Yesterday evening’s news was playing on the television.
Queen Maeve’s photo occupied half the screen.
The anchor’s voice was electric with excitement: “At nine o’clock last night, Queen Maeve subdued armed robbers at a Seventh Block convenience store, rescuing three store clerks.”
The footage cut to security camera video.
It was heavily edited.
Miles Vance stared at the screen.
His face was blurred out.
Every critical moment had been cut and replaced with staged shots of Queen Maeve.
There were three people in the store.
He was in the back row, looking like a mere bystander.
“Bullshit,” he said.
Mrs.
Park paused mid-wipe on the counter.
The TV kept playing.
A reporter stood outside the convenience store: “Vought International has praised Queen Maeve’s heroic actions—”
*Beep.*
Mrs.
Park switched off the TV.
“Stop watching,” she said, tossing the remote aside and sliding a bottle of water toward him.
“Drink some water.”
Miles didn’t move.
“You look terrible.” Mrs.
Park stared at him.
“That was you, wasn’t it?”
It was a statement, not a question.
Miles didn’t answer.
“It’s impossible not to be afraid,” she said, pushing the bottle closer.
“But what good does being afraid do?”
“Aren’t you afraid of Vought?”
“I am,” Miles said.
“Is it any use?”
She stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded.
“I’ve seen that look before.” She lowered her head, wiping at an imaginary spot on the counter.
“My son had it too, back when Vought came for him, saying he had good potential.”
“What happened then?”
“They took him away.” She paused.
“Then he died. In one of their labs.”
Miles looked at her.
A woman in her sixties, with deep wrinkles around the corners of her eyes.
“What was your son’s name?”
“Nighthawk,” Mrs.
Park said.
“That was the codename Vought gave him. His real name was Ji-ho Park.”
“What did they do to him?”
“Injections. All kinds of injections. They called it enhancement experiments.” Her voice was eerily calm.
“Then heart failure. They claimed it was an accident.”
“Did you believe them?”
Mrs.
Park didn’t answer.
She kept wiping the counter.
“So, you want revenge?”
“What revenge can an old woman get?” She looked up.
“But that man said you could.”
Miles stayed silent.
She pulled a business card from her apron pocket and set it on the counter.
“A man came by yesterday. Stood outside the store for a long time,” she said.
“He said you might need this.”
Printed on the card was: *William Butcher*.
No title, no company name.
Just a phone number.
Miles looked at it for three seconds before tucking it into his inner pocket.
“Thanks.”
As he pulled the door open, Mrs.
Park said, “Be careful. Vought isn’t someone you mess with lightly.”
“I know,” Miles replied, turning back.
“But someone has to go in.”
“Come back alive,” Mrs.
Park said.
“I’ll try,” Miles said as he pushed the door open.
“And thanks for the water.”
Mrs.
Park didn’t say anything, just nodded once.
His phone buzzed.
A text from Miller: *2:00 PM.
Conference Room.
Don’t be late.*
Seven people were seated in the conference room.
John Miller sat at the head of the long table.
Forty-five years old, hair combed impeccably tight.
“We’re all here,” Miller said, scanning the room.
“Everyone knows about last night. Queen Maeve has once again proven—”
“Director.”
Miller’s voice trailed off.
He looked toward the doorway.
Miles Vance stood there, wearing a Vought intern badge.
“I have something to say.”
Miller chuckled—a practiced corporate smile with cold eyes.
“The intern has something to say?” He glanced around the room.
“Everyone, our Vought interns really are proactive.”
A few people snickered.
“Go ahead,” Miller said, leaning back and picking up his coffee mug.
“Or go back to brewing coffee, kid. Grown-up matters aren’t for you to worry about.”
A middle-aged man beside him slapped the table.
“Did you hear that? The Director told you to go back to making coffee.”
“Two lumps of sugar,” someone added.
The laughter grew louder.
Miles didn’t sit down.
He pulled out his phone and tapped it.
Bluetooth connected to the projector.
The screen flashed bright.
The first image: a bank transfer statement.
