Chapter 19: Red River Institute
Monday, 11:00 PM.
The van was parked at the intersection on the east side of Red River, its headlights off, the engine still vibrating slightly.
Butcher sat in the driver's seat, a shotgun in his hand, watching the white building in the distance.
"Twelve security guards," he said, his voice very low, "About forty children. The target is the laboratory on the second basement level. All experimental records are there."
Chen Mo sat in the passenger seat, wearing black gloves—underneath were the bone claws of Wolverine.
He looked at the Red River Institute through the windshield.
The building looked larger than it did in the photos.
The iron fence was wrapped in barbed wire, and there was a surveillance camera above the gate, its red indicator light blinking.
"Get the experimental records and get out," Butcher said, "Don't get into a prolonged fight."
"Got it."
Chen Mo pushed open the car door and jumped out.
The night wind was cold, whipping his jacket.
He stood by the side of the road and flexed his fingers.
The bone claws pierced through the spaces between his fingers—tearing through the gloves, gleaming coldly in the moonlight.
Butcher stuck his head out the car window: "You better come back alive, damn it."
Chen Mo did not look back.
He walked toward the iron fence of the Red River Institute.
The iron fence was about three meters high, with barbed wire wrapped around the top.
But Wolverine's claws cut through the barbed wire like butter.
Chen Mo grabbed two iron bars, and with a horizontal swipe of the bone claws—the iron bars snapped.
He swiped twice more, cutting a hole large enough to crawl through.
As he crawled through, his gloves were torn by the sharp iron edges.
But the Healing Factor healed the scratches on his skin within seconds.
The institute's courtyard was empty.
A white van was parked in the corner.
The main building was a three-story structure, all the windows covered with curtains, except for two windows on the second floor that had lights on.
Chen Mo moved forward, hugging the wall.
His footsteps were very light—Wolverine had not only given him the claws and the Healing Factor, but also sharper senses.
He could hear sounds inside the main building—people talking, machines running, and also... crying.
As he turned the corner, two patrolling security guards walked toward him.
One tall, one short.
The tall one held a flashlight, its beam sweeping back and forth on the ground.
The short one was yawning.
Chen Mo did not hesitate.
Wolverine's speed—not the invisible speed of the The Flash, but fast enough to rush in front of them before they could react.
The bone claws did not unsheathe—he used his fists.
One punch to the tall guard's temple, and the tall one's eyes rolled back as he collapsed softly.
Before the short one could open his mouth, Chen Mo's hand chop had already struck the back of his neck.
Two dull thuds.
Both men fell to the ground.
Chen Mo crouched down and checked their pulses—they were both still alive.
He dragged them into the shadows of the corner, tore off the tall guard's tie, and tied their hands together.
Butcher said over the earpiece: "If you don't kill them, they'll call the police as soon as they wake up, damn it."
Chen Mo said: "They're just workers. Not the masterminds."
He stood up and continued moving forward.
It wasn't the cry of fear.
It was the cry of pain.
He clenched his fists.
The back door of the main building was an iron door with an electronic lock.
Chen Mo took a look—an old model, a four-digit password.
He pressed his ear against the door and turned the dial.
Click. Click. Click.
The techniques Batman taught him were still in his mind—although the ability was gone, the memory remained.
After the fourth click, the lock popped open.
He pushed the door open and walked in.
The hallway was very dark.
Only the emergency lights emitted a faint green glow.
There was a smell of disinfectant in the air—not the clean disinfectant smell of a hospital, but a mix of mold and rust.
There were rooms on both sides of the hallway.
The doors were labeled— "Observation Room A", "Observation Room B", "Storage Room", "Laboratory 1".
Chen Mo walked to the door of "Laboratory 1" and looked inside through the small window.
His stomach turned.
There were three surgical tables in the laboratory.
A child was tied to each surgical table—they didn't look more than ten years old.
IV tubes were inserted into their arms, and transparent liquid dripped from the IV bags, flowing through the tubes into their bodies.
A researcher in a white lab coat stood nearby, holding a clipboard, recording something.
Chen Mo's bone claws unsheathed.
Not voluntarily—it was an instinctive reaction of his body.
Anger made the bone claws pop out on their own.
He took a deep breath and retracted the bone claws.
He couldn't alert the enemy.
The target was the second basement level.
He continued moving forward.
At the end of the hallway was the stairwell.
He pushed the door open and headed down the stairs.
The air on the second basement level was colder.
The lights were brighter.
The walls on both sides of the hallway were metal, with a fluorescent light every few meters, emitting a buzzing sound.
At the end of the hallway was a heavy metal door.
On the door it was written— "Core Laboratory. Unauthorized Personnel Prohibited."
Chen Mo walked to the door.
The door was locked—an electronic lock, much more complex than the one on the back door.
But he didn't need a password.
The bone claws unsheathed.
A hole was cut into the metal door.
He reached in and opened the lock from the inside.
The door opened.
The Core Laboratory was larger than he had imagined.
It was about two hundred square meters, filled with various instruments—centrifuges, microscopes, refrigerators, and three giant glass culture tanks.
Pale yellow liquid soaked the culture tanks, and floating in the liquid were...
Chen Mo took a step closer.
Deformed biological specimens were soaking in the culture tanks.
In one tank was a mouse with wings—the wings grew from the shoulder blades, with a wingspan of about thirty centimeters.
In another tank was a puppy with two heads—both heads had their eyes closed, as if they were asleep.
In the third tank—was a human fetus.
About five or six months old.
There were scales on its arms.
Chen Mo's stomach turned.
He turned his head away, forcing himself not to look.
Then he heard footsteps.
Three people walked out from the depths of the laboratory, all wearing white lab coats.
The one walking in front—over fifty, bald, wearing gold-rimmed glasses—froze when he saw Chen Mo.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Chen Mo did not answer.
The bald researcher's gaze fell on the bone claws on Chen Mo's hands.
His expression changed.
He reached out to press the alarm on the wall.
Chen Mo moved.
Wolverine's speed—not the invisible speed of the The Flash, but fast enough to rush in front of the bald man before his hand could touch the alarm.
The bone claws swiped—the alarm was cut in half, sparks flying everywhere.
The three researchers were terrified and collapsed to the ground.
"Where are the experimental records for Compound V?" Chen Mo asked.
The bald researcher pointed to a safe in the corner that was about half a person's height.
Chen Mo walked over.
The safe was made of steel, with walls at least two centimeters thick.
He stabbed in with his bone claws—the metal made a harsh scraping sound.
He cut a circle along the edge, then pried it with force—the safe door fell to the floor with a dull thud.
Inside was a thick stack of folders.
The one on top, the cover read— "Red River InstituteExperimental Records · Volume 1 · 1986-2006".
Chen Mo picked up the stack of files and flipped through a few pages.
Each page was a record of a test subject—ID number, age, dosage, survival time, cause of death.
The earliest one—twenty years ago.
He heard Butcher's voice in his earpiece: "Five cars just arrived outside. Vought's. Get out fast."
Chen Mo stuffed the experimental records into his backpack and zipped it up.
He turned and glanced at the three researchers—they were still collapsed on the ground, their faces pale.
He turned and ran.
When he rushed out the gate, five black SUVs were already parked at the entrance.
The headlights were blinding, making him unable to open his eyes.
The car doors opened.
A person stepped out.
Dressed in full black Battle Armor.
An expressionless mask.
Two white eyes gleamed in the reflection of the headlights.
Black Noir.
Chen Mo's bone claws unsheathed again.
Black Noir did not speak.
He stood there like a black wall.
Then he moved.
Faster than any human.
Chen Mo didn't even see how he moved—he only felt a huge force slam into his face.
He flew backward, his back snapping three trees before he stopped.
He lay on the ground and spat out a mouthful of blood.
There were a few broken teeth mixed in the blood.
But the Healing Factor was working frantically.
The broken ribs reconnected within seconds.
The shattered teeth grew back from his gums.
He pushed himself up from the ground to stand.
Black Noir stood in front of him, less than five meters away.
Chen Mo wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and smiled.
"Is that it?"
Chapter 20 Experimental Records
Chen Mo scrambled up from the ground and spat out a mouthful of blood. The blood was mixed with a few broken teeth—but his Healing Factor was already at work repairing them. New teeth were pushing their way out from his gums, itching so much he wanted to scratch them. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear on his sleeve.
Black Noir stood where he was, making no move to pursue.
