Matias Surgiri shone his flashlight onto a city manhole cover. After a few minutes he heard footsteps beneath him. He drew his gun and aimed at the lid. The footsteps stopped; the cover shifted, and someone in filthy blue clothing—reeking—poked through. The detective holstered his weapon, pinched his nose, and asked, "Nothing, right?"
Francesca: "Nothing at all. I don't get it."
Matias, helping her out of the sewer: "The others haven't found anything either."
Francesca, frustrated, punching the ground: "It makes no sense. We've been searching for a week. Where else could he be moving?"
Matias, scanning the area: "I don't know, but reports of victims attacked by 'Plata' keep rising."
The blonde bounded up to a rooftop and left the area, heading to a small hideout in the forest by the waterfall where she'd trained. She saw her teammates' suits already there and blinked in surprise. Pulling out her phone, she texted the group: "Hey! Any leads on your routes?" Tyron read it immediately: "Nope—unless you count poop and sewer rats as clues. Face it, Fran, Erinios is using another route. Drop it and try something else." Alexa backed him up: "He's right. We've combed every sewer in the city and got nada. Accept it—you and Emily aren't outsmarting the mask."
Francesca reached home at two a.m. on Tuesday. Reeking, she headed straight for the shower, then collapsed onto her bed, staring at the ceiling until she fell asleep. She dreamed of the enemy's metal mask, wandering everywhere trying to corner him and failing each time. At six she woke and went to the kitchen, where the mustached chef was already prepping breakfast.
Mario: "Buona giornata, Signorina Francesca."
Francesca, sitting and watching him work: "Good morning, Mario."
Mario: "How are those new nighttime trainings?"
Francesca, recalling her cover story: "Exhausting. They push me to my limit, so I take cold showers before bed."
Mario: "Oh, miss! I can't believe your father agreed to that. You're still a child—you should sleep more."
Francesca: "Yeah, it surprised me too. By the way, what are you making?"
Mario, inhaling the aroma from the pot: "Mmm, a surprise, signorina—but I can give you a little teaser." He spread some sauce on a piece of toast.
She took a bite and lit up—bright acidity popping on her tongue, followed by savory notes with a hint of heat. "This is exquisite!" The Italian smiled and kept cooking. Footsteps approached the kitchen; Francesca tensed on instinct, then relaxed when she saw her brother with his guitar slung over his back. He waved to her and the chef, grabbed a drink from the fridge, and was about to leave when Mario asked cheerfully, "How was the concert?"
Jerome sighed, sounding tired. "A pain. More than a thousand people showed up."
Francesca smiled, glad he was doing well, and kept savoring her toast.
Mario: "Sono contento, signorino! Every day you look more like your idol."
That caught the blond boy's interest. He took a stool beside his sister. "I hope I get to meet him someday. Gastón Cessabit is my idol."
Mario, delighted: "Of course you will! Feels like yesterday I'd see you in the living room watching that kid's concerts. You still keep those headphones like his."
The conversation was interrupted by a disheveled girl—brown hair dyed yellow with a few red streaks—leather-clad. She hugged Jerome's neck and asked softly, "Jerome, what's taking you so long?" He just smiled.
Jerome: "Sorry, I'm coming…"
Girl, eyeing Francesca's toast: "Can I have that?" She took it. "Thanks."
Jerome's apparent girlfriend left the kitchen with the stolen toast. Before following, he walked to Mario, grabbed a spoon and another slice of toast, scanned the prep, and—remembering what his sister had tasted—said, "I get it. Breakfast is orange-and-lemon sauce with sautéed eggplant." Seeing his surprise spoiled, Mario sighed, deflated. "Signorino Jerome, it was a surprise for the—" he pointed at Francesca. Jerome tapped his head, winked and smiled at his sister, handed her the toast, and left.
At Forte, Emily walked the halls alone after finishing an exam, mulling over why they hadn't found Erinios. She stopped at a window and watched birds in the sky. The more she thought, the more it was obvious: their enemy hadn't just beaten them physically—he was also outsmarting them. She dropped her gaze to a tree and noticed a cat near a nest of eggs. The predator waited. As soon as the prey moved to the nest, the cat pounced. The image made Emily feel pity and disgust—but sparked an idea. In the empty corridor she murmured, "Did he do to us what we tried to do to him?"