$500,000.
Recipient: John Miller.
The laughter died instantly.
Silence blanketed the room—a suffocating silence, as if every throat had been gripped tight.
Miller’s smile froze.
“Where… where did you get this…” His voice trembled slightly.
“Second slide,” Miles said.
The display switched to email correspondence between Vought executives and Miller.
Content: press release modified, credit given to Maeve, recommended suppressing raw footage.
“You piece of—”
“Don’t get excited. There’s more. Third slide.”
Timestamps from the convenience store surveillance.
The raw timestamp and Vought’s broadcast time were laid side by side—a three-hour difference.
“Three hours of editing time,” Miles said, looking at Miller.
“Does Queen Maeve transform that slowly?”
The room was dead silent.
Nobody was laughing now.
The man who had slapped the table sat with his hand hovering in midair.
Miller’s face flushed red, then drained completely pale.
“Where did you get all this…”
“That doesn’t matter,” Miles said, taking a step forward.
“Now—who’s the kid?”
Miller leaped up, his chair clattering backward onto the floor.
“You’re insane! Do you have any idea who’s backing me? Vought executives! A mere intern like you—”
“Do your executives know you’re taking bribes on the side?” Miles interrupted.
Miller opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
A middle-aged woman beside him stood up.
“Miles, do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
“I do.”
“You’ll be fired.”
“I know,” Miles said without looking at her.
“But some things are more important than a job.”
“Like what?”
“The truth.”
She sat back down.
“John Miller. Director of Vought News. Twenty years in the industry,” Miles said, his voice quiet but steady.
“Taking bribes to alter reports. Whitewashing for Vought. The evidence is all here.”
He raised his phone.
“Three options.”
Miller stared at him, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“One: go on live air and apologize. Two: I hand this evidence over to the FBI.”
Miller’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Three—I make you drop to your knees right now.”
None of the seven people in the room uttered a sound.
Ten seconds passed.
Miller lowered his head.
He walked out.
His steps were slow, grabbing the doorframe for support as he reached the exit.
Miles stood in the hallway, watching the monitor.
Three minutes later, the live broadcast feed cut in.
Miller sat before the camera, his face ash-gray, his tie crooked.
“Viewers… I am John Miller, Director of Vought News…” He swallowed hard.
“Regarding the report on last night’s convenience store incident… there were severe inaccuracies… that require correction…”
In the hallway, Miles murmured, “Handled.”
His phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
“Hello.”
“Did you bloody use magic or something?” a rough voice with a heavy London accent rasped on the other end.
“Vought intern, three weeks on the job. Three weeks in and you dare pull off something this massive?”
“I told you. I used evidence, not magic.”
“Where’d you get the bloody evidence?”
“Take a guess.”
The caller fell silent for two seconds, then chuckled.
“Interesting. I’ve been watching you all day. The convenience store, that Korean lady owner—”
“What do you actually want?”
“I know about her son, too. Nighthawk. Subject 47,” Butcher said.
“Died in a Vought lab. Heart failure. That’s always their line.”
Miles didn’t reply.
“Butcher. I want to meet.”
“Why?”
“Because we share a mutual interest,” Butcher said.
“We’re both looking to give Vought hell.”
“What do you want with Vought?”
“To destroy it.”
Silence hung over the line for a few seconds.
“Interested in joining?”
Miles glanced at the fire exit at the end of the hallway.
The green emergency light glowed dimly.
“Tonight?”
“Convenience store parking lot. Eight o’clock. Don’t bring company.”
“How will I recognize you?”
“You’ll know me,” Butcher said.
“And I know you.”
“Then you know where I am?”
“Vought Tower. Fifteenth floor. You just pulled off something big.”
Miles fell silent for a moment.
“You’re watching me?”
“Protecting you. Vought’s people are already investigating. You’ve got a few hours left.”
“Understood.”
He hung up.
Miles put his phone away and pushed open the fire exit door.
The light at the end of the corridor flickered.
The glow of the emergency exit sign was dim.
A new path had opened.