Bang!* A crater blasted into the wall behind him.
“Missed.”
Miles extended his right hand, pointing two fingers.
He pressed them against Old Wolf’s chest.
And pushed gently.
*Crack.*
Ribs shattered.
Old Wolf flew backward, smashing through two tables before crashing hard against the bar counter.
Broken glass rained down everywhere.
He lay amidst the shards, his chest visibly caved in.
“Boss!”
Miles bent down, grabbed Old Wolf by the collar, and dragged him back to the chair.
“You were saying… you wanted to break both my legs?”
Old Wolf coughed up blood.
The remaining men reacted instantly. Get faster updates on g.com.
They drew their weapons and chambered rounds.
“Don’t move!”
“Get on your knees!”
“Damn it, open fire!”
Bullets flew.
First one, then two, then a dense, roaring hail of lead.
The light bulbs shattered.
In the darkness, the diner lit up with the flashing muzzle flares.
“Did we hit him?”
“We hit him!”
“Why isn’t he down?”
“I don’t know—”
Miles didn’t bother to dodge.
Bullets struck his chest.
*Sizzle—*
“Shit… he’s still standing—”
“Aim for his head! Shoot his head!”
The bullet heads embedded themselves in his skin.
His muscles clenched tight, trapping the metal.
The bullets were pinned flat against his muscle layer.
Miles reached up, pinched a bullet head with two fingers, and pulled.
He plucked it out.
*Clink.* It dropped to the floor.
“He… he pulled the bullet out—”
“What the hell is he—”
A second bullet, near his collarbone.
His muscles clenched, trapped it, squeezed it out, and let it fall.
A third bullet, in his shoulder.
*Clink.*
A fourth, in his arm.
*Clink.*
Miles stood exactly where he was, his feet unmoved.
A dozen shallow bullet holes marked his body, but his muscles were already actively pushing the bullets out of each wound.
The wounds were red, exposing torn flesh.
“His wounds are closing—”
“Ceasefire! Ceasefire!”
“I can’t stop!”
“This is impossible!”
“I’m telling you, I see it!”
Three seconds later, his muscles writhed.
The bullets were squeezed completely out, sliding down his skin.
The wounds closed up, turning a light pink.
“He’s healing! He’s healing right under our eyes!”
Five seconds later, the pink faded into his normal skin tone.
Not a single scar remained.
The gunfire finally stopped.
“Where’s the ammo?”
“Out!”
“I’m fucking empty too!”
“All thirty-three rounds are gone!”
The empty clicks of magazines echoed.
*Click.
Click.
Click.*
“Reload!”
“I didn’t bring spares—”
“Then what do we do now?”
“How the hell should I know!”
Miles grabbed a fry from the table, popped it into his mouth, and chewed.
“It’s cold.”
Then he moved.
No one could track his movement.
The first man’s gun was suddenly in Miles’s hands.
He gripped the barrel.
*Creak…
creak…
creak.* The iron barrel was wrung into a pretzel.
“My gun—”
The second man.
*Creak—*
His assault rifle was crushed flat, the bullets squeezed right out of the chamber.
The third man.
*Creak…
creak—*
The double barrels of his shotgun were pinched into a single solid pipe.
“Get back! Get back!”
“We can’t get close to him!”
The fourth, fifth, sixth.
“Don’t—don’t come over here—”
“Run! Just run!”
Seventh.
Eighth.
*Creak—*
“I quit—”
“Me too!”
Ninth.
*Creak—*
Tenth.
*Creak—*
“It’s… it’s completely over—”
“We’re dead.”
“How is he doing this?”
“Don’t ask me!”
A pile of ruined scrap metal accumulated on the floor.
The eleventh man backpedaled, his gun barrel shaking violently.
The sound of his teeth chattering echoed clearly in the silent diner.
Miles walked up to him.
“Please—don’t—”
The man fired.
The very last bullet.
The bullet struck his palm.
He opened his hand, showing the flattened lead bullet.
“You… you’re a monster…”
The gun clattered to the floor, and the man dropped to his knees.
Miles turned and walked back to Old Wolf.
Old Wolf looked up at him.
His eyes were filled with the primal terror of a man who realized he had run into something that did not belong to this world.
“What… what the fuck… are you…”
Miles didn’t answer.
He kicked the last two twisted guns to Old Wolf’s feet.
“Kneel properly. Count the bullets on the floor. Exactly thirty-three.”
Old Wolf tried to stand up but couldn’t support his own weight.
He collapsed back onto his knees.
“Thirty-three… rounds…”
“Remember that number as you count.”
Old Wolf lowered his head, blood dripping onto the floor.
His trembling fingers reached out to touch the brass casings.
“You didn’t… didn’t count…”
“I didn’t need to.”
Miles walked back to the cash register.
The owner was curled up beneath the bar, his eyes wide with terror.
Miles pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the counter.
“Deduct the damages from this.”
The owner nodded frantically.
Miles walked back to Starlight.
“Watched enough?” he asked.
“Not enough.”
“Then you can watch again next time.”
“Do you always do this?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Just stand there and let people shoot you.”
“Not always.”
“Then when do you?”
“Depends on the situation.”
Starlight stared at him from head to toe.
There were a dozen bullet holes in his hoodie, but the skin underneath was flawless.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“There are people waiting outside.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“They’re the ones who won’t be okay.”
“Let’s go.”
Miles offered his hand.
Starlight didn’t take it.
She stood up on her own.
As they pushed open the diner door, the night wind rushed over them.
Four black SUVs were parked at the entrance of the alley.
Miles walked toward the street.
Starlight followed behind him.
“You know Vought won’t let this go.”
“I know.”
“Aren’t you scared?”
“Of what?”
“Homelander. Vought.”
“If I’m scared, will they stop hunting me?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the point of being scared?”
After five steps, Starlight stopped.
“Miles Vance.”
He turned around.
Starlight stood directly under a flickering streetlight.
“Nobody… nobody heals like that. Right in front of someone’s eyes.”
Her voice was incredibly soft.
“I’ve seen plenty of Supes,” Starlight said.
“They’re strong. But they aren’t like this.”
“Like what?”
“They have to catch their breath after a fight. And your wounds heal faster than any of theirs.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. But that speed… that’s not a Supe’s speed.”
“What are you, really?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t know, don’t worry about it.”
“I want to know.”
“I’ll tell you next time.”
“Next time?”
“Next time you treat me to dinner.”
Starlight stared at him, her hair blowing in the night breeze.
“That’s extortion.”
“That’s bargaining.”
“A secret for a meal?”
“A fair trade.”
Starlight stared at him for five seconds.
Then, she let out a small laugh.
“Fine. Deal.”
“Let’s go.”
She caught up, walking side-by-side with him.
The wind swept down the alleyway.
Inside the diner, Old Wolf was still kneeling, counting the bullets.
“Eighteen,” he muttered hoarsely.
“Nineteen…”
“Boss, can you stand up?”
Old Wolf didn’t answer.
“Twenty… twenty-one…”
Someone began to cry—a very low, muffled sobbing.
“Twenty-two…”
The voice echoed in the empty diner.
No one was listening.