(Tiffany and Padro's Perspective)
The gymnasium was a battlefield. The wide, polished floorboards were already scuffed with the marks of combat, the air thick with the scent of sweat and the coppery tang of fear. On one side stood a mob, forty strong, a chaotic sea of sneering faces and cheap weaponry. At their head was a figure who moved with a languid, almost bored grace, a thin man with startling green hair that fell over one eye. Peter Evans.
Opposite them stood two figures, an island of cold, deadly purpose in the rising tide of chaos. Tiffany Watson, her tactical crossbow held in a low, ready position, was a statue of icy composure. Beside her, Padro Escobar was a coiled spring of manic energy, a bladed nunchaku in each hand, a devilish, eager grin on his face.
"Padro," Tiffany said, her voice a low, clinical command that cut through the noise of the approaching mob. "Handle the mob. I will focus on Peter."
Padro let out a short, barking laugh. "Okay, Miss Tiffany," he said, his voice a low, predatory growl. "I will handle these pathetic bastards."
He didn't wait for an answer. With a roar of pure, brawling joy, he charged, a whirlwind of motion and gleaming steel. His stats, a testament to his relentless, self-destructive training, were on full display.
Status: Padro Escobar
Strength: 245
Agility: 290
Endurance: 268
Mentality: 402
Potential: A+
Skills: [Anything a Weapon], [Brawler], [Viper's Barrage], [Chain Lash]
Passive Skills: [Optimistic], [Realist], [Provoker], [Reckless Abandon]
"Come here, kids!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the cavernous gym. "Your daddy is here!"
He was a force of nature. He crashed into the front line of the mob, his nunchaku a blur of motion. He wasn't just swinging; he was conducting a symphony of pain. A flick of his wrist, and one nunchaku would lash out like a striking viper, the bladed end catching a thug on the kneecap. A spin, and the other would become a defensive shield, deflecting a wild swing from a pipe. He was surrounded, but he wasn't trapped. He was in his element.
He laughed, a manic, terrifying sound that seemed to fuel his every move. "The Leader is an amazing person," he roared, his voice a battle cry. "But it doesn't mean if he is not with us, we lose! I am going to fight and prove to everyone I am not a simple brawler! I am also a force of nature!"
He was merciless. He used his [Viper's Barrage] skill, a furious, rapid-fire flurry of strikes that broke through their clumsy defenses, leaving a trail of groaning, incapacitated bodies in his wake. His [Reckless Abandon] passive was in full effect, his own defense forgotten in the pursuit of absolute, overwhelming offense. The thugs, who had charged in with a smug, arrogant confidence, were now faltering, a flicker of fear in their eyes as they faced the laughing devil with the bladed nunchaku.
While Padro held the line, the true duel began.
Tiffany stood her ground, her gaze locked on the phantom-like figure of Peter Evans. Her mind was a cold, calculating machine, processing his every movement, analyzing his every feint.
Status: Tiffany Watson
Strength: 369
Agility: 360
Endurance: 330
Mentality: 450
Potential: A
Skills: [Psychologist], [Unparalleled Determination], [No Slacker], [Mastery in Archery], [Excellent War Strategist], [Stock Market Analyst], [Chess Champion], [Continuum Combat], [Calculated Trajectory]
Passive Skills: [Fear of Loss], [Toxic Boss], [Superiority Complex]
Status: Peter Evans
Strength: 345
Agility: 370
Endurance: 310
Potential: B+
Skills: [Freerunning (Expert)], [Twin Dagger Proficiency], [Flanking Maneuvers], [Ambush Tactics (Novice)]
Passive Skills: [Sadistic Glee], [Urban Predator], [Overconfident]
He was a blur of motion, a phantom that flowed over the bleachers and vaulted across pommel horses with a gymnast's grace. He was in his element, the complex, multi-leveled environment a playground for his acrobatic skills. The twin daggers in his hands were silver streaks in the dim light, aimed not to kill, but to maim, to distract, to create chaos.
"You're slow, Watson!" he taunted, his voice echoing from the rafters as he balanced on a high beam. "All that planning, and you still can't touch me!"
Tiffany gritted her teeth, the carbon-fiber stock of her tactical crossbow cool against her cheek. He was right. He was impossibly fast. Every time she lined up a shot, he would flip, spin, or drop, the taser bolt thudding harmlessly into a padded wall behind him.