A scorching afternoon sun lit the forest. Jayden sat on his porch, sipping tea. A breeze drifted through as heavy blows echoed from deep in the trees. He set down his empty cup, stepped out of the shade, and watched as four of his clay clones went flying and crumbled into piles. He picked up a wooden sword. "Finally finished the twenty clones? Ready for the real thing?"
Two figures lunged with powerful head strikes. Jayden blocked one-handed, turned his wrist, and bent their force against them. As they lifted off, he drove his left foot into both their midsections, booting the brown-haired boy and the blonde into a tree. He caught Alexa's strike at his neck from behind and, with a half-turn, backfisted her in the face.
He heard her hit a trunk. Resting the sword on his shoulder, he pivoted again to catch Emily coming in for a takedown. She managed to guard, but he pressed hard to keep her pinned. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tyron returning with a spinning jump; Jayden used it to amplify a guillotine kick, spiking the boy into the ground hard enough to spit blood. He finished the turn and smashed his elbow into Emily's head, dropping her.
Jayden: "Is that all? Come on—you took four hours to beat my clones. Don't tell me you're already tired. I thought we'd have time for another drill."
Francesca and Alexa attacked together, forcing him backward. The brunette leapt to strike from behind, but he met her midair, palm to her abdomen, a small vortex twisting in his hand.
Alexa, stunned: "You too…?!"
A puff of dust exploded as he fired her like a projectile into the blonde, leaving both out cold in a crater. Jayden smiled faintly—then Emily grabbed his arm. He glanced back and saw Tyron charging again. Two fingers jabbed Emily's ribs; her grip weakened just enough for him to wrench free and rake the bokken up from her gut to her chin, blasting her into Tyron and creating another crater.
An hour later, Alexa's eyes finally fluttered open. Pain throbbed everywhere. She heard groans behind her and turned slowly to find the blonde. They crawled out of the hole and saw the two brown-haired teens knocked out in another crater. Ahead, the man—unscathed—sat on his heels, sipping a fresh cup of tea. The girls stabbed their swords into the dirt to stand, pulled them free—then collapsed again.
Jayden: "TOO LATE. LESSON'S OVER." He flashed in front of them, placed a hand on each, and restored them. He walked calmly to the other pair and healed them too. They jolted awake, spent.
Tyron: "What happened?"
Jayden, returning to the porch: "You lost the session. That's what happened."
Francesca, stripping off her weights: "The clones didn't use your same moves. That's cheating."
Jayden: "They did. I just used them differently."
Tyron, yanking off his vest: "Next time, without these things—then we'll see if you still win."
Jayden: "With or without, it's the same. You still don't know how to fight. You underestimated your opponent and blindly trusted your plan—letting Scaredy hold me long enough for your combo. All I had to do was break the plan's foundation, and you were done."
All four lowered their heads. He was right. If they'd adapted when Francesca and Tyron's feint to cover Emily failed, maybe the outcome would've changed. They gathered their things to leave as Jayden added, "Learn to adapt. Plans rarely survive contact. Most of the time, reacting is the better answer. That's what sets a warrior apart—versatility, being ready for what you don't know. You'll make lots of painful mistakes—but that's how you improve…"
Back at the Sejuk home, Francesca opened the front door and let in her brown-haired guest. They greeted the Italian on the way upstairs—he was so shocked to see the blonde bring a "friend" home that he tumbled down the stairs. In Francesca's room, an hour later, the blonde tossed her tablet onto the bed. "Are you sure there aren't any secret sewer sections?!"
Emily: "Positive. There's nowhere for him to hide."
Francesca, desperate: "What if… maybe… there were plans for an abandoned subway that was never finished?"
Emily, tired: "Fran, Guarly's never had a subway. Not even trains."
Francesca, burying her face in a pillow: "There has to be a way he's avoiding us."
They stared at the ceiling until Emily said, "I might have a small solution." Francesca sat up, severe. "Well? Don't keep it to yourself."
Emily, a bit nervous: "M-maybe he did the same thing we did to find him—only he used it to avoid us."
Francesca: "Impossible. We don't have a direct line."
Emily: "I didn't. But remember…" she whispered, "…when you started coming with me, we followed the points Detective Matias marked."
The blonde snapped to it, fetched the tablet, and handed it over. Following the idea, Emily tested two possibilities: either he mapped a wider range and funneled targets toward them, or he timed his hits later, keeping them far away. They chose the second—otherwise it wouldn't match his most recent string. As they planned an intercept, a message from the detective popped up.
