Chapter 3: An Unreadable Mask
The cafeteria doors swung inward, and Golgo and Rahale stepped into a room that instantly hushed. Every eye seemed to bore into them, a silent acknowledgment of the simmering tension that clung to Golgo like a second skin. The air crackled with unspoken questions, with the weight of whatever had transpired before. Then, a figure detached himself from the throng, a boy identified only as Vager No. 2 from the Mosquito group. He swaggered forward, his words dripping with a calculated venom, clearly designed to provoke. He insulted Golgo, each word a carefully placed barb intended to ignite a firestorm of rage.
Yet, Golgo remained an enigma. He stood impassive, a statue carved from granite, offering no reaction, no flicker of emotion to betray the turmoil that might be raging within. It was a performance of stoicism that only seemed to further infuriate Vager. Finally, after a volley of insults that hung heavy in the air, Vager shifted tactics, a saccharine sweetness coating his voice. He declared, with a possessive air, that Golgo was his teammate, his "cute buddy," and that he would personally ensure Golgo received the rest he needed. The possessiveness was palpable, a thinly veiled threat directed at anyone who might consider interfering. Golgo, however, remained silent, an unreadable mask firmly in place.
The scene shifted abruptly to the storeroom, a claustrophobic space filled with the scent of dust and forgotten supplies. Here, the air was thick with a different kind of tension, a physical confrontation about to erupt. Hawk, fueled by a need to prove himself, unleashed a flurry of jabs and crosses at Thor Belfrin. But Thor, with an almost languid grace, dodged each blow, his movements fluid and economical. Frustration mounting, Hawk resorted to a technique honed by his older brother, Hank: a brutal ground-and-pound maneuver, a staple of mixed martial arts. He swiftly took Thor down, raining blows upon him with savage intensity.
But the victory was an illusion. Hawk's fists connected not with flesh and bone, but with the unyielding surface of a chair. Thor stood unscathed, a bemused expression on his face. He offered a measured appraisal of Hawk's technique, acknowledging its potential but ultimately dismissing it. Then, a spark of recognition lit his eyes. He spoke of someone who wielded the ground-and-pound with unparalleled mastery, a figure whose name lingered on the tip of his tongue. "I know someone who uses this move 1000 times better than you," he mused, before triumphantly declaring, "Oh yay... Hank!" The chapter concluded with Hawk's momentum abruptly halted, the unspoken comparison hanging in the air, a stark reminder of the shadow cast by his older brother.