SSS-Rank Corporate Predator System

The week leading up to the Northwood Unity Tournament was the strangest of Miles's life.

It was stranger than finding out his brain had a co-op mode.

It was stranger than fighting a man who could barbecue a steak with his mind.

It was, by a significant margin, the most normal he had felt in years.

Their training sessions took place in a forgotten, abandoned warehouse that Leo had "acquired" for them.

"Acquired how?" Miles had asked, looking at the surprisingly functional lights and the brand-new security cameras Leo was installing.

Leo, who was busy rewiring a circuit breaker, didn't even look up.

"Let's just say the previous owners, a shell corporation for a certain evil billionaire, had a sudden and tragic case of forgetting to pay their property taxes," he said with a cheerful grin.

"And their digital security was so bad, my toaster probably could have hacked it."

"It was a public service, really."

Miles just stared at him.

"Okay, new rule," he thought to himself.

"Never, ever get on Leo's bad side."

Their first sparring session was a disaster.

Miles, who had only ever fought to survive, had no idea how to teach someone.

His idea of training was simple.

"Okay," he said to Clara, who stood opposite him on the dusty concrete floor.

"I'm going to run at you."

"Try not to get hit."

Clara just raised an eyebrow.

"That's your whole plan?" she asked, her voice laced with an amused disbelief.

"That's not a training regimen."

"That's just a moderately well-organized assault."

Miles shrugged.

"It's how I learned," he said.

"Well, it's a terrible way to learn," she countered, a thoughtful, analytical glint in her eye.

"Your movements are all instinct."

"You're a reactive fighter, not a proactive one."

"You wait for the attack, and then you use your speed to counter it."

"It's brilliant, but it's inefficient."

"And it's predictable."

He just looked at her, a little stunned.

She wasn't just watching him.

She was analyzing him, breaking him down like a complex equation.

"Your breathing is all wrong, too," she continued, starting to circle him like a shark.

"You hold your breath when you use your skills."

"It creates a micro-pause in your rhythm."

"Against a real opponent, a real master, that's a weakness."

"That's an opening."

He had never thought about that.

He had been too busy trying not to die.

"So, what's your brilliant, strategic solution?" he asked, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

She stopped circling and gave him a small, confident smile.

"Meditation," she said simply.

Miles blinked.

"You're kidding."

"You want me to sit on the floor and say 'om'?"

"I have seventeen assassins trying to turn my head into a paperweight, and your plan is for me to find my inner peace?"

"I'm pretty sure my inner peace packed its bags and left town the night my brain turned into a supercomputer."

"It's not about finding inner peace," she said, her voice patient, like a teacher explaining a difficult concept.

"It's about control."

"Your overload happened because your emotions hijacked your system."

"You let your rage take the wheel."

"We need to teach you how to be the driver, not the passenger."

He didn't have a good comeback for that.

Because she was right.

And she sounded like someone familiar with the system, but he didn't ask her anything so they wont be issues between them.

So, for the next hour, he sat on the cold, dusty floor of an abandoned warehouse, with the smartest, bravest girl he had ever met, and he learned how to breathe.

It was the most difficult training he had ever done.

Leo walked in on them halfway through.

He was holding a laptop and a bag of what smelled suspiciously like chili dogs.

He stopped dead in his tracks, looking at Miles, who was sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed, and at Clara, who was quietly guiding him through a breathing exercise.

"Okay," Leo said, his voice a loud, cheerful intrusion into their quiet focus.

"I am very confused."

"Is this a training session, or have you two finally started your own weird, silent-staring cult?"

"Because if it's a cult, I want to be the guy who gets to wear the cool hat."

Miles's eyes snapped open.

Clara just sighed, a sound of fond exasperation.

"We're working on his emotional control, Leo," she said.

Leo took a large bite of his chili dog.

"Right," he said, talking with his mouth full.

"'Emotional control'."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

He looked back and forth between the two of them, a wide, mischievous grin on his face.

"You two are killing me," he said, shaking his head.

"The sexual tension is so thick in here, you could cut it with a rusty spork."

"Just get it over with already."

"Kiss. Make out. Do whatever it is you stoic, emotionally repressed geniuses do to show affection."

