On Sunday night, the Wolverine’s abilities began to fade.
Miles Vance sat on the sofa in Starlight’s apartment, staring at his hands.
Bone claws slid out from between his knuckles—then slowly retracted.
Out again.
Retracted again.
It felt like a farewell ritual.
He repeated the motion a few times, feeling the claws pierce his skin.
The pain had become familiar, almost comforting.
“What are you doing?” Starlight peeked out from the kitchen.
She was brewing tea, and the electric kettle was bubbling noisily.
“Saying goodbye to my power.”
Starlight walked over and sat down beside him, watching the last traces of the bone claws vanish.
His skin knit back together, leaving it as smooth as if nothing had ever happened.
She reached out and touched his fingers—they were warm and perfectly normal.
“What’s next week’s?”
“I don’t know. It’s a lucky draw.”
“A lucky draw?”
“Yeah. I spin once a week. It’s different every time.”
Starlight looked at him.
“So your power… didn’t come from Compound V?”
Miles was silent for a moment.
He thought it over, then said:
“No.”
Starlight didn’t press him.
She simply nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder.
Her hair smelled like sweet orange shampoo.
The night breeze drifted in through the window, carrying the warm scent of early summer.
Eleven fifty-nine.
The wheel began to spin in the depths of his consciousness.
Red, blue, gold, silver—flashes of various colors whizzed past.
The speed picked up, spinning so fast that the colors blurred into a single, blinding white light.
*Click.*
Stop.
A new surge of power flooded his body.
It wasn’t the violent, savage strength of the Wolverine—it was a light, wind-like force.
Instead of exploding outward from his chest, it flowed down from the crown of his head like water, washing down his spine, through his limbs, and pooling at his fingertips.
The Flash.
The moment the ability integrated, his world transformed.
He could see the second hand of the clock on the wall moving at a crawl—no, “crawl” didn’t do it justice.
It was practically stationary.
He could see Starlight’s blink—her eyelids closing in slow motion, then slowly opening again, like a frame-by-frame playback.
He could hear his own heartbeat—a low, drawn-out rumble, like distant thunder.
He stood up.
He tried to take a single step forward.
And crashed straight into the wall.
“Shit!”
Starlight jumped in surprise.
“What happened?”
“Too fast,” Miles said, rubbing his shoulder. This story is hosted at g.com.
“Can’t control it.” His shoulder smarted from the impact.
It took him an entire hour just to learn how to control his speed.
Or rather, to “barely manage to walk.” He crashed into the wall five times, tripped three times, knocked over a glass, and stepped on Starlight’s cat (even though the cat wasn’t actually there).
Every crash made a loud thud, leaving Starlight clutching her stomach with laughter.
But by one in the morning, he could finally walk around the room normally.
Even though every step required a conscious effort to slow down, at least he wasn’t slamming into walls anymore.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Starlight asked, looking at the purple bruise on his forehead under the light.
“I’m fine. It’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
“What do you plan to do tomorrow?”
Miles looked out the window.
The lights of Vought Tower flickered in the distance.
The building loomed like a massive black silhouette against the night sky, its top floor brightly lit.
Homelander was still up there.
“Go to work.”
On Monday, Miles used the Flash’s speed to do one thing: during his thirty-second lunch break, he scanned the entire Vought security system.
He didn’t just “browse” it—he “memorized” it.
The Flash’s brain processed information hundreds of times faster than a normal human’s.
He stood outside the security control room, scanning the monitors with his eyes.
Twelve screens, each displaying sixteen feeds.
He memorized every single feed.
He memorized the location of every door.
He memorized the patrol routes of every security guard.
He memorized the placement and model of every passcode lock.
Then, he located where S-017 was being kept.
Sub-Level 4.
However, the security on Sub-Level 4 was linked to Homelander’s vitals monitoring system.
The moment anyone breached it, Homelander would know within three seconds.
Three seconds.
From Sub-Level 4 to Homelander’s quarters, the elevator took fifteen seconds.
But Homelander didn’t need elevators—he could fly.
He could melt through the floors with his heat vision.
He would appear right in front of you in the blink of an eye.
Miles stood in the lobby, watching the crowd stream past.
Executives in suits, heroes in costumes, janitors in uniforms—no one paid him any attention.
He knew where S-017 was.
But to rescue that person, he would have to face Homelander head-on.
And as fast as the Flash was—he wasn’t faster than heat vision.
He stood in the center of the lobby, surrounded by bustling employees and costumed heroes.
No one noticed him.
No one knew what was going on inside the head of this seemingly ordinary intern.
He looked down at his hands.
The Flash’s power thrummed in his fingertips like a subtle electrical current.
He could feel that incredible speed surging through his veins, ready to burst forth at any second.
Fast.
But not fast enough.
Miles turned toward the elevator and pressed the button for the forty-eighth floor.
The doors slid shut, and the elevator began to ascend.
The numbers ticked upward—1, 2, 3, 4…
To the Flash’s perception, everything had slowed down.
The vibration of the elevator cables, the grinding of the gears, the sound of the pulleys sliding along the tracks—every detail was as clear as a slow-motion film.
He closed his eyes, mapping out a three-dimensional layout of Vought Tower in his mind.
Sub-Level 4 was at the very bottom, guarded by three security gates.
The first gate, at the sub-level 1 lobby, required an employee ID card.
The second gate, on sub-level 3, required fingerprint verification.
The third gate, at the entrance to Sub-Level 4, required triple verification—fingerprints, iris, and a passcode.
Meanwhile, Homelander’s quarters were on the top floor.
The straight-line distance from the top floor to Sub-Level 4 was roughly two hundred meters.
If Homelander flew, it would take him three seconds.
Three seconds.
From the moment the alarm tripped to Homelander appearing right in front of you—only three seconds.
Miles opened his eyes.
The elevator reached the forty-eighth floor, and the doors slid open.
He stepped out and walked toward his cubicle.
The hallway was empty; most people hadn’t returned from their lunch break yet.
The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, casting a cold glare on the white walls.
He sat down and booted up his computer.
The screen lit up, displaying the standard blue Vought desktop.
He stared at the monitor, his fingers tapping on the keyboard—pretending to write a report.
But his mind was racing.
Three seconds.
How was he supposed to rescue Zero in three seconds and make a clean getaway?
Using the fire alarm to cause chaos was one option.
But a fire alarm would only evacuate the ordinary employees; it wouldn’t stop Homelander.
Homelander wouldn’t be deterred by a fire.
He would fly straight down, burn through the floors with his heat vision, and find him.
Relying purely on the Flash’s speed was another option.
But the Flash’s stamina wasn’t infinite.
Running even a kilometer consumed massive amounts of energy.
If Homelander gave chase—the Flash might be fast, but his physical durability was far inferior to Homelander’s.
He needed a plan to stall Homelander.
He needed… something to temporarily hold Homelander back.
Something to distract him.
Miles leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
The ceiling was white, with a fluorescent light humming in the middle.
He recalled Zero’s words once more—
“Your soul comes from somewhere else.”
He looked down at his hands.
The Flash’s power crackled at his fingertips like a faint current.
He could feel that speed rushing through his veins, ready to erupt at a moment’s notice.
Fast.
But not fast enough.
He needed to be faster.
He needed to be—faster than the Flash.