One of the Boys' safe houses sat quietly on a side street in Manhattan, the kind of place no one noticed twice. Inside, Ethan Pierce lounged on a worn brown sofa, tearing into a piece of dry bread like he didn't have a care in the world. The LCD television mounted on the wall flickered with a news segment about Vought's latest public relations maneuver, bright graphics spinning over a polished anchor's smile. The room smelled faintly of dust and old wood, and aside from the hum of the TV, it was silent.
Then came the footsteps.
Soft at first. Controlled. Measured. The sound of someone who knew exactly how to move without being heard—and didn't care if they were.
The steps drew closer, crossing the hallway outside before stopping at the open door. A tall figure clad entirely in matte-black tactical armor stepped inside without hesitation. The mask was smooth and expressionless, the visor dark and unreadable. There was no mistaking him.
Black Noir of the Seven had just walked into the room.
As soon as he entered, the opaque gaze behind his helmet settled on Ethan. There was no one else in the safe house. No movement. No backup. Just a young man sitting in the middle of the room, watching TV like he was waiting for a pizza delivery instead of a corporate assassin.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Noir tilted his head slightly. According to the intel A-Train had passed along, the man hiding here was supposed to be Frenchie. European. Pale. Scruffy. Definitely not the guy calmly chewing bread in front of him.
Had the information been wrong?
Ethan met the black visor without flinching. He didn't stand up. Didn't speak. He simply watched.
Noir reached into a pouch and pulled out a photograph. He held it up for Ethan to see. It was Frenchie's face.
Then Noir pulled out a small notebook and pen. He wrote something down quickly, the movements sharp and practiced, and flipped the notebook around.
Have you seen this man?
Ethan blinked once, then gave him a lazy once-over.
"Wow," Ethan said casually. "You're being polite today."
He knew exactly who he was dealing with. Noir had once helped Stan Edgar and the higher-ups clean up the Soldier Boy fiasco overseas. During that operation, part of his brain had been blown out. The damage had taken his speech with it. Now he relied on writing and brutal efficiency.
"I'm… yeah," Ethan said, nodding without hesitation. "That's me. French."
The black visor remained fixed on him.
Slowly, Noir lowered the notebook.
Even through the mask, the disbelief was palpable.
Ethan's skin tone. His face. His accent. None of it matched the photo. The silence stretched just a fraction too long.
Noir's pen moved again, this time faster. The notebook flipped around sharply.
Tell me the truth. Or I will beat you to death.
Before the threat could fully settle in the air—
Bang.
Two searing beams of red energy tore across the room.
The notebook disintegrated mid-air, turning into black ash before it even hit the floor. The blast carried enough force to slam into Noir's chest armor, sending him stumbling backward. He crashed into the wall behind him, the impact cracking plaster.
For the first time since he'd walked in, Noir looked down.
Two scorched marks smoked across the reinforced plating over his chest.
The air in the room changed.
A suffocating, predatory pressure settled over him. Something about the man on the couch was wrong. Not reckless. Not desperate.
Dangerous.
Noir straightened slowly, every muscle tightening beneath the armor. He began edging toward the door, steps careful, controlled.
And then he remembered.
He had seen this face before.
Deep in Vought's internal files. Subject 58. The experimental asset who had incited a riot inside Sage Grove, killed more than a dozen personnel, and slipped away from Security multiple times. The one with the heat vision.
The realization clicked into place.
Retreat.
That was the correct option.
He was already missing part of his brain. Losing the rest didn't appeal to him.
But Ethan wasn't about to let him walk out.
Without looking away, Ethan pressed a small remote in his palm.
With a heavy metallic slam, the reinforced steel door of the safe house dropped shut.
The exit was gone.
Noir's head snapped toward it, then back to Ethan. Fury flared beneath the mask. This had been a trap.
He moved first.
Several razor-edged throwing darts shot toward Ethan in a blur. At the same time, Noir accelerated, sprinting for the nearest window.
Ethan didn't bother dodging.
His eyes flared.
Twin beams of blazing red light erupted forward like artillery fire. The heat struck Noir's legs mid-stride. The reinforced foot armor blackened instantly, smoke rising as the blast detonated against it. Though the plating didn't melt, the impact hurled him sideways.
He hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor.
Ethan stood, brushing crumbs off his shirt.
The armor held better than expected. Reinforced specifically against heat vision, most likely. Vought didn't repeat mistakes.
Noir tried to push himself up—
Ethan was already there.
He moved with explosive force, slamming Noir against the wall like a freight train. The structure groaned under the impact. Before Noir could counter, Ethan ripped a shoulder plate clean off and tossed it aside.
Metal clanged across the floor.
Noir forced himself upright. Running wouldn't work. Not now.
His eyes flicked to the scorched ring around his leg armor. The beam had damaged it—but not penetrated fully. Maybe the heat vision wasn't on Homelander's level after all.
Maybe he still had a chance.
A sharp metallic snap cut through the room.
From Noir's wrist guard, a thirty-centimeter superalloy blade shot out with a hiss. He lunged, blade arcing toward Ethan's shoulder.
The weapon was designed by Vought's tech division. Reinforced for cleaving. Capable of slicing through ten-millimeter steel plating.
It struck.
Clang.
The sound wasn't what Noir expected.
The blade met resistance—immense resistance. It bit into flesh, but only barely, carving a shallow wound a few millimeters deep.
Noir froze.
Ethan glanced down at his shoulder.
The wound glowed faintly green.
From within the torn flesh, hair-thin tendrils wriggled and sealed the damage as if stitching him from the inside. In seconds, the injury closed.
Understanding dawned in Ethan's mind. Adaptation. Rapid cellular reinforcement.
He looked back at Noir and crooked a finger.
"Come on."
The provocation hit harder than any punch.
Noir roared silently and attacked again, striking the exact same spot.
Clang.
The blade cut—but less this time.
He stepped back, staring at the shallow gash. Then at his blade.
The more force he applied, the less damage it caused.
"That it?" Ethan said lightly. "You skip breakfast again?"
The wound healed even faster.
Noir swung again.
Snap.
The superalloy blade shattered against Ethan's shoulder.
This time, the skin didn't even redden.
No blood. No mark.
Noir stood there holding the broken weapon. Blood seeped from his palm where the recoil had split his grip open.
For a man who had served two full terms with the Seven, who had butchered superhumans and terrorists alike, this was unfamiliar territory.
His weapon—engineered specifically to counter durable opponents—had become useless mid-fight.
Ethan stepped closer.
Noir's gaze flicked toward the window again. The instinct to run flooded back stronger than before.
He turned.
A beam of scorching heat lanced out from Ethan's eyes and swept low.
One leg was still fully armored.
The other—missing its plating—was not.
The beam sliced clean through.
Momentum carried Noir forward two more steps before reality caught up. His severed leg remained behind. Balance vanished.
He collapsed hard, rolling across the floor.
The world tilted.
He pushed himself up on one knee, staring as Ethan approached without hurry.
Despair settled into his chest like a stone.
And then—
A voice.
Soft. Familiar.
"Don't be afraid, Irving. We're all here for you."
Noir's head snapped to the side.
A cartoon fox stood there, smiling gently, paw resting on his shoulder. Around it, other animated figures gathered—bright, colorful, impossible. They looked at him with warmth and concern.
Offering comfort.
....
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