Matias (with photo): "Kids, based on the latest attacks, all the victims have something in common: they were small-time dealers. Following the pattern, this woman may be next—Yaron Laught."
The image showed a tired, angry-looking Black woman. Her address lined up with their patrol path. With bait identified, Francesca offered her driver to take Emily home. They headed downstairs smiling, startling the blonde's older brother.
Jerome: "And who's this?"
Night fell silent over the city. In a modest apartment, a masked intruder kicked the door open and swept a submachine gun around the room. "Yaron! The poison you sell is why you're being punished. Show yourself before I get impatient!" No response. He holstered the gun and trashed the tiny lab. Finding no target, he stepped into the hall—where Plata and company surrounded him.
Emily (in gray): "Hello again, Erinios."
Erinios, annoyed: "You were supposed to pass through here over an hour ago. Came for Yaron, did you?"
Plata: "She's at the city precinct—out of your reach."
Erinios: "So you figured out my trick. Didn't like me turning it against you—useless lot."
Plata: "Surrender now. I swear this won't end like last time."
Erinios, slowly drawing a pistol: "Oh really?"
He started to aim with his right hand—but the kid in yellow smashed his fingers with a wooden sword. Bones cracked audibly. Before he could react, the girl in blue drove a knee into his gut. He reached for brass knuckles—only for the one in light blue to side-kick him back into the apartment.
Inside, Plata pinned him while the others stripped his weapons. "You're staying here until the police arrive. You'll pay for what you've done," she said. He writhed like an animal, less human each second. Emily held him completely under control; they even took his syringes. Still he kept straining. The others held positions, just in case. He finally wrenched an arm free and grabbed a needle, injecting himself. Emily didn't hesitate—she hammered his neck with an elbow to choke off his breathing. "Stop. This is for your own good."
He stretched again, reaching for another needle. Tyron smashed his hand. Erinios screamed—but still managed to inject. Two doses in, he overpowered Emily's grip and pounded her face. Alexa and Francesca struck his head, driving him back. He dove for more needles and jabbed himself repeatedly. Tyron tried to stop him, but supercharged now, Erinios grabbed the boy by the skull and slammed it into the wall again and again, then kicked him on the floor—until a light-blue side kick knocked him back. He rushed the blonde; her blows seemed useless. He answered with brutal headbutts, leaving her bleeding.
Francesca met his eyes. She dropped her sword to one hand, extended the other with her palm open. "Come."
Erinios charged. Francesca focused fully, that same inner warmth rising like when she climbed the waterfall. She targeted the hand he'd used on the boy. He screamed as she hammered his head—strike after crushing strike. No matter how much he injected, he couldn't dull the pain. She leapt and kneed him in the face, launching him into the kitchen. He grabbed a skillet to even things up. He swung; she seized his head and smashed it across the sink, then buried a vicious shot into his midsection. A few drops of blood trickled from the edge of the metal mask.
She booted him back into the living room with a side kick to the neck. He begged for mercy on the floor. She crushed his broken hand under her heel. "I can accept you beating us once, or being smarter than us—but I will never allow you to HURT MY FRIENDS WITHOUT REMORSE!"
Her guillotine kick hit the back of his head, punching through the floor and alarming the neighbors below. She yanked him up by one arm and unloaded a flurry of side kicks, pinning him against the wall by his own weight. She finished with a powerful thrust that blew out the wall—Erinios plummeted five stories.
Sirens. Neighbors' footsteps thundered on the stairs. Francesca saw Erinios limping down an alley—but she couldn't abandon her team. She gathered everyone and got them out.
Morning in Guarly. Tyron waved goodbye to Emily and Alexa as they joined their friends. He mulled over the night with Erinios. Antonio arrived and greeted him.
Tyron, noticing the bandaged hand: "Antonio, what happened?"
Antonio, raising his right hand: "This? A shelf fell on it yesterday."
Tyron: "I see… let's head to class."
They walked on. As the redhead moved ahead, Tyron noticed several wounds on the back of his friend's head. Worried, he grabbed his shoulder. Antonio slapped his hand away. "It's nothing, Ty!"
That look wasn't the one Tyron knew—cold, aggressive, furious. He tried to tell himself it was a coincidence. But one thought pressed harder and harder:
Don't tell me… you're Erinios.