The city’s daylight had a way of pretending everything was normal.

  Sun on glass. Vendors calling prices like the world wasn’t cracking. People moving with purpose, heads down, hands full, as if keeping busy could hold the sky together.

  Heroko walked the main street like he owned it.

  Not in the way Spike meant. Not with banners and threats. Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understood the shape of the place, the pulse under the pavement.

  A child’s sob cut through the noise.

  Heroko turned.

  A boy stood near a fruit cart, face red, fists balled hard enough his knuckles had gone pale. Tears made clean tracks through the dust on his cheeks. He looked too small to be alone in a crowd like this.

  Heroko drifted over, boots soft on the stone.

  “Why’re you crying?” he asked, like it was an inconvenience.

  The kid looked up fast, startled, then his mouth twisted and the crying came harder.

  “I— I can’t find my mom,” he hiccupped. “She was right there and then— and then—”

  Heroko’s eyes flicked across the street without moving his head. A woman in a faded blue dress was spinning in place, scanning faces, panic rising in her shoulders. She called a name, voice breaking on the second syllable.

  Heroko let out a short laugh.

  The boy flinched like he’d been slapped.

  Heroko crouched just enough to meet him halfway. Not gentle. Not cruel either. Just… Heroko.

  “She’s over there,” he said, and nodded once toward the woman.

  The kid stared. “How do you know?”

  Heroko straightened. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I always know where my people are.”

  The boy blinked, confused by the phrasing but too desperate to argue. He looked where Heroko pointed, saw the blue dress, and ran—small legs pumping, crying turning into a shout.

  “Mom!”

  The woman whirled, saw him, and dropped to her knees in the street. They collided and clung to each other like the city might steal them apart again.

  Heroko watched for a moment. The crowd flowed around the reunion as if it were a rock in a river.

  Then the shadow fell over him.

  Not literal. Not the sun. Something else.

  He didn’t turn right away. He didn’t need to.

  Kyle’s laugh came first—too loud, too practiced. Spike’s presence came after, like a cold hand at the back of the neck.

  “Look at that,” Kyle called. “Heroko’s doing charity work now.”

  Heroko finally glanced over.

  Kyle stood a few paces away with Spike and a knot of followers behind them—men and women with hard eyes and cheap confidence, like Spike had dipped them in his ego and called it armor.

  Spike stepped forward, hands spread in a show of friendliness that didn’t belong on him.

  “Kindness,” Spike said, drawing the word out like it tasted bad. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Heroko’s expression didn’t change.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Spike’s grin sharpened. “To talk.”

  Kyle snorted. Spike ignored him.

  “You and I,” Spike continued, voice smooth, “we’re the only ones who see the truth. This world is weak. Rotten. Begging to be reshaped.”

  Heroko’s eyes tracked the followers. Counting. Measuring. Not threatened.

  Spike leaned in like they were sharing a secret.

  “We could take it. Together. No more hiding in alleys. No more playing hero for people who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.”

  He gestured broadly, taking in the street, the city.

  “Death, destruction—whatever it takes. Then we build something better. We rule.”

  Heroko let the silence sit long enough for Spike’s smile to falter at the edges.

  Then he spoke, quiet and certain.

  “You don’t want to rule it,” Heroko said.

  Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “You want to destroy it,” Heroko went on. “You talk like it’s a conquest, but you don’t want a throne. You want ashes. You want the world to be small enough to fit in your fist.”

  Spike’s jaw tightened. Kyle’s grin widened.

  Spike’s voice dropped. “Careful.”

  Heroko shrugged, almost bored.

  “And I don’t want that,” he said. “I want to own it.”

  Spike’s followers tensed, waiting for the cue to swarm.

  They didn’t get the chance.

  Heroko moved once.

  Just once.

  It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was a single, clean motion that blurred the air—like the street itself forgot to register the moment.

  The followers went down in a line as if a blade had passed through their shadows and cut the strings holding them upright. Bodies hit stone. Weapons clattered. Pain came late, faces twisting as they realized they’d already lost.

  Kyle stumbled back a step, eyes wide.

  Spike didn’t.