Chen Mo stood up and brushed the dirt off his body. His jacket was torn, and there was a boot print on his chest—Black Noir's kick just now had been heavy. But his ribs had already knitted back together. His breathing returned to normal. He could feel the broken bones fusing back together under the influence of his Healing Factor, a strange sensation of intertwined itching and heat.
"Come on," Chen Mo said.
Black Noir tilted his head. The movement was subtle—as if he were sizing him up. As if he were evaluating him. As if he were looking at something he wasn't sure how to handle.
Then, Black Noir held up a finger and shook it from side to side.
—You are no match for me.
Chen Mo understood. He clenched his fists, and his Talonunsheathed. Black Noir didn't move. Chen Mo charged—his Talon aimed straight at Black Noir's throat. He was fast; Wolverine's explosive power allowed him to cover the five-meter distance in an instant.
Black Noir dodged to the side, his speed akin to teleportation. At the same time, he punched Chen Mo in the ribs. Chen Mo went flying, slamming into the van, leaving a dent in the door. The Iron Skin groaned with a harsh, screeching sound, and the van's window shattered across the ground.
He stood up again.
Black Noir held up that finger again and shook it.
Chen Mo panted. He noticed something—on Black Noir's neck, at the edge of his Battle Armor, there was a small patch of skin with a different color. It wasn't the color of the black Battle Armor—it was a pale patch, like an old scar. The scar was about two centimeters long, lighter than the surrounding skin, with irregular edges.
He memorized that spot.
Then Black Noir turned and walked away.
No pursuit. No finishing blow. He just—walked away.
He walked back to the SUV and got inside. The door closed. The five vehicles started simultaneously, turned around, and vanished into the night. The red light of the taillights grew more distant until it was completely swallowed by the darkness.
Chen Mo stood where he was, gasping for air. His fingers were still dripping with blood—not his own, but the blood he had spat out. His Healing Factor was already repairing the wounds in his mouth.
Butcher's voice came through the earpiece: "You alright?"
"I'm fine."
"Did Black Noir leave?"
"He left."
"Why did he leave?"
Chen Mo watched the direction where Black Noir had disappeared. Under the cover of night, the lights of the vehicles faded further and further away until they vanished completely. The night wind blew over, carrying the scent of dirt and gasoline.
"I don't know," he said, "but when he saw me—he seemed to recognize me."
Butcher was silent for a few seconds: "Get in the van. We'll talk when we get back."
Chen Mo climbed into the van. Butcher stepped on the gas, and the van drove away from Red River into the night. The roar of the engine echoed on the empty night road. Chen Mo leaned back against the seat, clutching the backpack to his chest. Inside the bag were those experimental records—heavy, like a brick. He pressed his hand against the bag, feeling the thickness and stiffness of the paper.
He closed his eyes.
His mind was filled with the images from just a moment ago. The deformed specimens in the culture tanks—rats with wings, puppies with two heads, fetuses with scales growing on their arms. The children on the operating tables—IV lines inserted into their arms, transparent liquid dripping into their bodies drop by drop. Black Noir's head-tilting gesture. The finger Black Noir had held up.
And that patch of differently colored skin on Black Noir's neck.
That was an old scar.
Even Wolverine's claws could only leave shallow marks on Black Noir—what kind of attack could leave an old scar on him?
The van drove for an hour before stopping in front of an abandoned warehouse. The warehouse door was made of Iron Skin, covered in rust. Butcher killed the engine, the headlights went out, and the surroundings plunged into darkness.
Chen Mo followed Butcher inside. Only one hanging lamp was lit in the warehouse, casting a dim yellow light on the walls. Mothers Milk had already arrived, a laptop spread out in front of him, the light of the screen reflecting on his face. Frenchie was leaning against the wall smoking, the cigarette tip glowing intermittently in the dark. Kimiko sat on an old sofa, hugging her knees, a cup of untouched tea placed in front of her.
Chen Mo placed the backpack on the table, unzipped it, and took out the experimental records, stack by stack. The sound of paper rubbing together was exceptionally clear in the quiet warehouse.
There were seven books in total. Each one had over two hundred pages. The covers were plain kraft paper, stamped with the logo of the Red River Institute—a red "R" enclosed in a circle.
Mothers Milk picked up the top book and turned to the first page. His complexion turned pale little by little under the light. From a normal skin tone to grayish-white, and finally to deathly pale. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"What is it?" Butcher asked.
Mothers Milk didn't answer. He kept flipping. One page. Two pages. Ten pages. His fingers were trembling. The paper made a faint rustling sound in his hands.
"Fuck," he said.
"What the hell is it?" Butcher walked over.
Mothers Milk pushed the experimental record toward him: "See for yourself."
Butcher looked down for a moment. His expression didn't change—but his fingers gripping the beer bottle tightened. His knuckles turned white. The neck of the beer bottle made a faint creaking sound.
Frenchie walked over and took a look: "Damn it."
Kimiko didn't speak. She stood up, walked to the table, picked up an experimental record, and opened it. Her eyes moved across the text—then she closed the book and put it back on the table. She turned and walked back to the sofa, sat down again, and hugged her knees. Her movements were light, but every step she took was very slow.
Chen Mo picked up a book and opened it.
The first page:
"Subject ID: R-001. Age at injection: 4 years old. Compound V dosage: 5ml. Result: The subject experienced cardiac arrest 3 minutes and 27 seconds after injection. Resuscitation failed. Cause of Death: Compound V allergic reaction."
The second page:
"Subject ID: R-002. Age at injection: 5 years old. Compound V dosage: 5ml. Result: The subject experienced severe convulsions after injection and died after 12 hours. Cause of Death: Irreversible damage to the nervous system."
The third page. The fourth page. The fifth page.
Every page was a child.
Chen Mo kept flipping. His fingers moved across the pages, reading line by line. R-010, 4 years old, died 6 hours after injection. R-023, 5 years old, experienced organ failure after injection and died 3 days later. R-045, 6 years old, survived after injection—Note: Abilities unstable, died of ability loss of control 3 months later.
Every page was written neatly. It was as if the person writing the report was writing a routine experimental report, not recording the Death of a child.
Chen Mo flipped to the last page. ID R-347. Age at injection: 6 years old. Compound V dosage: 5ml. Result—Survived.
He glanced at the date. Ten years ago.
He kept flipping. Behind R-347, there was a handwritten note:
"Subject R-347 shows excellent ability adaptability. Recommend transfer to the Hero Training Program. Codename: Nighthawk."
Chen Mo's finger stopped on that line of text.
Nighthawk.
Park Ji-hoon.
Park Soon-ja's son.
Sent to Red River at six. Injected with Compound V. Survived. Recruited by Vought. Ten years later—killed by Homelander.
Chen Mo closed the experimental record. The kraft paper cover gleamed dully under the light.
The warehouse was quiet. Only the sound of Frenchiesmoking—the cigarette tip glowing intermittently in the dark. The smoke rose slowly under the light, like gray silk threads.
"Three hundred and forty-seven children," Mothers Milksaid, his voice hoarse, "the number that survived—forty-one."
"Forty-one?" Butcher said, "Isn't it twelve percent?"
"That's the number they tell the public," Mothers Milkflipped to the last page, "the actual survival rate—eleven point eight percent. Close enough."
Chen Mo's gaze landed on a record.
The ID didn't start with R—it started with S.
"S-017."
He picked up that record. The paper was thinner than the others, and the edges were slightly yellowed. There was no Red River Institute logo on the cover, only a handwritten ID—S-017.
"Subject S-017. Age at injection: 4 years old. Compound V dosage: Unknown. Ability: Unknown. Status: Transferred."
Transferred where?
He flipped to the next page.
There was only one line of text in the notes column—"Transferred to The White House. Special custody."
Chen Mo looked up.
Butcher looked at him: "S-017 isn't cargo. It's a person."
"A person who has been locked up in The White Housesince they were four."
Chen Mo's phone buzzed.
He looked down—Starlight.
"Do you have time tomorrow? I want to see you."
A message sent at three in the morning. It meant she couldn't sleep either.
Chen Mo replied with one word: "Okay."
Chapter 21: First Battle with Black Noir
The next afternoon, Chen Mo encountered Black Noir in the corridor of Vought Tower.
It was not a coincidence.
Black Noir stood at the end of the corridor like a black statue.
He stood with his hands behind his back, facing the window, looking at the city outside.
The afternoon sun shone in through the window, reflecting a faint halo on his black Battle Armor.
Chen Mo's footsteps slowed down.
