He tightened the straps of his arm guards and stepped into the training chamber.

  The air was warm—heavy with the smell of moss, sweet sap, and the earthy tang of polished carapace. Light filtered in through narrow ceiling vents, catching in fine strands of silk that hung from the rafters like banners. The Gym's central floor pulsed with quiet life: the movement of webbed limbs, the skitter of claws on bark, the gentle hum of wings too fast to see.

  Bugsy breathed it in.

  This was his space.

  And today, it had to be perfect.

  (break)

  He moved past the practice nets and into the core arena, where his team waited.

  Scizor was sharpening its claws against the edge of a stone. The grating sound was rhythmic, focused. Ariados clung upside down to a beam overhead, still as death. Yanmega hovered in a low circle, its wings silent but ever-moving. Shuckle sat near the sunlight patch, unmoving but tracking everything with slow, deliberate eyes. Volbeat and Illumise danced their dual pattern drills along a vine-ringed training ring.

  Every member of the team was in motion.

  So was Bugsy.

  He stepped to the side of the room and picked up his clipboard—notes written not by an aide, but by his own hand. Match durations. Efficiency margins. Movement sync. Predicted field adaptability. Every stat earned, not assumed. Every figure born from a thousand repetitions.

  Because Star Badge matches weren’t casual.

  They didn’t happen daily.

  They didn’t even happen weekly.

  When the League approved one, it meant tons of preparation for a single battle—one that would be broadcast, analyzed, clipped into tactical breakdowns and reaction reels. League reps would be watching. Gym leader peers would be watching.

  The world would be watching.

  And he knew exactly what they’d see if he failed.

  A kid.

  A prodigy with bugs.

  A historical footnote.

  Not a contender.

  (break)

  He’d heard it all before.

  "Too young to hold a badge."

  "Sure, he's smart, but bugs have limits."

  "Only reason he’s in Azalea is because it’s the safe Gym."

  Stolen story; please report.

  Bugsy didn’t rage against it. Didn’t lash out.

  He just worked harder.

  Because what they didn’t understand—what they never bothered to understand—was that every Gym had a pulse. And his pulsed with silk and fangs, wings and precision. His team didn’t brawl. They maneuvered. They didn’t outmuscle. They outlasted. They turned the field into a weapon and wrapped opponents in it.

  Web by web.

  Layer by layer.

  Until there was no more room to move, no more light to see.

  Only the sound of wings and the tightening thread of defeat.

  (break)

  He tapped twice on the metal rail.

  Scizor looked up.

  “Synchronization drills. One full cycle.”

  The steel predator nodded once.

  Bugsy moved to the terminal at the back wall and loaded up the simulation field. He didn’t need visuals—but the lights above the arena adjusted to simulate fluctuating weather. Mist. Glare. Sudden shadow. The kind of conditions that made Star Badge battles hellish.

  Good.

  He watched as Scizor and Yanmega began circling. Illumise and Volbeat adjusted their patterns. Ariados dropped low, legs curled inward before releasing a net arc of silk that caught perfectly along the edge of the practice ring. Shuckle rolled forward into position, its slow motion deceptive beneath layers of held energy.

  It was working.

  The pattern was forming.

  The web.

  (break)

  He didn’t think about the challenger.

  Not their face. Not their team.

  That part wasn’t his business.

  He trained to win on his field.

  He made them play his game.

  But still, the memory of his last Star Badge fight lingered—an hour-long war of attrition that left his voice raw and two of his best partners out of rotation for a week. He’d won. But just barely.

  And everyone remembered that part too.

  Bugsy, the boy genius who scraped through by the skin of a String Shot.

  This time wouldn’t be that.

  It would be clean.

  Precise.

  Definitive.

  (break)

  He walked the length of the chamber once the drills ended, moving among his Pokémon like a quiet storm. He adjusted Illumise’s posture mid-glide. Nudged Scizor’s claws into a tighter stance. Reset Yanmega’s orbit pattern by three degrees.

  No yelling. No speeches.

  They didn’t need that.

  They needed a leader who worked just as hard as they did.

  Who earned every battle.

  (break)

  The Gym aides met him near the observation deck with the confirmation slate.

  “The match is officially scheduled,” one said. “Tomorrow at noon. League broadcast will begin fifteen minutes prior.”

  Bugsy nodded. “Announce it. Standard visibility.”

  “You’re cleared to use the full arena.”

  “Good.”

  The aide hesitated. “Would you like to review challenger footage?”

  “No.”

  He paused.

  “Tell the field team to clear the edges of Web Sector Three. We’ll use that sequence for the finale.”

  The aide blinked. “You think it’ll go that far?”

  “I’m planning for it.”

  (break)

  The sun was setting by the time the Gym cleared out. The Pokémon were resting. The lights dimmed.

  Bugsy stood alone in the prep room, staring at the battle board—a diagram of his arena, marked with overlays for movement zones, traps, redirection lanes. He’d memorized it months ago. But he still stood there.

  Still stared.

  He wasn’t nervous.

  He was ready.

  Because if the world still thought he was just a bug kid with trivia and talent—

  Then tomorrow, he’d show them just how dangerous a web could be.