  Spike grinned like a man finally given permission to be honest.

  “Good,” he said softly. “There you are.”

  He lunged.

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  The fight swallowed the street.

  Spike was fast in the way sickness was fast—sudden, wrong, impossible to predict. He didn’t commit to strikes. He flowed around them, turned missteps into traps, made space feel like it belonged to him.

  Heroko matched him at first. Blade and body moving with brutal economy. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

  But Spike didn’t fight to win clean.

  He fought to win.

  A feint turned into an elbow that cracked against Heroko’s ribs. A grabbed wrist became a twist that wrenched bone and forced Heroko’s blade wide. Spike’s knee drove into Heroko’s stomach, hard enough to steal breath.

  Heroko recovered, slashed, almost caught Spike’s throat—

  Spike vanished under the arc and came up inside Heroko’s guard like he’d been born there.

  Something struck Heroko’s temple. Light sparked behind his eyes. His balance shifted a fraction, and Spike punished it.

  Heroko hit the side of a cart, wood exploding under his shoulder. He pushed off, tried to reset—

  Spike was already there again.

  A palm to the chest. Not a shove. Something deeper. A hit that didn’t just move him, but stopped him, like his body forgot how to be solid for half a second.

  Heroko slid across the stone on his heels, teeth clenched. He forced himself upright, vision swimming.

  The street had gone quiet.

  Even the vendors had stopped pretending.

  Spike stood relaxed, breathing easy, like this wasn’t work for him. Like hurting Heroko was a hobby.

  “You see?” Spike said. “We could do so much.”

  Heroko spit blood to the side. His smile was thin and mean.

  “Yeah,” he rasped. “You could.”

  He threw a glance down the street—one heartbeat of calculation. An exit. A line through the crowd. A path that didn’t leave him surrounded.

  Spike’s eyes flicked, catching the intent.

  “Oh no,” Spike said, amused. “Don’t run.”

  Heroko didn’t answer.

  He moved.

  Not forward. Not into Spike.

  Away.

  A retreat disguised as momentum. He cut through a narrow gap between buildings, shoulder clipping brick, leaving a smear of blood on the wall. He heard Spike’s laugh follow him like a thrown knife.

  “Tell your little freaks I’m coming!” Spike called.

  Heroko didn’t look back.

  He didn’t need to.

  The café smelled like burnt coffee and metal.

  It wasn’t a real café anymore. Not the way it used to be. It was a checkpoint with tables. A workshop with mugs. A place where the Super Freaks could sit in public and dare the world to try something.

  Mino’s armor was spread across a booth seat like a dissected animal, plates laid out, wiring exposed. Zacheas hunched over a section of it with tools, hands moving fast, eyes tired. Garth leaned back against the wall, arms folded, watching the door like it had insulted him.

  Marten sat at the counter with a laptop and too many empty cups.

  The bell over the door chimed.

  Heroko stepped inside.

  Conversation died without anyone speaking.

  Mino’s head snapped up. “What is he doing here?”

  Heroko didn’t slow. He walked past them like they were furniture and stopped at the counter.

  The barista—an older woman with a scar across her chin—looked up at him without fear.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  Heroko nodded once. “Traffic.”

  Mino blinked. “You— you work here?”

  Heroko didn’t bother answering that.

  He turned, finally giving them his attention. His shirt was torn at the side. His breathing was controlled but tight. A bruise was blooming along his jaw.

  Zacheas narrowed his eyes. “You look like you lost.”

  Heroko smiled.

  “You’re perceptive,” he said. “Come outside.”

  Garth pushed off the wall first. Not aggressive—just ready. “We’re not doing this in here.”

  They filed out onto the sidewalk, the city’s noise rushing back in around them. People gave them space without understanding why.

  Mino kept his distance, armor half-repaired, hands still stained with grease. “We have bigger problems than whatever your ego wants today.”

  Heroko’s gaze flicked to him, amused.

  “You’re right,” he said. “You have a major problem.”

  Mino’s jaw set. “And you think it’s you.”

  Heroko’s smile sharpened. “It is.”

  Zacheas shifted, wary. “Say what you came to say.”