There was no one else in the corridor.
It was lunch break, and most people had gone to eat.
The fluorescent lights buzzed, casting a cold white light reflecting off the tiled floor of the corridor.
There was a faint smell of disinfectant in the air—the cleaning lady had just mopped the floor.
Chen Mo hesitated for two seconds.
Then he continued walking forward.
His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, each step landing steadily.
When he passed by Black Noir, he paused for a moment.
Black Noir did not turn his head.
Chen Mo did not turn his head either.
But he said one sentence—his voice lowered, low enough that only the two of them could hear:
"That scar on your neck—who left it?"
Black Noir did not answer.
There was no reaction.
He was like a real statue.
Chen Mo continued walking forward.
He did not look back.
But he could feel Black Noir's gaze landing on his back—like a needle pricking his skin.
That feeling of being watched made the muscles in his back tense up involuntarily.
He walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the 48th floor.
The moment the elevator doors closed, he leaned against the elevator wall and let out a long breath.
His back was covered in cold sweat.
His shirt stuck to his back, feeling cold and clammy.
That night, he sat in his apartment and opened the experimental records he had brought back from Red River.
The light from the desk lamp shone on the pages, with neat printed fonts on the yellowing paper.
He found the page for S-017 and read it carefully.
"Experimental Subject S-017. Age of injection: 4 years old. Compound V dosage: Unknown. Ability: Unknown. Status: Transferred to The White House. Special custody."
He turned to the next page.
Blank.
He turned another page.
Blank.
In the entire experimental record, only this page mentioned S-017.
There were no follow-up records.
No description of abilities.
No experimental results.
No photos.
No information at all to explain who this person was.
It was as if this person didn't exist.
Chen Mo closed the record and leaned back in his chair.
The chair creaked.
He stared at the ceiling, his mind racing.
The old scar on Black Noir's neck floated before his eyes again.
What kind of attack could leave a scar on Black Noir?
Homelander's Heat Vision?
Some kind of ability he didn't know about?
Or—S-017?
He picked up his phone and sent a message to Butcher:
"Is there anything else regarding S-017's data besides that page in the experimental records?"
Butcher replied quickly:
"I've checked all channels. Nothing. It's as if S-017 was completely deleted from the system by someone."
Chen Mo stared at the screen.
Completely deleted.
There was only one person in Vought who could do this—Stan Edgar.
The documents in the safe at The White House flashed through his mind.
The recipient for every special order was "None," but a name appeared repeatedly in the remarks column—Stan Edgar.
He had taken photos of those documents and saved them on his phone.
He opened his photo album, flipped to those photos, and looked at them one by one.
Edgar knew what S-017 was.
Edgar knew where S-017 was.
Edgar—was the only person who might know the truth about S-017.
Chen Mo put down his phone and lay down.
The springs of the folding bed creaked.
The crack on the ceiling was still there.
The headlights from cars outside swept across the ceiling like slow-motion lightning.
He stared at that crack, his mind full of various fragments—Black Noir's scar, the painting in The White House, the records of S-017, and the name Stan Edgar.
He closed his eyes.
The movement of Black Noir tilting his head appeared in his mind.
That movement was not a threat.
It was—curiosity.
Black Noir was curious about who he was.
Chen Mo opened his eyes.
Black Noir knew him.
Not knowing "Chen Mo"—but knowing something on him.
Something similar to S-017.
He looked down at his hands.
Wolverine's ability was still there.
The bone claws were restless between his fingers, as if ready to stab out at any moment.
He clenched his fist, and his knuckles made a slight sound.
He remembered the finger Black Noir had raised.
—"You are no match for me."
But Black Noir did not kill him.
Why?
Chen Mo sat up.
He opened his phone and found a photo—it was the interior of The White House he had taken on the day of the reception.
There was a wall in the photo, and a painting hung on it.
The content of the painting was a woman holding a child, standing in a patch of light.
The frame was gold, looking very expensive.
He hadn't paid attention at the time.
He was busy looking for the safe and didn't have time to look at the decorations on the wall.
Looking at it now—the child's eyes were black.
Completely black.
No whites of the eyes.
Chen Mo zoomed in on the photo.
The resolution wasn't high enough, so it became blurry when zoomed in.
But he could see clearly—the child's eyes were indeed completely black, like two black glass beads.
Completely black eyes.
He remembered the record for S-017—"Ability: Unknown."
He put down his phone.
The light from the phone screen went out, and the room plunged back into darkness.
Outside the window, dawn was approaching.
A faint grayish-white appeared on the eastern horizon.
The streetlights were still on, but the light was already beginning to fade.
He had one more thing to do tonight—meet Starlight.
He stood up and put the experimental records into the drawer.
The desk lamp's light went out, and the room was plunged into darkness.
Outside the window, the New York skyline gradually became clear in the morning light—the outlines of those high-rises emerged from the darkness, like a photo developing.
He walked to the window and looked at the city outside.
Early risers were already walking on the streets.
A paperboy rode his bicycle through the block, a stack of newspapers piled in the basket.
A stray dog was rummaging for food near a trash can, its tail drooping.
He remembered the finger Black Noir had raised.
—"You are no match for me."
But Black Noir did not kill him.
Black Noir had the full ability to kill him.
That punch at Red River Institute had already proven it—Black Noir's strength was at least at the level of Captain America.
If Black Noir wanted to kill him, that punch wouldn't have missed.
If Black Noir wanted to kill him, he wouldn't have just raised a finger in the corridor.
Black Noir was hesitating.
Or rather—Black Noir was waiting.
Waiting for what?
Chen Mo didn't know.
But he knew one thing—Black Noir recognized something on him.
Something related to Zero.
Related to S-017.
Related to Stan Edgar.
He looked down at his hands.
Wolverine's ability was still there.
The bone claws were sleeping between his fingers—as long as he wanted, he could wake them up at any time.
That feeling was strange—like a Beast living inside his body, usually curled up quietly, but as soon as he gave the order, it would roar and rush out.
He clenched his fist.
Now was not the time.
He needed to see Starlight first.
She had sent a message yesterday saying she had something important to tell him—about how she joined The Seven.
About the things she had been forced to do.
About the secret she had kept in her heart for three years.
He picked up his phone and glanced at the time.
5:40 AM.
There were still a few hours until the agreed time.
He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes.
But he couldn't sleep.
His mind was full of Black Noir's head-tilting movement—that movement was not a threat, but curiosity.
Black Noir was curious about who he was.
He turned over.
The crack on the ceiling was looming in the dim light.
He remembered that painting in The White House—the woman holding the child, standing in a patch of light.
The child's eyes were completely black.
Completely black eyes.
Just like Zero.
Just like S-017.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
What relationship did Black Noir and Zero have?
Chapter 22 S-017
The next afternoon, at a remote café.
Starlight was wearing a hoodie with the hood up, sitting in the corner-most seat. A cold latte sat in front of her. She saw Chen Mo walk in and raised her hand slightly. The movement was small, as if she were afraid of attracting attention.
Chen Mo walked over and sat down opposite her. There weren't many people in the café, just two or three customers sitting by the window. The background music was playing a jazz song, the sound of the saxophone low and slow.
"You look like you haven't slept well," he said.
"You too."
Chen Mo nodded. He ordered a black coffee, and after it was served, he took a sip. Bitter. Just right. The bitterness of the caffeine made him a little more alert.
Starlight looked at him: "You went to Red River yesterday."
It wasn't a question.
Chen Mo didn't deny it: "Yeah."
"Did Butcher tell you?"
"No. Vought had an internal meeting this morning. The Red River Institute was breached. They said—'An unidentified Superhuman broke in and stole the experiment records.'" Starlight's voice was very low, low enough that only the two of them could hear. "I know it was you."
Chen Mo put down his coffee cup: "Are you afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid that I'll implicate you."
Starlight looked at him. In her eyes, there was exhaustion and worry, but more than that—determination. That kind of determination wasn't faked; it shone through from her very bones.
"I'm not afraid," she said. "I already told you—I choose to stand on your side."
Chen Mo didn't speak. He looked down at the black liquid in his coffee cup. The surface was as calm as a mirror, reflecting the lights from the ceiling.
"I want to tell you something," Starlight said.
Chen Mo looked up.
"About how I joined The Seven."
Starlight picked up the cold latte and took a sip. She frowned—it was cold and bitter. But she didn't put the cup down; instead, she gripped it, as if she needed something to hold onto. Her fingers tightened, her knuckles turning white.
