The delivery van eased to a stop outside the Pokémon House, and a man in a neat gray blazer hopped out carrying a long, flat case. "Your order from Silph Co., sir," he said, smiling as he offered Ethan the signature pad. "Field-tested for Fighting-type impacts—including, ah, very angry Primeape."
Ethan tapped in his name. "You're sure about the protection?"
"Absolutely. Even if a 'million-ton punch' lands, the wearer won't feel a thing." The rep thumped his chest with cheerful confidence. "If anything goes wrong, Silph Co. refunds triple and covers medical." The certainty in his tone finally loosened the last knot in Ethan's chest. He authorized the remaining ₳120,000—₳150,000 in total for the custom job—and received a slender black VIP card for his trouble. "Ten percent off future purchases and invites to launches," the rep added, the gold-plated split Poké Ball logo catching the light. Silph Co., the company that built the Master Ball—they don't do things halfway, Ethan thought.
When the van pulled away, the grin slipped. "Raising Pokémon really burns money," he muttered, hefting the case toward the House. "You don't make a name here without brains and a bankroll."
Inside, he found Mr. Fuji chatting with Cynthia in the rest lounge. The old man had just asked if she wanted to adopt; Cynthia—polite, resolute—had declined for now. Ethan couldn't help the half-smile. Teenage Cynthia, eyes only for champions and cornerstones; she won't be charmed by the average abandonments we shelter.
Cynthia caught the smile and bristled. "What are you laughing at?"
"At you being stubborn," Ethan said, deadpan. "You want that Primeape, but you won't go near it."
Her eyes flashed. "And you would?"
"I really would." He set the case down. "Want to bet? I say I can share a room with the Primeape peacefully—today."
"Ten thousand," she shot back instantly. "You won't last five minutes."
"Deal." Ethan's mouth quirked. There goes another slice off the price tag. Mr. Fuji sighed and stepped away—he'd seen these two spark often enough—but paused to squeeze Ethan's shoulder. "Don't hurt yourself for a wager."
"I won't," Ethan said, and meant it. "I don't start what I can't finish." The old man left, trusting him.
In a vacant room, Ethan cracked the case. Instead of fabric, a black mist unfurled—only a handspan deep, as if the air itself had been treated. An instruction card and a recessed button waited within. He skimmed the card once, then twice, eyebrows climbing. The suit was Ghost-type modeled—a "ghostweave" that granted immunity to Normal- and Fighting-type attacks, with a dialed "sensation" mode to let a wearer feel a softened impact without suffering damage (useful for training feedback without the hospital bills). No wonder the rep had been fearless. Against a Primeape whose whole kit screamed Fighting and Normal, a ghostweave wearer was a phantom.
He pressed the button; the mist folded away, revealing what looked like an ordinary set of black cotton coat and trousers. Ordinary—until you touched the fabric and felt how the force bled off your fingers like water down glass. He suited up, fastening the hidden catches, then wrapped the hooded mask into place. In the corridor, heads turned. It was still autumn; looking like a bundled midnight burglar drew stares.
Cynthia's laugh landed first. "You're going to face Primeape dressed like a mattress? Admit defeat now; you'll save your ribs."
Ethan passed her with a flick of the hand. "You'll see Silph Co. tech up close in five minutes." He keyed the lock on the reinforced door and stepped into the Primeape's room.
The monkey was a storm in a corner—hackles high, stick in hand, breath coming hard, eyes rolling white with rage. The instant it saw him, it sprang. "Hoga!" The stick whistled down in a two-handed chop.
The blow connected squarely with Ethan's shoulder.
He felt… almost nothing. A muted thump through a half-inch of sensation he'd left enabled, like being tapped with a padded baton. The force itself slid off him, dispersed elegantly by the weave. Primeape blinked, confused by the lack of flinch. It swung again. And again. The third hit snapped the stick—Ethan didn't even rock on his heels. He lifted a palm, slow and open.
"Enough," he said, voice even through the mask. "We're not enemies."
Primeape snarled and Low Kicked—its shin slammed across Ethan's ankle. The impact muffled; the damage null. A Scratch raked across his chest—cloth unmarked. It lunged for a Seismic Toss, arms locking around his waist, and he let the ghostweave drink the leverage until the throw collapsed under its own physics. The monkey stumbled, bewildered. Vital Spirit kept it blazing hot—but every instinct that told it how the world worked had just been lied to.
Ethan sat down. Cross-legged. Relaxed.
He pulled a sealed pouch of Poké Puffs from a pocket and set it between them, then slid it gently across the floor. "Eat. Then we try breathing. No fighting. Just breathing."
The Primeape didn't move. He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. The monkey's fists tightened, loosened, tightened. Hunger and fury wrestled in its eyes. At last it snatched the pouch, tore it open with a rip of teeth, and chewed, suspicious gaze never leaving the faceless, black-clad human who refused to hurt, refused to fear.
Ethan let the quiet widen. When the last crumb vanished, he raised his hand and matched the Primeape's breath—slow inhale, slow exhale—once, twice, three times. The monkey's shoulders dropped a fraction on the fourth. Enough.
From the doorway window, Cynthia's scowl slowly flattened into reluctant interest. She'd expected bravado, a beating, and a stunt. Instead she saw stillness, patience, and a suit that turned a rampage into rehearsal. Mr. Fuji's shoulders eased.
Five minutes later Ethan stood, unlatched the door, and stepped out intact. "You can send the ten thousand anytime," he told Cynthia, tugging the mask down. "I prefer same-day settlement."
She clicked her tongue, but there was more curiosity than spite in it now. "What is that suit?"
"Silph Co. ghostweave," he said. "Ghost-type modeled. Adjustable feedback. Fighting and Normal moves slide right through." His grin tipped sly. "And it's very comfortable."
Cynthia folded her arms. "If your goal is to tame it, dulling every blow won't fix the root problem."
"I know," Ethan said. He glanced back at the door where the Primeape sat within, chewing thoughtfully on a last puff. "This isn't the answer. It's how we move the conversation from screaming to talking."
She considered that, then nodded once. "Then talk fast. Before it remembers it's supposed to be angry."
Ethan's smile thinned. "Working on it."
Behind them, students were already whispering, half in awe of the suit, half in disbelief at the quiet inside the once-explosive room. Ethan flexed his fingers—no tremor, no bruise—and let the adrenaline taper. A tool had done its job; now came the part no company could sell him.
Patience. Boundaries. Trust.
They'd start with that breathing again tomorrow. And this time, he'd leave the snacks in its hands first.