"You have to predict his path, not follow it!" Tiffany called down to Padro, her voice a sharp, clinical command. "Force him into a bottleneck!"
Peter just laughed, a high, manic sound. "Listen to your boss, brawler! Too bad for you, I don't do bottlenecks!"
He leaped from the beam, landing silently on the top of the bleachers behind Tiffany. She spun, bringing the crossbow up, but he was already moving again, a disorienting series of flips that carried him down the steps towards her. She fired, but he twisted in mid-air, the bolt whizzing past his ear. He landed in front of her, daggers flashing.
The next few seconds were a whirlwind of precise, desperate combat. Tiffany used the crossbow as a blunt weapon, its reinforced frame blocking the lightning-fast slashes from his daggers. The clang of metal on carbon fiber rang through the gym. She was a master tactician, but he was a master of movement, his [Freerunning] skill allowing him to use every surface to his advantage. He pushed off the wall, flipping over her head, one of his daggers leaving a shallow, stinging cut across her arm.
She ignored the pain, her mind a cold, calculating machine. He's overconfident. His patterns are becoming repetitive. Left feint, right slash, aerial escape. Predictable. She saw her opening. As he landed from his last flip, she didn't aim for him. She aimed for the floor right in front of him, firing a net bolt that exploded on impact.
Peter's eyes widened in surprise as the weighted net shot upwards, but it was too late. He was entangled, his acrobatic grace reduced to a clumsy, furious struggle.
"Got you," Tiffany said, her voice a low, triumphant hiss as she leveled the crossbow for a final, incapacitating shot.
But in that moment of victory, she had made a fatal mistake. She had focused so completely on her target that she had forgotten the most important rule of warfare: never turn your back on the battlefield.
From the shadows of the locker room entrance, a second figure emerged. A woman, silent and deadly, a fan of thin, gleaming needles held in her hand. Padro saw her from across the gym floor. His eyes went wide with horror.
"TIFFANY, BEHIND YOU!" he roared, shoving a thug aside and sprinting towards her. But he was too far away, his feet pounding uselessly against the polished wood floor. He wouldn't make it.
Tiffany's head snapped around, but it was too late. The woman's hand was already a blur, the needles a silent, glittering swarm cutting through the air, aimed directly at Tiffany's exposed back.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl.
And then, a new sound cut through the chaos. A desperate, frantic pounding of footsteps from the main hallway. The gymnasium doors burst open, and a figure exploded into the room.
It was Qasim.
He was no longer the hesitant, trembling boy who had fled the guild. He moved with a new, desperate purpose, his massive frame a blur of motion. In his hand, he held a round, dented piece of metal—a trash can lid.
With a roar that was torn from the very depths of his soul, he launched himself across the room, covering the distance in a few massive, ground-eating strides. He threw himself in front of Tiffany just as the needles were about to hit.
THWACK-THWACK-THWACK!
The sound was a series of sharp, percussive impacts as every single needle embedded itself deep in the makeshift shield. Qasim grunted from the force of the blows, but he didn't fall. He stood there, a living, breathing wall, the metal lid a testament to his impossible, last-second rescue.
He slowly lowered the lid, his chest heaving. Tiffany didn't look shocked or surprised. Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of cold, clinical approval in their depths. The training was effective, she thought. His response time has improved. Acceptable.
He looked at Tiffany. "Good morning, Vice-Leader," Qasim said, his voice calm and steady.
"You're late," Tiffany stated, her voice flat, acknowledging his return and new competence in one swift dismissal. "But your timing is adequate. The asset who threw the needles is still active. Deal with it."
Padro finally reached them, his face a mask of profound relief and guilt. "How are you doing, buddy?" he gasped, pulling Qasim into a rough, one-armed hug. "You changed so much. I tried to reach you, but I couldn't find you. I'm sorry, man. I'm so sorry."
Qasim returned the hug, a gentle, understanding smile on his face. His [Mercy] passive skill was a calming balm, washing away any lingering resentment. "I'll tell you everything later," he said, his voice gentle. "Let's focus on the battle right now."
Tiffany looked from the needles embedded in the lid to Qasim's determined face, and then to the new assassin who was already preparing for another attack. Her mind, her brilliant, tactical mind, finally caught up. And a wave of cold, professional fury washed over her.
How did I not know? How did I not predict this? she thought, her hands clenching into fists. There wasn't just one ambush. There was another.