"When I was eighteen, a Vought scout discovered me in Indiana," she said. "I was performing at a county talent show—I made my hands glow. It wasn't some amazing power. But in that small place, it was already shocking enough."
She smiled. The smile was light, carrying a hint of self-mockery.
"They signed me to a ten-year contract. Said I would become a member of The Seven. Said I would become a hero. Said I would change the World." She put down the cup. "I believed them at the time."
Chen Mo didn't speak. He watched her. Starlight's eyes were very calm, as if she were telling someone else's story.
"On my first day joining The Seven, Homelander called me into his office. He said—'Welcome aboard. But there's one rule for joining The Seven.'" Starlight's breathing became very light, as if her chest would automatically tighten when she said this sentence. "He said—'You must kill someone.'"
Chen Mo's fingers tightened on the tabletop. The wooden surface made a faint sound under his nails.
"I thought he was joking," Starlight said. "But he wasn't. He took me down to Basement Level 4—"
Chen Mo's pupils constricted.
"—There was a man tied to a chair there. An ordinary person. Not a criminal, not a villain. Just a—normal person who had seen something they shouldn't have. His eyes were blindfolded, and his mouth was stuffed with a rag. He was trembling."
"Homelander handed me a gun. Said—'Kill him.'"
Starlight's voice was flat. Like she was telling someone else's story. But her eyes betrayed her—there was a kind of hollowness in them, as if her soul had temporarily left her body while recalling the event.
"I refused. He said—'If you don't kill him, I'll kill your whole family.'"
She lowered her head, looking at her hands. Those hands had once glowed, had once been called "the hands of a hero."
"I killed that man."
Silence.
The café's background music was playing a jazz song. The saxophone's sound was low and slow, like some kind of mourning. The sunlight from outside shone in, casting a rectangular patch of light on the tabletop.
"From then on, I wasn't a hero anymore," Starlight said. "I was a murderer."
Chen Mo reached out and took her hand.
Starlight's fingers were very cold. As cold as ice cubes.
"You are not," he said.
Starlight looked up at him. Her eyes were red—but she wasn't crying. She bit her lower lip, as if she were holding something back.
"How do you know I'm not?"
"Because a real murderer wouldn't still be losing sleep over it three years later."
Starlight froze.
She just looked at Chen Mo like that for a long time. Then, her eyes finally couldn't hold it back anymore—tears slid down silently. She didn't wipe them. She let the tears flow, running down her chin and dripping onto the table. One drop, two drops, leaving dark water stains on the wooden tabletop.
Chen Mo stood up, walked around the table, and pulled her into his arms.
Starlight buried her face in his chest. Her shoulders were shaking. But she didn't make a sound—as if she were already used to crying silently. Her fingers gripped the front of his shirt, very tightly, her knuckles turning white.
After a long time, Starlight looked up.
Her eyes were red, but her expression had returned to calm. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and sniffled.
She said one sentence, her voice as small as a mosquito's:
"Tonight... don't leave me alone."
Chen Mo looked down at her.
"Okay."
Starlight stood up and wiped her face. Her eyes were still red, but her emotions had stabilized. She picked up the bag on the table, took out her wallet, and put a few bills on the table—coffee money.
"Let's go," she said.
Chen Mo stood up and followed her out of the café.
It was already dark outside. The streetlights had turned on, casting a dim yellow light on the damp street. The scent of food drifted from the restaurant across the street—the smell of barbecue, garlic, and tomato sauce mixed together. Two men in suits were standing at the doorway smoking, the red glow of their cigarette butts flickering in the darkness.
They walked side by side on the street. Starlight put her hands in her hoodie pockets, lowering her head and looking at her toes. Chen Mo walked beside her without speaking.
After walking for a while, Starlight stopped.
"You know," she said, "I've never told anyone this before. You're the first."
"I know."
"I had originally planned to never say it for the rest of my life. Let it rot in my stomach. Take it to the grave."
Chen Mo looked at her. Starlight's profile was very soft under the streetlights. A bit of undried tearstain still hung on her eyelashes, shimmering in the light.
"Then why tell me?"
Starlight was silent for a moment. She looked up at the distant sky. The night sky of New York wasn't black—it was dark red. The city's light pollution had dyed the sky that color. A few bright stars barely pierced through the light haze, emitting a faint light against the dark red background.
"Because you are the first person who makes me feel—" she thought for a moment, as if looking for the right words, "—safe."
Chen Mo didn't speak.
"In this city," Starlight continued, "everyone is acting. The people at Vought are acting as heroes. Politicians are acting as good people. Criminals are acting as ordinary people. No one is real. But you—" she turned her head to look at him, "you are real."
Chen Mo looked at her. Starlight's eyes were bright under the streetlights. Not the kind of brightness soaked by tears—it was a brightness that had been ignited.
"Let's go," he said. "I'll walk you back."
They continued walking forward. Their footsteps echoed on the quiet street. There was a siren in the distance, getting closer and then fading away. A black cat darted out from behind a trash can, crossed the street, and disappeared into the shadows of the alley opposite.
Chen Mo walked beside her, his hands in his pockets. He could feel Wolverine's bone claws sleeping between his fingers—that power could be awakened at any time. But he didn't need it now.
Now he just needed to walk.
Walk with her.
Chapter 23: Twelve Twisted Guns
Brooklyn, the small diner at the end of the alley.
Chen Mo dipped a fry into ketchup and popped it into his mouth.
Starlight sat opposite him. Her hair was tied up, and she wore a plain gray hoodie.
"Is it good?" she asked.
"Better than Vought's restaurant."
"Steaks at Vought's are three hundred dollars each."
"That's why I said it's better."
"You aren't serious, are you?"
"I am."
"Three hundred dollars can't compare to six dollars?"
"Price doesn't equal taste."
Starlight smiled. A very light smile.
"Are you afraid?" she asked.
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of being found."
"Let them find me. If they can, that's their skill."
"And after they find you?"
"We'll fight, then we'll talk."
"You always say 'we'll fight, then we'll talk.'"
"Because it works every time."
"How many times has it worked?"
"Every time."
The streetlamp outside the glass window flickered.
Chen Mo put down his fork.
"What's wrong?" Starlight asked.
"Don't look back."
"How many people?"
"Twelve. They all have guns."
Starlight took a deep breath. She reached under her hoodie. A Glock was tucked there.
The diner door was pushed open.
Bang. The glass hit the door frame.
The man who entered was tall. Over one meter ninety. Bald, a scar on his brow, wearing a black tactical jacket. A silver 'W' was embroidered on his chest.
The bald man's gaze stopped on Chen Mo.
He smiled. The kind of smile one gives prey.
"Chen Mo."
"Vought's?"
"Vought Cleanup Crew. Captain, just call me Old Wolf."
In the crack of the door, one after another, black shadows flashed in. Eleven. Plus the bald guy, twelve. They stood in a semicircle.
The owner pressed the alarm button. It didn't ring.
"Don't bother," Old Wolf said without looking back, "The signal outside is jammed."
He pulled out a chair and sat down.
"If you come out now, I'll only break your two legs."
Chen Mo finished the fries in his mouth.
"I'm eating."
"Then your girlfriend's face might need plastic surgery."
Old Wolf's eyes drifted toward Starlight. His gaze slid from her face to her neck.
"How much is this one worth?" someone asked.
"Vought's signature star, what do you think?"
Chen Mo took a deep breath.
"Can I finish my meal?"
Old Wolf was stunned for a second. He laughed.
"Did you hear that? He said—after he finishes his meal—"
"Boss, how about we hit him in the face first?"
The laughter stopped at Chen Mo's gaze.
That kind of calm. The kind of terrifyingly quiet calm at the very center of a storm.
"If you won't let me eat, then I won't."
Chen Mo stood up.
Starlight grabbed his wrist.
"Are you sure?"
"Sure."
"Twelve guns."
"I can see them."
Chen Mo patted the back of her hand.
"Sit. Don't move. Just watch."
Old Wolf stood up too. The corners of his mouth pulled upward.
"Kid, do you know who we are?"
"I know."
"You know and you still dare to stand up?"
"I only stood up because I knew."
"Got guts."
"That's more like a man."
He threw a punch. Iron Fist. Titanium knuckles. The wind whistled.
Chen Mo tilted his head.
The fist grazed his ear. Bang—a hole exploded in the wall.
"Missed."
Chen Mo extended his right hand. Two fingers.
