In the Dark Room.
"I am quite confident in him," the Seventh Head murmured in the oppressive darkness of the room, his voice thick with a twisted sort of pride. "I told you he had two specialties. The second... is his Sight."
Rio nodded.
"He sees the 'Internal Body,'" the Seventh Head continued. "He doesn't target flesh; he targets the architecture—the nerves, the organs, the hidden vulnerabilities. When he 'Awakens,' every strike bypasses muscle and skin entirely to crush the vitals within."
Rio's smile pulled wide. "Impressive. But you're missing the finishing touches."
The Seventh Head stiffened. "What?"
"When he awakens, he can also fly," Rio said, his eyes narrowing. "And there's one other thing you should know about the man he's fighting..."
ELSEWHERE
The rain kept pouring, Finian turned away, shoving his hands into his pockets with a bored sigh. He hadn't taken three steps before the temperature in the forest plummeted. A wave of suffocating, concentrated malice washed over his back.
He spun, but the shadow was already there.
CRACK.
The sound of Finian's ribcage shattering wasn't just a break; it was a structural collapse. The force was astronomical. Finian was launched like a human cannonball, tearing through the trees and skipping across the clearing before slamming into a building in the nearby city with the force of a falling meteor. The building groaned, its foundation buckling as it buried him under a mountain of masonry.
Silence reclaimed the forest. Then, a slab of concrete shifted.
Finian climbed out of the debris, his blonde hair matted with grit. He ran a hand through it, wincing as blood from a gash on his forehead began to mask his vision in red.
"Damn... that actually hurt," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave.
A shadow stretched over the rubble. The assassin descended from the moonlight, hovering silently above the ruins. His mask had shattered, revealing a face contorted by the raw pressure of his Awakened state.
Finian's playful demeanor vanished. His eyes turned a predatory, glacial blue.
"Looks like I don't have a choice anymore."
In the Dark Room
Rio continued "... the man he is fighting, Finian, is famous by the name of Surgical Combatant."
Back to Fight.
He reached into the debris and pulled out a jagged metal rod. Taking a slow, measured breath, he centered his weight.
The assassin moved. In a blur of motion, he appeared behind Finian, driving a fist toward the base of his skull. Finian didn't look; he slipped the punch by a hair's breadth, his hand trailing back in a rhythmic arc. The assassin felt a chill and leapt back, creating distance.
"Nice reflex," Finian said, before doubling over in a harsh, bloody cough.
The assassin didn't wait. He lunged again, throwing a heavy kick, but Finian was no longer there. He had entered the 'Pocket'.
In a single, fluid motion, Finian's fingers snaked out, striking the Sternal Notch at the base of the assassin's throat. The man's breath hitched instantly, his trachea spasming in a panic reflex. Before he could recover, Finian's other hand buried itself into the Solar Plexus.
The massive nerve junction short-circuited. The assassin's heart rate plummeted, his diaphragm paralyzing as his face turned a sickly, oxygen-deprived yellow.
Finian's expression was ice. As the assassin began to crumple, Finian delivered a final, surgical strike to the Occipital Base at the back of the skull.
The Kill Point, Finian thought as the shockwave traveled through the man's brainstem. A total concussive reset.
The assassin hit the ground like a puppet with cut strings. The strike had been so precise it rattled the Phrenic nerve—his body simply forgot how to breathe. Total systemic failure.
Finian took a shaky breath, looking down at the massive, bruised crater in his own chest. He managed a weak, pained smile. "That... really hurts. Hospital. Definitely the hospital."
He took two steps, his knees buckled, and the world faded to black.
Across the city, Carter was hunched over his monitors, his pen flying across a sheet of paper as he tried to connect the dots of the data stream. Behind him, DA was leaning back in a plush chair at the corner of the room, a bowl of steaming ramen in his lap.
"AH! DELICIOUS!" DA yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Carter's eyes twitched as he watched DA's reflection in the screen. DA took a bite, praised the heavens, and took another. When the bowl was finally empty, DA let out a massive yawn, bored of the silence.
He pulled open a nearby drawer and found a pair of sleek, futuristic headphones. A note was taped to them in aggressive handwriting: "DON'T TOUCH MY HEADPHONES."
DA grinned, tore the note into confetti, and slid them on. He synced them to his phone, the noise-canceling tech instantly erasing the hum of the computers. He leaned back, feet on the desk, and closed his eyes as the music took him away.
He didn't notice the door slide open. He didn't notice the heavy, rhythmic footsteps.
Carter, however, heard them. He turned just as a massive, calloused hand clamped over his face.
SLAM.
Carter's head hit the floorboards, but he reacted instantly, driving a heel into the intruder's jaw. The man grunted and stepped back, allowing Carter to spring to his feet.
Standing there was a mountain of a man, clad in tactical gear, holding a sheathed katana.
"Who are you?" Carter demanded, his heart racing.
"你在说什么?" (What are you saying?) the man replied, his voice a low rumble.
Carter froze. Chinese? Japanese or Korean?
"你他妈在看什么?过来啊!" (What the hell are you looking at? Come at me!)
Carter remained silent, his body tensing for a fight he didn't understand. His lack of reaction only seemed to irritate the giant.
So, he doesn't understand me either, the big man thought, his eyes narrowing with disdain. What a hassle. This is exactly why I hate dealing with foreigners.
The man took a deep, steadying breath. With a metallic shining, he drew his blade.
Behind him, DA continued to sway to the music, completely oblivious to the steel reflecting in the moonlight.