"The suspense is giving me indigestion."

Miles felt his face get hot.

He was pretty sure his ears were turning red.

He, a boy who could fight a man made of fire, who had a literal ghost in his head, was being reduced to a blushing, stammering mess by a lanky kid with a chili dog.

Clara, on the other hand, was completely unfazed.

She just gave Leo a cool, appraising look.

"Are you done?" she asked.

"Because while you were busy providing your insightful commentary on our social lives, I was busy analyzing the tournament's entry roster."

She gestured to her own laptop, which was open on a nearby crate.

The screen was filled with files on the other competitors.

"And you," she said, her gaze shifting to Miles, "have been so busy learning to breathe that you haven't had a chance to study your opponents."

The shift was so sudden, so professional, that it left both Miles and Leo a little dizzy.

In an instant, she had gone from the subject of a joke to the clear, undisputed leader of their little rebellion.

For the rest of the week, they trained.

And they worked.

Miles taught Clara and Leo the basics of his system's combat theory, the principles of using movement and misdirection to control a fight.

He was surprised at how quickly they picked it up.

Clara's movements were precise, analytical, almost like a dance.

Leo's were chaotic, unpredictable, and surprisingly effective.

He wasn't a fighter, but he was smart, and he was cunning.

In return, Clara continued her lessons in control, teaching Miles to anchor his power in his breath, to separate his emotions from his actions.

It was working.

He could feel the change, a new sense of calm and clarity settling deep in his core.

Leo, meanwhile, became their one-man intelligence agency.

He hacked into city records, athletic databases, and the dark corners of the Echo Chamber, building a detailed profile on every single team in the tournament.

"This guy, 'VoidRipper'," Leo said one evening, pointing to a picture of a ridiculously muscular man on his screen.

"His system is a Tier-2 gravity manipulation."

"Impressive, right?"

"But his digital footprint is a joke."

"His password for everything is 'password123'."

"Seriously."

"And he spends most of his money on protein powder and subscription boxes for cat toys."

Miles just stared at him.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

Leo just grinned.

"I'm a professional," he said.

"And professionals have standards."

"And apparently, VoidRipper's standard for security is 'hope for the best'."

The days passed in a blur of sweat, bruises, and the surprising, unfamiliar feeling of camaraderie.

He wasn't a lone wolf anymore.

He was part of a pack.

A very strange, very sarcastic, and surprisingly effective pack.

The night before the tournament, they stood on the roof of their warehouse, looking out at the glittering, sprawling city below.

The Cross Corp arena was a massive, glowing jewel in the center of it all, a beacon of power and corruption.

The air was cool and quiet, the calm before the storm.

"So," Leo said, breaking the silence.

"Big day tomorrow."

"Anyone else feel like they're about to throw up?"

"Just me?"

"Cool."

Miles looked at the arena, at the symbol of the man who had destroyed his life.

He felt a familiar, cold knot of dread and determination forming in his gut.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice a low, quiet whisper.

"Everything changes."

He felt a hand on his.

He looked down.

Clara had placed her hand gently over his, her touch warm and steady in the cool night air.

He looked at her.

She wasn't looking at the arena.

She was looking at him.

Her eyes were full of a quiet, unwavering strength that seemed to push back against the darkness.

"No matter what happens," she said, her voice a soft, firm promise.

"We face it together."

He squeezed her hand, a silent acknowledgment.

A silent thank you.

He was still a ghost.

He was still a weapon.

But for the first time in a very long time, he wasn't alone.

And that, he realized, made him more dangerous than ever.

From the shadows of a nearby rooftop, two figures in simple, gray polo shirts watched them through a pair of high-powered binoculars.

One of them lowered the binoculars, a grim look on his face.

He tapped his earpiece.

"Target is on the roof of the asset building," he reported, his voice a low, professional murmur.

"He's not alone."

"He's with the girl, Clara, and another unidentified male."

"They appear to be… a team."

He paused, listening to the voice on the other end.

"Understood," he said.

"We maintain surveillance."

"All units will be in position for the tournament tomorrow."

He hung up, turning to his partner.

"It seems our little anomaly," he said, a cold, humorless smile on his face, "has made some friends."

"This just got a lot more interesting."