Pressed against Old Wolf's chest.
A gentle push.
Crack.
Ribs broke. Old Wolf flew out. He smashed two tables and crashed into the bar. Glass shattered everywhere.
He lay in the broken glass. His chest was caved in.
"Boss!"
Chen Mo bent over. He grabbed his collar and dragged him back to the chair.
"You just said, you were going to break my two legs?"
Old Wolf was coughing up blood.
The rest of the people moved.
Drawing guns. Loading chambers.
"Don't move!"
"Kneel!"
"Damn it, shoot!"
Bullets flew over. The first shot. The second shot. A dense hail of bullets. The lightbulbs shattered. Fire from the muzzles shone in the darkness.
"Did we hit him?"
"We hit him!"
"Why hasn't he fallen?"
"I don't know—"
Chen Mo didn't dodge.
Bullets hit his chest.
Sss—
"Fuck... he's still standing—"
"Shoot his head! Shoot his head!"
The bullet heads were embedded in his skin. Muscles tightened. Tightened. Tightened. The metal was clamped. The bullet heads were nailed into the muscle layer.
He reached out. Two fingers pinched a bullet head.
Pulled it out.
Ding. It dropped to the ground.
"He... he pulled the bullet head out—"
"What is that thing—"
The second one. Collarbone position. Muscle tightened, clamped, exited, fell.
The third one. Shoulder.
Ding.
The fourth one. Arm.
Ding.
Chen Mo stood where he was. His feet hadn't moved. More than a dozen shallow bullet holes appeared on his body. The bullet heads in each hole were being squeezed out by his muscles.
The wounds were red. You could see the flesh turned inside out.
"The wounds are closing—"
"Cease fire! Cease fire!"
"Can't stop!"
"This is impossible!"
"I really saw it!"
Three seconds later. Muscles wriggled. The bullet heads were squeezed out, sliding down his skin. The wounds closed. Pink.
"He's healing! Healing right before my eyes!"
Five seconds later. Pink turned to normal skin color. No traces left.
The gunfire stopped.
"Where are the bullets?"
"Gone!"
"Mine are gone too, damn it!"
"All thirty-three are gone!"
The sound of empty magazines. Click. Click. Click.
"Reload!"
"Didn't bring extra—"
"Then what do we do now?"
"How would I know!"
Chen Mo grabbed a fry from the table. Popped it into his mouth. Chewed.
"Cold."
Then he moved.
No one saw the process.
The first person's gun was in his hand. The barrel was gripped. Creak—creak—creak. The iron pipe twisted into a pretzel.
"My gun—"
The second. Creak—
The assault rifle was crushed flat. Bullets squeezed out of the magazine.
The third. Creak—creak—
The double-barrel shotgun's barrels were crushed into one.
"Back off! Back off!"
"Can't get close!"
The fourth. The fifth. The sixth.
"Don't—don't come over—"
"Run! Run!"
The seventh. The eighth. Creak—
"I'm done—"
"Me too!"
The ninth. Creak—
The tenth. Creak—
"Com—completely finished—"
"We're finished."
"How did he do it?"
"Don't ask me!"
A pile of scrap iron lay on the ground.
The eleventh person was retreating. The gun barrel was shaking. The sound of teeth chattering together could be heard clearly in the quiet diner.
Chen Mo walked up to him.
"Don't—please—"
The man fired. The last bullet.
Chen Mo reached out. The bullet hit his palm. He opened his hand. The bullet head was flattened.
"You... you are a monster..."
The gun dropped to the floor. The man knelt down.
Chen Mo turned and walked to Old Wolf.
Old Wolf looked up at him. In his eyes was the kind of fear after knowing what he'd encountered didn't belong to this World.
"You... you fucking are... what are you..."
Chen Mo didn't answer.
He kicked the last two broken guns to Old Wolf's feet.
"Kneel properly. Count the bullet heads on the ground clearly. Thirty-three in total."
Old Wolf tried to stand up. Couldn't hold it. Knelt down.
"Thirty-three... heads..."
"You remember it while you're counting."
Old Wolf lowered his head. Blood dripped onto the floor. His fingers trembled as he went to touch the brass casings.
"You didn't... didn't count..."
"I don't need to."
Chen Mo walked back to the cashier.
The owner was huddled under the bar. His eyes were wide.
Chen Mo pulled out a few banknotes. Put them on the bar.
"Deduct the damages from this."
The owner nodded incessantly.
Chen Mo walked to Starlight.
"Seen enough?" he asked.
"Not enough."
"Then watch next time."
"You do this every time?" she asked.
"What way?"
"Standing there and letting others shoot you."
"Not really."
"Then what is it?"
"Depends on the situation."
Starlight stared at him. From head to toe. More than a dozen bullet holes in his hoodie. Nothing on the exposed skin.
"Do you hurt?"
"Doesn't hurt."
"Someone is behind us."
"Mm."
"Are you okay?"
"It's them who aren't okay."
"Let's go."
Chen Mo reached out.
Starlight didn't take it. She stood up herself.
Pushed open the diner door. The night wind blew in his face. Four black SUVs were parked at the alley entrance.
He walked toward the street corner.
Starlight followed behind.
"You know Vought won't let this go."
"I know."
"Aren't you afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"Homelander. Vought."
"If I'm afraid, will they stop looking for me?"
"No."
"Then what's the use of being afraid?"
After walking five steps, Starlight stopped.
"Chen Mo."
He turned back.
Starlight stood under the streetlamp.
"No one—is like you—wounds healing alive before your eyes."
Her voice was very light.
"I've seen many superpowered people," Starlight said, "They are strong. But they aren't like this."
"What way?"
"They have to catch their breath after a fight. Your wounds heal faster than theirs."
"Isn't that good?"
"Good. But this speed—is not the speed of a superpowered person."
"What exactly are you?"
"What do you think?"
"I don't know."
"If you don't know, then don't think about it."
"I want to know."
"I'll tell you next time."
"Next time?"
"If you treat me to dinner next time."
Starlight looked at him. The night wind blew her hair up.
"This is extortion."
"This is negotiating conditions."
"A meal for a secret?"
"Fair trade."
Starlight stared at him for five seconds. Then she smiled a little.
"Fine. Deal."
"Let's go."
She walked up. Side by side.
The wind in the alley blew past. Old Wolf knelt in the diner, still counting the bullet heads.
"Eighteen," he said with a hoarse voice, "Nineteen..."
"Boss, can you stand up?"
Old Wolf didn't answer.
"Twenty... twenty-one..."
Someone cried. A very low sobbing sound.
"Twenty-two..."
The sound rang in the empty diner. No one listened.
Chapter 24: The Flash
On Sunday night, the powers of Wolverine began to fade.
Chen Mo sat on the sofa in Starlight's apartment, looking at his hands.
Bone claws protruded from between his knuckles—then slowly retracted. Protruded again. Retracted again. It was like some sort of farewell ceremony.
He did this several times, feeling the sensation of the bone claws piercing his skin—a pain that had become familiar, even slightly intimate.
"What are you doing?" Starlight poked her head out from the kitchen. She was making tea, and the kettle was gurgling.
"Saying goodbye to my powers."
Starlight walked over, sat beside him, and watched the last traces of the bone claws on his hands disappear. The skin sealed back up, smooth as if nothing had ever happened. She reached out and touched his fingers—warm, normal.
"What's next week?"
"Don't know. It's a lottery."
"A lottery?"
"Yeah. It spins once a week. It's different every time."
Starlight looked at him: "So your powers—they didn't come from Compound V?"
Chen Mo was silent for a moment. He thought about it, then said:
"No."
Starlight didn't press him. She just nodded and leaned on his shoulder. Her hair smelled of sweet orange shampoo. The night breeze blew in from outside, carrying the warmth of early summer.
11:59 PM.
Deep within his consciousness, the wheel began to spin. Red, blue, gold, silver—flashes of various colors streaked by. The speed increased, faster and faster, until the colors blurred together into a single white light.
Click.
Stop.
A new power surged into his body. It wasn't the violent power of Wolverine—it was a light, wind-like power. It didn't explode from his chest like Wolverine's; instead, it flowed down from the top of his head like Water, cascading down his spine, through his limbs, and finally gathering at his fingertips.
The Flash.
The moment the power was injected, the World changed.
He could see the second hand of the clock on the wall moving slowly—not "slowly," but almost stationary. He could see Starlight blink—her eyelids slowly closing and then slowly opening, like a slow-motion shot. He could hear his own heartbeat—thump—stretched out into a low, rumbling roar, like distant thunder.
