SSS-Rank Corporate Predator System

The news of the Northwood Unity Tournament spread through the city like a wildfire.

It was all anyone was talking about.

The fame.

The glory.

The impossible, legendary prize.

To most, it was a dream come true.

To Miles Vane, it was a beautifully wrapped box with a bomb inside.

He sat in his apartment, the tournament announcement playing on a loop in his mind.

It was a trap.

He knew it was a trap.

The system knew it was a trap.

Even his half-eaten sandwich on the counter probably knew it was a trap.

"Okay, so, plan A," he said to the empty room, his voice a low, sarcastic murmur.

"I walk in the front door."

"I say, 'Hello, I am the ghost you are trying to capture'."

"'Could I please have the magical glowing rock now?'"

"'I promise to use its incredible power for good, and not, you know, for dismantling your entire criminal enterprise'."

"I see no flaws in this plan."

He was spiraling.

The bait was too good.

The risk was too high.

For the first time since his system had awakened, he felt truly, completely stuck.

He could send his clone.

But the system had been clear.

The tournament rules, which had just been released online, required a full bio-scan for entry.

A clone, with its 75% energy signature, wouldn't pass.

He had to go himself.

He was running through scenarios in his head, each one ending in his own spectacular, and probably very messy, capture.

He was so lost in his own tactical nightmare that he almost didn't hear the knock on his door.

He froze.

No one ever knocked on his door.

Ever.

The system flared with a low-level alert.

[UNEXPECTED BIOLOGICAL PRESENCE DETECTED OUTSIDE DOOR.]

[SIGNATURE IS NON-HOSTILE.]

[SIGNATURE IS… FAMILIAR.]

Miles got up slowly, his body tensing.

He walked to the door and looked through the peephole.

His heart did a strange, complicated little flip in his chest.

It was Clara.

She was standing there in the dim, dingy hallway, a look of fierce, stubborn determination on her face.

He opened the door.

"Hey," he said, his voice coming out as a surprised croak.

"Hey," she replied, her voice steady.

She didn't wait for an invitation.

She just walked past him and into his small, cluttered apartment.

She looked around, taking in the stacks of books, the cheap, second-hand furniture, the single, sad-looking plant in the corner that was definitely not going to make it.

"Nice place," she said, her tone completely deadpan.

"Very… minimalist."

"Thanks," he said, closing the door.

"I was going for 'struggling hermit chic'."

"How did you find me?"

She turned to face him, a small, sad smile on her face.

"You're a ghost, Miles," she said softly.

"But you still have to register for school."

"It took me about five minutes on the student database."

"Your security is terrible."

He just stared at her.

"Okay," she said, her voice turning serious, her playful tone gone.

"We need to talk about the tournament."

Of course, she knew.

She was the smartest person he had ever met.

She probably saw the trap the moment Silas Cross opened his mouth.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said, his voice flat.

He started building the wall again, brick by metaphorical brick.

"It's a trap."

"I'm not going."

"It's too dangerous."

"Yes, it's a trap," she agreed, her voice sharp, cutting right through his defenses.

"That's what makes it so interesting."

"It's a trap with rules, Miles."

"And rules," she said, a familiar, analytical glint in her eyes, "can be broken."

"Or bent."

"Or used against the person who made them."

She took a step closer, her gaze intense.

"The rules state that all participants must compete in teams of three."

He just looked at her, confused.

What did that have to do with anything?

"You can't go in there alone," she said, her voice dropping, becoming more urgent.

"You'll be outnumbered from the start."

"You're a weapon, Miles, a brilliant one."

"But you're not a strategist."

"You're so focused on the target that you didn't see the rest of the board."

The words hit him with a startling, and deeply uncomfortable, accuracy.

"You need a team," she said, her voice firm.

"You need eyes and ears on the inside."

"You need someone who can watch your back while you're busy being a one-man army."

He was starting to see where this was going.

And he didn't like it.

"No," he said, the word coming out sharper than he intended.

"Absolutely not."

"Clara, you can't."

"It's too dangerous."

"I will not drag you into this."

"You think I'm not already in this?" she countered, her voice rising with a passion he had never heard from her before.

"I was there, Miles!"

"I was in that lobby!"

"I saw what you are."

"I saw what they are."

"And I am not going to stand by and let you walk into a slaughterhouse alone just to protect my delicate sensibilities!"

She was angry.

Furious.

And it was all on his behalf.

The feeling was so strange, so foreign, that he didn't know how to process it.

"I'm not asking for your permission," she said, her voice calming slightly, but losing none of its iron resolve.

"I'm presenting you with a logical, tactical solution to a complex problem."

"A problem," she added, a faint, wry smile touching her lips, "that you are currently trying to solve by punching it really hard."

He couldn't help it.

A small, surprised laugh escaped his lips.

She was right.

She was completely, infuriatingly right.

"So, who's the third?" he asked, the question a quiet admission of his defeat.

A genuine, brilliant smile lit up her face.

"I'm glad you asked," she said.

She pulled out her phone and showed him a student file.

The name was Leo Martinez.

His picture showed a lanky kid with thick glasses and a mess of curly black hair.

His academic scores were nearly as high as theirs, but they were all in computer science and engineering.

"Leo is the smartest person I know when it comes to anything with a circuit board," Clara explained.

"He builds his own computers from scratch."

"He once hacked the school's bell system just to prove he could."

"And most importantly," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "his family lost their business in a hostile takeover by Cross Corp five years ago."

"He hates them even more than you do."

"He's in," she finished, a note of finality in her voice.

"I already asked him."

Miles stared at the file, then back at Clara.

She hadn't just come here with an idea.

She had come here with a fully-formed plan.

She had built him a team.

An anchor.

A strategist.

And a tech genius.

He looked at her, at this incredible, brilliant, and terrifyingly brave girl who had just declared herself a player in his impossible war.

The system in his head, which had been silent during the entire exchange, offered a single, simple line of text.

[PROBABILITY OF SURVIVAL WITH PROPOSED TEAM: 78.6%.]

The odds were still not great.

But they were a hell of a lot better than zero.

He had been a ghost, a solitary hunter in the dark.

But she was right.

He couldn't do this alone.

Not anymore.

He let out a long, slow breath, the last of his resistance crumbling away.

"Okay," he said, the word feeling both like a surrender and a victory.

"We have a team."

"So what do we call ourselves?"

Clara's smile was small, but it was full of a shared, secret understanding.

She looked him right in the eye.

"I was thinking," she said softly, "Team Revenant."