On the bus back from New Jersey, Miles Vance leaned against the window.
Outside, the fields receded row by row beneath a low, overcast gray sky.
A heavy stench of diesel fumes and sweat hung in the coach, and the man in the next seat was snoring loudly.
Miles didn’t sleep.
A single thought kept turning over in his mind—Homelander had killed Nighthawk.
Mrs.
Park had waited ten years.
Ten years.
Every single day, she remembered what her son had said that morning before he died: “I’ll be back for dinner tonight.” Every single day, she thought about that final letter.
Every single day, she wondered—who killed my son?
Now he knew.
He knew the secret.
The question was—what should he do now?
It was dark by the time the bus reached the station.
Miles got off and walked back to his apartment along the quiet streets.
When he reached his front door, he stopped.
A business card was tucked into the crack of the door.
Plain white, without any pattern.
But not like Butcher’s—this card was printed with the Vought logo, followed by a line of text: “Vought International · Internal Affairs.” No name.
No phone number.
Just a department name.
Miles flipped the card over.
Written on the back in fountain pen was a line of small, neat handwriting:
“We know you went to New Jersey today.”
Miles stared at those words for five seconds.
Then he folded the card, slipped it into his pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
The orange cat leaped down from the bed and trotted over to rub against his legs.
Miles crouched down and stroked the cat’s head.
“Old buddy, they know.”
The cat meowed.
Miles stood up and paced around the room twice.
Batman’s investigative abilities spun at high speed in his mind—Vought Internal Affairs had eyes on him.
They knew he had gone to New Jersey, but they didn’t know what he had uncovered.
Leaving that card was meant to shake the tree to startle the bird—to make him panic and make a mistake.
Miles stopped in his tracks.
He did three things.
First: He pulled the Nighthawk files out of his drawer—copies of the death report, screenshots of the badge access logs, and the secret audio recording of Marcus’s testimony on his phone.
He sealed them inside an envelope, wrote the address of Mrs. This story is hosted at g.com.
Park’s convenience store on the front, went downstairs, and dropped it into a mailbox.
Second: He pulled out the Nokia phone Butcher had given him, turned it on, and sent a short text: “I’ve made up my mind. See you tomorrow.”
Third: He called his coworker, AJ.
“AJ, can you look after my cat for a few days?”
“Huh?”
“I’m going away on business. Cat food is in the cabinet, litter box is on the balcony.”
“Wait—where’d you get a cat?”
“Rescued it. I’ll drop it off tomorrow morning.”
“Alright, fine.”
Miles hung up, picked up the cat, and set it on his lap.
The orange cat purred softly.
As Miles stroked its back, he felt his heartbeat steadily calm down.
The files were mailed.
Butcher was contacted.
The cat was taken care of.
Now—he had no lingering worries.
The next morning, Vought Tower.
Miles walked along the corridor on the sixty-eighth floor carrying a tray of coffee.
The morning meeting for The Seven had just ended, and several supes were emerging from the conference room.
A-Train walked past in a hurry, as if dodging someone.
The Deep followed behind a female assistant, his hand sliding onto her waist again.
Maeve scrolled through her phone expressionlessly, leaving a waft of perfume as she passed him.
Then Homelander came out.
Miles stepped aside to yield the hallway, keeping his head low and holding the tray steady.
Homelander’s footsteps paused in front of him.
Miles could feel that gaze resting on the top of his head.
It wasn’t just a look—it was a scan.
Like an X-ray machine, scanning top to bottom, outside to inside.
He raised his head.
Homelander was looking down at him.
Those eyes—identical to the ones at the morning meeting.
Empty.
Like two glass marbles.
But this time, something seemed to move beneath those glass marbles.
That look sent a cold chill down Miles’s spine.
Not a chill of fear, but…
Like walking through a forest and suddenly realizing a wolf is standing ten feet away.
The wolf doesn’t move.
The wolf just stares at you.
Homelander looked at him for three seconds.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched.
The smile was extremely subtle, so faint that if Miles hadn’t been staring right at his face, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all.
“Coffee.”
Miles’s pupils contracted slightly.
“…What?”
“My coffee. Refill it.”
Miles glanced down at the tray—there was still half a pot of coffee left.
He quickly grabbed the pot and filled the cup in Homelander’s hand.
Homelander raised the cup and took a sip.
“Not bad. Better than last week’s.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Miles stood frozen on the spot holding the tray, his back drenched in sweat that soaked right through his shirt.
He returned to the breakroom, closed the door, leaned against the wall, and took a deep breath.
Those three seconds just now—did Homelander figure something out, or didn’t he?
He didn’t know.
But there was one thing he was certain of—he couldn’t wait any longer.
That evening, Miles returned to his apartment and pulled out the Nokia.
Butcher had replied.
“Good. Tomorrow night, under the Brooklyn Bridge, third pier.”
After reading it, Miles deleted the text and turned off the phone.
He walked into the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked at himself in the mirror.
A young man in a cheap suit.
Twenty-five years old.
An intern in Vought International’s administrative department.
Making 3,200 a month.
Raising an orange cat.
Carrying a secret in his mind worth dying for a hundred times over.
The corners of his mouth curled up slightly.
Then he wiped his face, adjusted his tie, and stepped out of the bathroom.
He still had work tomorrow.
He still had to refill coffee for The Seven.