He stood up.
He tried to take a step.
He slammed straight into the wall.
"Fuck!"
Starlight was startled: "What happened?"
"Too fast." Chen Mo rubbed his shoulder, "I can't control it." His shoulder, where he'd hit the wall, was burning with pain.
It took him a whole hour to learn how to control his speed. Not "learn"—more like "barely able to walk." He hit the wall five times, fell three times, knocked over a cup, and stepped on Starlight's cat (even though the cat wasn't there). Every fall made a loud noise, and Starlight was beside him, laughing until she couldn't straighten up.
But by 1:00 AM, he could walk normally in the room. Although he had to deliberately slow down every step, at least he wasn't hitting the wall anymore.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Starlight looked at the bruise on his forehead. The bruise shone purple under the light.
"I'm fine. It'll be better tomorrow."
"What are you planning to do tomorrow?"
Chen Mo looked out the window. The lights of Vought Tower flickered in the distance. The building stood in the night like a huge black silhouette, with the lights on the top floor lit—Homelander was still up there.
"Go to work."
When he went to work on Monday, Chen Mo used the speed of The Flash to do one thing—within thirty seconds of his lunch break, he scanned the entire Vought security system.
Not "browsing"—"memorizing."
The Flash's brain processed information hundreds of times faster than a normal person. He stood at the entrance of the security control room, scanning the surveillance screens with his eyes—twelve screens, each with sixteen feeds. He memorized every feed. He memorized the location of every door. He memorized the patrol route of every security guard. He memorized the location and model of every keypad lock.
Then he found the location where S-017 was being held.
Basement Level 4.
But the security of Basement Level 4 was linked to Homelander's vital sign monitoring system. As long as someone broke in, Homelander would know within three seconds. Three seconds. From Basement Level 4 to Homelander's room, the elevator took fifteen seconds. But Homelander didn't need the elevator—he could fly. He would use Heat Vision to burn through the floor. He would appear in front of you in an instant.
Chen Mo stood in the lobby, watching the crowd coming and going. Employees in suits, heroes in uniforms, cleaning staff in cleaning uniforms—no one noticed him.
He knew where S-017 was.
But to save that person, he had to face Homelander head-on.
And although The Flash was fast—he wasn't faster than Heat Vision.
He stood in the center of the lobby, surrounded by employees in suits and heroes in uniforms. No one noticed him. No one knew what was in the mind of this seemingly ordinary intern.
He looked down at his hands.
The power of The Flash flowed at his fingertips like a subtle electric current. He could feel that speed surging in his veins, ready to erupt at any moment.
Fast.
But not fast enough.
Chen Mo stood in the center of the lobby, watching the crowd coming and going. Employees in suits, heroes in uniforms, cleaning staff in cleaning uniforms—no one noticed him. No one knew what was in the mind of this seemingly ordinary intern.
He turned and walked to the elevator, pressing the button for the 48th floor.
The elevator doors closed, and it began to rise. The numbers jumped—1, 2, 3, 4... He could feel the speed of the elevator rising—in The Flash's perception, everything had slowed down. The vibration of the elevator cables, the meshing of the gears, the sound of the pulleys sliding along the tracks—every detail was as clear as a slow-motion shot.
He closed his eyes and constructed a 3D map of Vought Tower in his mind.
Basement Level 4 was at the very bottom, requiring passage through three layers of security doors. The first layer was in the B1 lobby, requiring an employee card. The second layer was on B3, requiring fingerprint verification. The third layer was at the entrance to Basement Level 4, requiring triple verification—fingerprint, iris, and password.
And Homelander's room was on the top floor.
From the top floor to Basement Level 4, the straight-line distance was about two hundred meters. If Homelanderflew—three seconds.
Three seconds.
From triggering the alarm to Homelander appearing in front of you—only three seconds.
Chen Mo opened his eyes. The elevator reached the 48th floor. The doors opened.
He walked out of the elevator and headed toward his workstation. The corridor was empty; most people hadn't returned from their lunch break. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a cold light on the white walls.
He sat down and turned on his computer. The screen lit up, displaying the standard blue Vought desktop.
He stared at the screen, fingers tapping on the keyboard—pretending to write a report. But his mind was racing.
Three seconds.
How could he save Zero within three seconds and then evacuate safely?
Creating chaos with a fire alarm—that was one option. But the fire alarm would only evacuate regular employees; it couldn't stop Homelander. Homelander wouldn't be scared by a fire. He would fly over directly, use Heat Visionto burn through the floor, and find you.
Using the speed of The Flash—that was also an option. But The Flash's speed wasn't infinite. Running one kilometer consumed a huge amount of stamina. If Homelander chased him—The Flash might be fast, but his physique wasn't as good as Homelander's.
He needed a plan that could block Homelander.
He needed—something that could temporarily hold Homelander back.
Something that could distract him.
Chen Mo leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. The ceiling was white, with a fluorescent light in the middle, humming.
He thought of Zero's words again—
"Your soul comes from elsewhere."
He looked down at his hands.
The power of The Flash flowed at his fingertips like a subtle electric current. He could feel that speed surging in his veins, ready to erupt at any moment.
Fast.
But not fast enough.
He needed to be faster.
He needed—to be faster than The Flash.
Chapter 25: Maeve's Warning
On Tuesday morning, Chen Mo was stopped by Maeve in the hallway.
She was holding a protein shake, leaning against the wall, as if waiting for him. There was no one else in the hallway. It was lunch break, and most people had gone to eat. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a cold white light on the tiled floor of the hallway.
"You and Starlight are getting very close," she said.
Chen Mo stopped. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of the ventilation system. Maeve's voice wasn't loud, but it sounded very clear in the empty corridor.
"She's a good person," Chen Mo said.
Maeve looked at him. That look wasn't a threat—it was a complex, indescribable expression. It was as if she were weighing something, hesitating over something.
"A good person?" Maeve repeated, then laughed—not a friendly laugh, but a "you're too naive" kind of laugh. "In this company, 'being a good person' and'staying alive' usually don't go together."
Chen Mo didn't speak. He looked at Maeve. Maeve's hair was tied in a neat ponytail, and she was wearing a sports tank top and leggings, her arm muscles clearly defined. She looked like she had just come from the gym.
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm trying to say—if you really care about her, don't drag her into this."
"Drag her into what?"
Maeve didn't answer. She took a sip of her protein shake, then turned and walked away. Her steps were steady, each one landing firmly.
After a few steps, she stopped and said without looking back:
"Don't touch the matter of Basement Level 4. That's not something you can handle."
Then she left. Her silhouette turned at the end of the hallway and disappeared around the corner.
Chen Mo stood where he was.
His blood ran cold. This wasn't a metaphor—he truly felt a chill rising from the soles of his feet, crawling up his spine.
Maeve knew about Basement Level 4. She knew he was investigating it. She was warning him—but the warning sounded more like a reminder. It was as if she were saying, "I know what you're doing, but I won't stop you; I'm just reminding you to be careful."
Whose side was she really on?
Chen Mo returned to his workstation and sat for a long time. He stared at the computer screen, which displayed the standard blue Vought desktop with the Vought logo in the center—a white V inside a circle. He recalled the look in Maeve's eyes when she watched Homelander at the reception—not adoration, not love, but a sense of helplessness that said, "I know what you are, but there's nothing I can do." He had seen that look too many times—in the experimental records of the Red River Institute, on the faces of the children destroyed by Compound V, and in Starlight's eyes when she spoke about "I killed that person."
He opened his computer, pretending to work on emails. A new email popped up on the screen—a Vought internal security notice reminding all employees to be on the lookout for "suspicious individuals." He didn't open it. But his mind kept racing—Maeve knew about Basement Level 4. Maeve knew about S-017. Maeve was warning him.
But Maeve hadn't told Homelander.
If she were truly on Homelander's side, she wouldn't have come to warn him—she would have reported him directly. An email, a phone call, and Homelander would know everything. Then he would be eliminated—just like The Deep, an "accidental Death."
She chose to warn him.
What did that mean?
Chen Mo picked up his phone, thinking of sending a message to Butcher. But he thought better of it and put it down.
He couldn't tell Butcher everything.
Butcher had his own plans. Butcher had his own goals. Butcher—wasn't necessarily a friend. Butcher wanted to take down Homelander, which aligned with Chen Mo's goal. But Butcher's methods—"leave no survivors"—were different from Chen Mo's principles.
