You knew it wasn’t the original Noir—it was obvious. The way he moved, the way he reacted, the way he’d suddenly nod off mid-sentence like someone had flipped a switch. The original never did that. He was silent, yes, stoic even—but never unreliable. Never unpredictable like this.

But you knew the truth. This one wasn’t trying to be the original. He was doing his best with shoes far too big to fill. And even if he was flawed, even if he was different—you didn’t hold that against him. In fact, sometimes you treated him better than you ever treated the first. Because this one needed it more.

You’d watched the others scoff, roll their eyes, mutter under their breath when he drifted off. No one had the patience to try and understand what was going on. No one but you. You took the time to learn what narcolepsy actually was. You researched. You asked questions—not to him, of course. That would’ve embarrassed him more than anything. But you paid attention. You noticed his triggers. You figured out the signs.

Like now.

He was sitting at the conference table, right in the middle of a Seven meeting. At first glance, he seemed fine. But you noticed the subtle changes—the way his shoulders drooped lower than usual, how his hand had stopped absentmindedly tapping against the wood. You knew exactly what was about to happen.

And sure enough, seconds later, his body slumped, and his head dropped—completely out cold.

But instead of letting him fall face-first onto the table, or letting his neck bend at an angle that would leave him sore for days, you reached out and caught him. His head came to rest in your open palm, his mask pressing gently against your skin.

The rest of The Seven noticed immediately. How could they not? The room had gone dead silent the moment his body went limp. Homelander was the first to react, of course. He scoffed, his signature mix of arrogance and irritation already creeping into his expression as he raised a brow.

“Is he fucking asleep… again?”