They were his cartoon friends.
Ever since he lost part of his brain, they had been there. Bright. Cheerful. Loyal. A whole cast of smiling, animated companions who never judged him, never questioned him, never left.
Encouraged by their gentle voices, Noir felt a flicker of courage reignite inside his battered body. He dragged himself backward across the floor, armor scraping loudly, and in one fluid motion reached into his pocket. A throwing knife flashed through the air, aimed straight at Ethan's head.
Clang.
Ethan lifted a hand almost lazily. His wrist flicked, and the blade ricocheted off to the side, embedding uselessly in the wall. He didn't slow down. He just kept walking forward, steady and unhurried.
The cartoon fox pumped its tiny fist. The others chimed in with silent encouragement only Noir could hear.
He threw another knife. Then another.
Each one was swatted aside or knocked off course before it could do anything meaningful. Ethan's movements were minimal, precise, almost bored.
Noir's breathing grew ragged inside the helmet. He reached for his waist again.
Nothing.
He had thrown them all.
He had faced durable opponents before. Homelander. Queen Maeve. He knew what overwhelming defensive power looked like. But this—this was something else. The damage wasn't just ineffective. It was diminishing.
Before he could retreat again, a hand shot out and seized his helmet.
With a violent yank, it was ripped free.
Cool air hit scarred skin.
Beneath the mask, his face was a ruin of twisted tissue and darkened scars. One side of his skull bore the unmistakable indentation of catastrophic trauma. The flesh there dipped inward where part of his brain had once been.
That injury traced back to 1984—Operation Chagan, led by Grace Mallory. A mission gone wrong. An explosion. After that day, he lost half his brain and gained an entire animated support system that no one else could see.
"Help me… help me…" Noir whispered hoarsely, eyes darting toward the fox.
The fox smiled warmly.
But it did not move.
Ethan crouched slightly, picked up a handful of mixed nuts from the overturned table, and casually stuffed them into Noir's mouth to silence him. Then he stepped forward and brought his heel down with brutal precision onto the damaged side of Noir's skull.
There was a wet, crushing sound.
The cartoon characters flickered.
Then they were gone.
Noir stopped moving.
Ethan stood still for a moment, ensuring there was no twitch, no last attempt at resistance. Satisfied, he wiped the bottom of his shoe against the carpet with visible irritation, smearing away what remained.
He pulled out his phone and dialed.
The call connected quickly.
"Hey, buddy!" Billy Butcher's voice came through, unusually upbeat. "What good news you got for me? Because I've got something bloody brilliant to share."
Butcher had just finished leveraging a laser-eyed infant in a desperate standoff. Compared to that, everything felt manageable.
Mother's Milk and Frenchie were nearby, carefully securing vials of blue Compound V.
Before Butcher could launch into his discovery, Ethan spoke flatly.
"I killed Black Noir. Body's in apartment twenty-three at Frenchie's place. You handle it."
He hung up before Butcher could respond.
On the other end, Butcher stared at his phone.
"What did he say?" Mother's Milk asked, sealing away the vial.
"He said 'oh' when I started explaining," Butcher replied slowly. "Then told me he killed Black Noir."
Silence fell.
Frenchie blinked. "Pardon?"
Mother's Milk frowned. "You're serious?"
Butcher nodded once.
The news about Compound V—that supes weren't chosen by fate but manufactured through Vought's drug—should have been earth-shattering to someone raised on the myth of destiny. Ethan had reacted with indifference.
Now this.
Frenchie swore under his breath. "That man leaves a corpse in my flat? It is not even his toilet paper!"
Mother's Milk let out a low whistle. "That's… that's a serious development."
Black Noir rarely spoke, barely showed up in headlines, but when he moved, people died. Efficiently. Quietly.
And now he was dead.
The shock faded quicker than expected. Compared to exposing Vought's systemic creation of superhumans, one fallen member of the Seven felt like a piece on a larger board.
Mother's Milk leaned back. "That kid keeps surprising us. But how strong is he really? Could he take Homelander?"
Butcher snorted. "Not yet. But right now we've got a body to deal with before we're knee-deep in federal trouble."
They left Mercy Hospital quickly and returned to Frenchie's safe house. The cleanup was efficient. They had practice—Translucent had taught them that much. Within a short time, there was no trace left that Black Noir had ever been there.
But Frenchie's cover was blown. A dead member of the Seven in your apartment had a way of making properties unusable.
Through Butcher's contacts, they secured a more secluded location.
Inside the new safe house, Frenchie shuffled documents onto a table, still irritated. "I do not understand how my identity was exposed."
He glanced at the others. "Do you think the kid leaked it? I have never been able to read him."
Mother's Milk shook his head. "Doesn't track. He killed Translucent himself. He's already Vought's top enemy. Exposing you drags heat onto him too. With his power level, he doesn't need to sabotage you."
Frenchie considered that, then shrugged.
Two members of the Seven had fallen already because of Ethan. If Vought had confirmed identities, Ethan would be their primary target.
Speculation was useless.
Frenchie resumed sorting papers. As he flipped through a stack Mother's Milk had just printed—transfer records from Sage Grove Center—he paused.
A face stared back at him from a patient file.
An Asian young man.
Frenchie frowned. "Butcher… does this not look like that kid?"
Butcher set down a test tube filled with blue liquid and walked over. He took the paper.
The photograph showed a thinner version. Less vibrant. Slightly hollow around the eyes. But the resemblance was undeniable.
It was Ethan.
The file listed a residential address, psychiatric evaluations, and transfer documentation to Sage Grove Center.
Mother's Milk approached. "What is it?"
Butcher handed him the page.
Mother's Milk scanned it, then swore under his breath. "You're not telling me the guy we've been working with is a diagnosed psychopath."
"A mentally ill supe," Frenchie muttered. "With this kind of power."
Mother's Milk exhaled slowly. "We're lucky we're alive."
An ordinary supe was dangerous enough. An unstable one with escalating adaptive abilities was something else entirely.
"Butcher," Mother's Milk said carefully, "we should cut contact. We don't know what sets him off."
Frenchie nodded. "For once, I agree. I do not wish to clean up my own corpse next time."
Butcher leaned against the table, arms folded.
"You two done already?" he asked. "You don't see the opportunity here?"
They stared at him.
"That file ties him directly to Sage Grove," Butcher continued. "We already suspect Vought's running experiments there. You want proof? Living proof's right in front of us."
"He's unstable," Mother's Milk said. "Uncontrollable."
"Have you ever seen him lose it?" Butcher shot back. "Properly lose it?"
Neither answered immediately.
"If you ask me," Butcher went on, "maybe Vought pumped him full of Compound V. Maybe that's where his powers came from. Maybe it even fixed whatever was wrong upstairs."
He tapped the file.
"You want to drop this lead? Or you want to find out what the hell Vought's doing in that hospital?"
The room fell quiet.
Butcher's eyes hardened.
"We talk to him. Carefully."