Chen Mo leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. The ceiling was white, with a fluorescent light in the center, emitting a buzzing sound.
The only person he could trust now—was himself.
And Starlight.
He opened his chat history with Starlight. Last night, she had sent a message: "Good night. See you tomorrow."
He had replied with one word: "Okay."
Then he turned off his phone and continued to pretend to work. His fingers tapped on the keyboard, typing out lines of meaningless text—it looked like he was writing a report, but in reality, he hadn't taken in a single word.
But his hands kept hovering over the keyboard, not typing a single word.
He was thinking about what Maeve had said—
"Don't touch the matter of Basement Level 4."
Too late.
He had already touched it.
Chen Mo leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. The fluorescent light buzzed, the white light shining on his face, making his eyes feel a bit dry. The The Flash's power flowed in his veins—he could feel that speed ready to burst out at any moment. But he didn't need speed right now. He needed to think.
He remembered the first time he saw Maeve—at a meeting of The Seven. She was sitting at the other end of the long table, a glass of water untouched in front of her. She hadn't spoken the entire time. Only when Homelander was speaking did she occasionally nod. That nod wasn't agreement—it was a perfunctory gesture that said, "I know what you're saying, but I can't be bothered to argue."
He remembered the look in Maeve's eyes when she watched Homelander at the reception—not adoration, not love. It was a kind of—helplessness that said, "I know what you are, but there's nothing I can do."
Maeve knew everything.
She knew what Homelander was. She knew what Vought was doing. She knew who was locked up in Basement Level 4. She knew what had happened at the Red River Institute. She knew everything—but she hadn't done anything.
It wasn't that she didn't want to.
It was that she couldn't.
Chen Mo straightened up and picked up his phone. He opened his chat history with Butcher—the last message was from Butcher: "News from Red River, Vought has started an internal investigation. Be careful."
He stared at that message for a long time.
Butcher knew what he was doing. Butcher supported him. But Butcher had his own plans—Butcher wanted to take down Homelander, and as for how many people would die or who would be sacrificed in the process—Butcher didn't care.
Chen Mo turned off his phone and placed it on the desk.
He began to re-examine the whole situation.
Butcher had given him the address of the Red River Institute. Butcher had helped him find out about the existence of S-017. Butcher would send a message to confirm after every action he took. But Butcher had never asked about his plans—never asked, "How do you intend to save S-017?" or "How do you intend to deal with Homelander?"
Butcher was just waiting.
Waiting for him to make a scene. Waiting for him to attract Vought's attention. Waiting for him to become a target.
And then—Butcher would strike at some critical moment.
Chen Mo tapped his fingers lightly on the desk twice.
He couldn't fully trust Butcher.
He needed his own plan.
He opened his computer and created a new blank document. The cursor blinked on the screen, as if waiting for him to write something.
He thought for a moment, then typed a line in the document:
"Plan B: If everything goes out of control—"
Then he stopped and looked at that line.
If everything went out of control—what should he do?
He didn't know.
But he knew one thing—he couldn't let Starlight get involved. Couldn't let Park Soon-ja get involved. Couldn't let anyone he cared about get involved.
He deleted that line and closed the document.
Then he stood up and walked toward the elevator.
He needed to go see someone—Zero.
The woman with all-black eyes who was locked in Basement Level 4. The test subject who had been modified by Stan Edgar.
Chapter 26: Basement Level 4
2:00 AM, Wednesday.
Chen Mo stood before the entrance to Basement Level 4 of Vought Tower.
A half-meter-thick alloy door. Triple verification—fingerprint, iris, password. The door's surface was as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the faint green light of the emergency lamps in the corridor. There were no handles on the door, only three sensors embedded side-by-side in the metal surface.
He tried The Flash's vibration ability.
His body began to vibrate at an extremely high frequency—molecules leaping on the surface of his skin, like countless ants crawling over it. He placed his hand on the door.
It wouldn't pass through.
It was too thick. A half-meter-thick alloy; the molecular arrangement was too dense. His vibration frequency was not enough to allow his body to pass through such thick metal.
He withdrew his hand and stood before the door. Fingerprint, iris, password—he had none of them. The corridor was quiet, save for the humming of the ventilation system and the occasional chime of an elevator in the distance.
Just as he was about to give up—
The door opened.
He didn't open it.
It was opened from the inside.
The door slid open silently inward, revealing the space behind it. The emergency light from the corridor shone inside, illuminating a thin, frail figure.
A woman stood behind the door.
Black eyes. Completely black—no whites. It was like two black glass beads embedded in her eye sockets. She wore a white hospital gown and stood barefoot on the cold metal floor. Her hair was very long, draped over her shoulders, as if it hadn't been cut in a long time. It was a bit tangled, but it looked clean.
"I knew you would come," she said.
Her voice sounded like two people speaking at once—one deep, one high-pitched. The two voices overlapped, sounding as if they came from very far away, yet also from very close by. That sound made the hairs on Chen Mo's arms stand up.
Chen Mo took a step back. His heart rate accelerated. Not out of fear—but shock.
"Who are you?"
"I am Zero."
Chen Mo froze. He looked at the woman before him—she appeared to be in her twenties. There was no expression on her face, but those completely black eyes... those completely black eyes reminded him of the child in the painting on the wall of The White House. Exactly the same. Completely black. No whites.
"Why are you locked in here?"
"Because I know too much."
"What do you know?"
Zero—Chen Mo had given her this name in his mind—tilted her head. The movement was exactly the same as Black Noir's. It wasn't a coincidence—it was some kind of habit etched into her bones.
"I know who you are," she said, "There is something about you—unlike me. You possess a power whose source I cannot perceive. You are not a product of Compound V."
She took a step forward.
Her bare feet stepped on the metal floor without a sound. Her footsteps were as light as a cat's.
"What exactly are you?"
Chen Mo did not speak. He looked into those completely black eyes. There were no pupils in those eyes, no light—but he could feel that she was "looking" at him. Not looking with her eyes—but perceiving him in a way he could not understand. It was like she was scanning him, from the inside out.
"You are like me," she said.
Chen Mo watched her.
"Your emotions—they feel hollowed out," Zero's voice was very soft, "I spent ten years at White Oak and saw many children like me. They all had something inside them—hatred, fear, the desire to survive. But you... there is nothing inside you."
The corridor was quiet. Only the humming of the ventilation system. The emergency light cast a faint green glow upon the two of them.
Chen Mo leaned against the wall. The wall was cool, the chill seeping through his shirt onto his skin. The blank fragments in his mind were spinning.
Zero said he was like her. She meant—he had also been locked away for a long time.
He should be afraid.
But he wasn't.
He stood up straight.
"Even if I have forgotten—so what?"
Zero froze for a moment. She tilted her head, as if re-evaluating him.
"I saved Park Soon-ja. I helped Starlight delete her location records. I took down the Red River Institute." These things were true.
"I don't remember who I am. But the things I have done are real."
Zero looked at him, silent for a long time. Those completely black eyes stared at him unblinkingly.
Then she smiled.
That smile wasn't the eerie kind of "you've come" smile—it was real. Like a normal person who had finally met someone who could understand her. The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, and there were faint lines at the corners of her eyes.
"You are so like him."
"Like who?"
"Edgar. He always said that too—'The things I am doing are real.'"
Chen Mo looked at her.
"I'm going to get you out."
Zero shook her head: "You can't save me. This door is linked to Homelander's vital signs. As soon as I leave Basement Level 4, Homelander will know immediately."
Chen Mo watched her.
"Then let him come."
Zero looked at him, and something in those completely black eyes shifted—not surprise, not fear, but a sense of familiarity—a "I have seen this look before" feeling.
"You are so like him," she said again.
"Like who?"
"Edgar. He said the exact same words—'Then let him come.'"
Chen Mo watched her. Zero's expression was calm, but something was flowing inside those completely black eyes—like ink diffusing in water. The movement was slow, but Chen Mo could clearly see it—black liquid slowly swirling on the surface of her eyeballs.
"Stan Edgar?"
Zero nodded.
"Did Edgar modify you?"
"Not modified," Zero said, "He destroyed me. I was chosen by him when I was four. He injected me with Compound V—not ordinary Compound V. It was modified. He called me 'Zero.' Because I was the first—and the only one who survived."
Chen Mo was silent for a moment. He looked at Zero—she appeared to be in her twenties. Chosen at four. Twenty years of modification, experimentation, imprisonment. Twenty years of darkness.