  Heroko leaned his shoulder against the café’s brick wall like he belonged there.

  “Spike approached me,” he said. “With Kyle. With followers.”

  Marten’s head lifted. “Spike?”

  Heroko nodded. “He tried to recruit me.”

  Mino scoffed. “Let me guess. You turned him down because you already think you’re the villain.”

  “I turned him down,” Heroko said, “because he doesn’t want to rule the world.”

  Garth’s brow creased. “What does he want?”

  Heroko’s eyes went distant for a second, remembering the fight, the way Spike moved like rot given a body.

  “He wants to end it,” Heroko said. “Break it until there’s nothing left to stand on.”

  Zacheas’ voice went low. “And?”

  “And he can beat me,” Heroko finished, like that was just another fact to stack on the table.

  Silence.

  Mino stared at him as if waiting for the punchline.

  “There it is,” Mino said finally. “That’s the part you don’t get to say.”

  Heroko shrugged. “Now you’ve heard it.”

  Marten exhaled slow. “If he can beat you…”

  Mino’s mouth opened, then closed. The joke died before it could be born.

  Heroko watched them absorb it. He didn’t press. He didn’t need to. Fear did the work for him.

  Then he said, “Temporary alliance.”

  Mino barked a humorless laugh. “No.”

  Heroko’s eyes slid to Garth. “Yes.”

  Garth met his gaze. He didn’t like Heroko. That was obvious. But he wasn’t stupid either.

  “He’s not here to hurt us,” Garth said at last. It sounded like it cost him something to admit. “Not right now.”

  Mino threw his hands up. “You can’t know that.”

  Garth didn’t take his eyes off Heroko. “I can tell.”

  Heroko’s smile softened by half a degree. It was the closest he got to gratitude.

  “I need temporary housing,” he said. “Somewhere Spike can’t find me easily. Somewhere I can recover without being ambushed in my sleep.”

  Zacheas looked like he wanted to argue. Marten looked like he wanted to run the numbers and hated what he was finding.

  Mino muttered something under his breath that sounded like a prayer to bad luck.

  Finally, Mino pointed at Heroko with a greasy finger. “Temporary. And you pay rent.”

  Heroko’s laugh was quiet and sharp.

  “Fine,” he said. “Temporary.”

  Their place wasn’t meant for another person.

  It was already crowded with gear, half-finished plans, and the constant tension of people living like they might need to sprint at any moment.

  Heroko stepped inside anyway like he’d always belonged.

  Mino hovered behind him, visibly uncomfortable. “You can take the back room. Don’t touch anything.”

  Heroko glanced into the room, saw a mattress on the floor, a dresser with one drawer missing, a window that didn’t close all the way.

  He nodded once.

  Then he set a small bag down, as if this were a hotel.

  Zacheas crossed his arms. “That’s it?”

  Heroko looked over his shoulder. “What did you expect? A speech?”

  Mino’s face pinched. “We’re not your team.”

  Heroko smiled.

  “I know,” he said. “You’re my contractors.”

  Garth stepped forward, frustration rising. “Spike isn’t just your enemy now.”

  Heroko’s eyes gleamed with amusement.

  “You’re cute when you try to claim ownership of the apocalypse,” he said.

  Garth’s jaw clenched.

  Heroko lifted a hand, cutting the tension before it could become a fight.

  “I’ll be around,” he said. “And I’ll expect paychecks for hunting down your enemies again.”

  Mino stared. “You think we’re paying you?”

  Heroko shrugged and headed for the door like he was bored of the conversation already.

  “If you want results,” he said, “you pay for them.”

  He paused with his hand on the knob, not turning back.

  “And if you want to live,” he added, voice lighter, “you let me do what I’m good at.”

  Then he left.

  The door clicked shut behind him.

  The room stayed silent for a beat too long.

  Mino looked at the others, incredulous. “I hate him.”

  Garth didn’t disagree.

  Marten’s voice came from the kitchen, too calm. “Hate him later. We’ve got more activity.”

  Everyone’s attention snapped to him.

  Marten’s fingers tapped the screen. “You guys got another mission.”