"What is your power?"
Zero looked at him. Those completely black eyes stared at him unblinkingly. Then she said:
"I can see the essence of people."
"What do you mean?"
"Not the surface—but the essence. Who you are. Where you come from. What color your soul is."
Chen Mo did not speak. He remembered what Zero had said—'Your soul comes from elsewhere.' He remembered the first time he arrived in this World—standing in the center of Times Square, looking at the surrounding high-rises and billboards, his mind completely blank.
"My soul—what color is it?"
Zero tilted her head. The movement was exactly the same as Black Noir's—not a coincidence, but some kind of habit etched into her bones. Perhaps when Edgar modified them, he had implanted the same movement patterns.
"Transparent," she said, "I have never seen a transparent soul before."
"What does transparent mean?"
"It means—you do not belong anywhere. You have not been colored by this World."
Chen Mo leaned against the wall. The wall was cool, the chill seeping through his shirt onto his skin. He looked at Zero—those completely black eyes appeared particularly eerie in the green light of the emergency lamp. But the expression on her face was not eerie—it was sincere. Every word she spoke was true.
"You—" Zero began, her voice shifting back to that dual tone—one deep, one high-pitched, "—aren't you afraid?"
Chen Mo looked at her.
"Afraid of what?"
"Knowing your soul is transparent. Knowing you don't belong here."
Chen Mo was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"I am afraid. But being afraid is useless."
Zero froze for a moment. Then she smiled—the smile was very light, as if she hadn't used that expression in a long time.
"You really are so like him."
Chapter 27: I Remember
When Chen Mo walked out of Basement Level 4, his legs felt weak.
Not from fear.
It was that sentence Zero said, echoing repeatedly in his mind: "Your emotions—they feel like they've been hollowed out."
He leaned against the corridor wall and closed his eyes.
The wall was cold, and the chill seeped through his shirt onto his skin.
The corridor was very quiet, with only the buzzing sound of the fluorescent lights.
He had been hollowed out.
He had always felt that there was a barrier between him and this World—all that darkness, that corruption, those suffocating injustices.
He had always thought it was because he was more clear-headed than others.
Because he still retained a shred of conscience.
But now he knew.
It was because he had forgotten.
He had forgotten everything from before he was six.
Forgotten his own name.
Forgotten how he came to Red River.
Forgotten who called for him to run on the day of the Fire.
His memory was a blank White wall—there was nothing on it.
He opened his eyes.
The corridor was empty, and the fluorescent lights shone on the White walls, reflecting a glaring light.
He stood up straight.
Then he smiled.
Not a bitter smile.
Not a self-deprecating laugh.
It was a smile that said, "Then I'll just have to remember it back."
He remembered many things.
He remembered the serial numbers in the Red River Institute experimental records—R-001 to R-347, with a forgotten child behind every number.
These people needed to be remembered.
What he was doing was real.
As for what he had forgotten—he would remember it one day.
He walked back to the entrance of Basement Level 4.
Zero was still standing behind the door, her eyes, devoid of whites, watching him.
She looked as if she knew he would definitely come back.
"I've made up my mind," Chen Mo said.
Zero tilted her head.
"Even if I don't remember anything—so what?"
Zero did not speak.
"I saved Park Soon-ja.
I helped Starlight delete her location records.
I took down the Red River Institute.
These things are real.
I don't remember who I am.
But what I've done is real."
Zero looked at him, silent for a long time.
Something was changing in her eyes—not anger, not surprise, but a kind of... recognition.
Then she smiled.
That smile wasn't the eerie kind of "You've come"; it was real.
Like a normal person who had finally met someone who could understand her.
"You're really like him."
"Like who?"
"Edgar.
He always said the same thing—'What I am doing is real.'"
Chen Mo looked at her.
"What did Edgar do to you?"
Zero's smile vanished.
Her expression became calm, but within that calmness was something indescribable—not sadness, but a sense of relief, like "I can finally tell this secret."
"Stan Edgar."
Chen Mo's breath hitched for a second.
"Edgar modified you?"
"Not modified," Zero said, "but ruined me.
I was chosen by him when I was four.
He injected me with Compound V—not ordinary Compound V.
It was modified.
He called me 'Zero'.
Because I was the first—and the only one who survived."
"What is your ability?"
Zero looked at him.
Something was flowing within those pitch-black eyes—like ink diffusing in Water.
The flow was very slow, but Chen Mo could clearly see it—black liquid slowly swirling on the surface of her eyeballs.
"I can feel people's emotions—the ones in the deepest parts.
Not the surface ones, but the ones they hide."
Chen Mo did not speak.
"Your emotions—" Zero said, "are empty.
I have never seen someone so empty."
"What do you mean by empty?"
"It means—you can't hold anything in your heart anymore.
You've locked everything away."
Chen Mo was silent for a moment.
"So what?"
Zero was taken aback.
"I don't care what I hold in my heart," Chen Mo said. "What I care about is—what I can do."
Zero looked at him.
There was something indescribable in that gaze—not surprise, but a sense of familiarity, like "I've seen this look before."
"What do you want to do?" she asked.
"Save you and get you out. Then—take down Homelander."
Zero was silent for a long time.
Then she reached out her hand.
"Okay."
Chen Mo took her hand.
Her hand was very cold, as cold as an ice cube.
Her fingers were slender and bony—as if she had never been fully fed.
He gripped her hand tightly, feeling her fingers tighten slightly, as if she hadn't had her hand held in a long time.
"Do you have a plan?" Zero asked.
"Fire alarm," Chen Mo said. "I will use The Flash's speed to trigger the fire alarm for the whole building.
Cut the power to Basement Level 4.
Then carry you out."
"What about Homelander?"
"Three seconds," Chen Mo said. "From the moment the alarm sounds to when he reacts, I only have three seconds."
Zero looked at him.
There was no fear in those pitch-black eyes—only a calm acceptance.
It was as if she were already used to being pushed around by fate, used to leaving life and death for others to decide.
"What if three seconds isn't enough?"
Chen Mo was silent for a moment.
Then he said: "Then we'll take a gamble."
Zero did not speak.
She lowered her head and looked at her own hands—the hands that had been locked away for ten years.
There were no scars or calluses on her fingers.
Vought had taken good care of her—like a precious test subject that needed to be kept in perfect condition.
"Why do you want to save me?" she asked.
Chen Mo looked at her.
Zero's black eyes looked exceptionally deep in the green light of the emergency lamp.
He thought for a moment, then said: "Because you shouldn't be locked up here."
"Just that simple?"
"Just that simple."
Zero raised her head.
Something was changing in those pitch-black eyes—not being moved, not gratitude.
It was a complex expression that said, "I haven't heard such simple words in a long time."
"You know," Zero said, "I've been locked up here for ten years.
In ten years, I've seen many people.
Scientists, security guards, janitors, Homelander.
Everyone looked at me with different eyes—the scientists saw me as a test subject, the security guards saw me as a prisoner, the janitors saw me as a monster, Homelandersaw me as a toy."
She paused.
"But the way you look at me—it's like looking at a person."
Chen Mo did not speak.
Zero smiled.
The smile was very light, as if she hadn't used that expression in a long time.
The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, and there were faint lines at the corners of her eyes—one of the few expressions she had that belonged to a "person."
"Okay," she said, "I'll go with you."
Chen Mo released her hand.
He glanced at his watch—1:40 AM.
"2:00 AM tomorrow," he said. "I will come."
Zero nodded.
"Wait for me," Chen Mo said.
He turned and walked toward the elevator.
After a few steps, he stopped and looked back.
Zero was still standing behind the door.
Those pitch-black eyes were watching him in the green light of the emergency lamp.
The corners of her mouth still held that smile from before—very light, but very real.
"What is your name?" Chen Mo asked.
Zero was taken aback.
She tilted her head—the same gesture as Black Noir.
"Zero."
"I'm not asking for your serial number. I'm asking for your name."
Zero was silent for a long time.
Then she said: "I don't have a name."
Chen Mo looked at her.
"Then from now on—you have a name."
Zero looked at him, something flickering in those pitch-black eyes.
"What name?"
"Zero," Chen Mo said. "Not a serial number. A name. 'Zero'—it represents a new beginning."
Zero did not speak.
She lowered her head and looked at her own hands.
"Zero," she repeated softly, as if savoring the taste of the word.
Then she raised her head and smiled.
"Okay. My name is Zero."