SSS-Rank Corporate Predator System

The Northwood Unity Tournament was a masterpiece of corporate propaganda.

The Cross Corp Arena was a gleaming temple of glass and steel, packed to the rafters with a screaming, cheering crowd.

Banners with the Cross Corp logo hung from every surface.

Flashy, high-definition screens broadcasted slickly produced commercials showcasing the company's supposed commitment to the community.

It was a circus.

And they were the main event.

Miles stood with Clara and Leo in the massive, echoing tunnel that led out to the arena floor.

He could hear the roar of the crowd, a physical, living thing that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.

"Well," Leo said, adjusting the thick, nerdy glasses on his face.

"This is all very subtle and low-key."

"I was expecting more explosions."

"And maybe a laser light show."

"I feel a little underwhelmed, to be honest."

Miles just grunted, pulling the hood of his simple, black athletic sweatshirt lower over his face.

He was a ghost in a world of flashing lights and roaring noise.

Clara placed a steadying hand on his arm.

"Breathe, Miles," she said, her voice a quiet, calm island in the middle of the chaos.

"Remember the plan."

"We're not here to win the whole thing today."

"We're here to survive the first round."

"And to be seen doing it."

It was a strange, counter-intuitive strategy, born from one of Leo's late-night hacking sessions.

"The preliminary rounds are a free-for-all," Leo had explained the night before, pointing to a schematic of the arena he had "acquired."

"Twenty teams, one massive, multi-level arena."

"The last five teams standing move on to the finals."

"It's designed for chaos."

"It's designed to make the powerful teams take each other out early."

"So, we don't play their game," Clara had finished, her eyes gleaming with a sharp, strategic light.

"We let the sharks eat each other."

"We stay on the edges."

"We look competent, but not a threat."

"We hide in plain sight."

Miles didn't really like the plan.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to find the strongest opponent and take them down.

But he trusted them.

He trusted her.

A loud, booming voice echoed through the tunnel, announcing the start of the tournament.

Team by team, the competitors began to march out onto the arena floor, their names and flashy team logos appearing on the giant screens.

There were the 'Gravity Crushers,' led by the ridiculously muscular VoidRipper.

There were the 'Diamondbacks,' the street gang that Silas Cross had tried to frame for the Warehouse 7 incident.

And then there was Team Revenant.

As their names were called, a simple, text-based graphic appeared on the screen.

No logo.

No flashy colors.

Just their names.

Miles Vane a.k.a Ghost of Northwood

Clara known as The Anchor

Leo Martinez just as it is.

They walked out into the blinding lights of the arena.

Miles kept his head down, his senses overwhelmed.

He was just a kid in a hoodie.

An anonymous, unremarkable face in a sea of super-powered peacocks.

It was the perfect disguise.

High above the arena floor, in a private, sound-proofed VIP box, Silas Cross watched the procession on a bank of high-definition monitors.

He took a slow, deliberate sip from a glass of sparkling water.

Julian stood beside him, his face a cold, vengeful mask.

He had been quiet ever since the incident in the lobby.

The arrogant, entitled boy had been replaced by something colder.

Something harder.

Something that was starting to look a lot like his father.

"There he is," Julian said, his voice a low, venomous hiss, as the camera zoomed in on Miles's hooded figure.

"The little ghost."

Silas just smiled, a thin, predatory expression.

"Patience, Julian," he said, his voice calm, an almost paternal tone that was far more terrifying than any shout.

"All things come to those who wait."

He gestured to another monitor, which was displaying a tactical map of the arena.

Dozens of red dots, each representing one of his hidden, high-level guards, were positioned at every exit, every chokepoint.

"The cage is set," Silas mused, more to himself than to his son.

"Now, we simply let the animals fight."

"And we see which one is the strongest."

He didn't know how right he was.

Because as he watched the arena from above, he was completely unaware that he, too, was being watched.

High in the steel rafters, hidden in the deep shadows above the lights, a second figure in a black hoodie was perched like a silent, waiting gargoyle.

It was the clone.

Miles had dispatched it the moment they entered the building.

Its mission was simple.

Reconnaissance.

It was mapping the positions of every guard, every hidden master, every security camera in the entire arena.

The system in Miles's head was now receiving two streams of data at once.

One from his own eyes on the arena floor.

And one from his clone's eyes in the sky.

He had a complete, three-dimensional, real-time map of Silas's entire trap.

The ambush was being dismantled before it had even been sprung.

The starting siren blared, a sound so loud it shook the floor.

The chaos began.

The twenty teams exploded into action, a storm of flashing lights, concussive blasts, and shouted war cries.

The Gravity Crushers immediately found the Diamondbacks, and a full-scale turf war erupted in the center of the arena.

Team Revenant, however, did not charge.

They simply melted away.

Following Clara's calm, quiet directions, they slipped into a side corridor, a part of the arena's complex, multi-level structure that the other teams, in their rush for glory, had completely ignored.

They moved with a quiet, efficient grace.

Then, they ran into their first problem.

A team of three hulking, brutish-looking thugs in matching red jumpsuits blocked the corridor.

Their team name, 'The Wrecking Crew,' was stitched on their backs.

"Well, well," the leader sneered, cracking his knuckles.

"Look what we got here."

"A little lost?"

Clara stepped forward, a calm, confident smile on her face.

"Not at all," she said, her voice clear and steady.

"We were just looking for a shortcut."

The thug laughed.

"The only shortcut you're getting," he growled, "is to the infirmary."

He and his team charged.

Miles's hands tightened into fists.

His instincts screamed at him to end this in a single, brutal second.

But he held back.

The plan.

He had to trust the plan.

Clara didn't flinch.

Just as the first thug reached her, she made a small, almost imperceptible gesture with her hand.

"Leo," she said, her voice a quiet command.

"Now."

Leo, who had been standing behind her, fiddling with a small, handheld device that looked like a modified cell phone, pressed a button.

A high-pitched, almost inaudible whining sound filled the corridor.

The three thugs from the Wrecking Crew suddenly stumbled, their faces contorting in confusion and pain.

Their internal communication systems, the small earpieces they used to coordinate their attacks, had just been hit with a massive, targeted blast of sonic feedback.

They dropped their weapons, clutching their heads, their ears ringing.

In that brief, perfect moment of distraction, Miles moved.

He didn't use his skills.

He didn't use his system.

He just used his training.

He flowed forward, a blur of motion.

He swept the leg of the first thug, sending him crashing to the floor.

He ducked under a wild swing from the second and drove his elbow into the man's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.

He sidestepped the third and used the man's own momentum to send him tumbling into his two fallen comrades.

The entire fight was over in less than ten seconds.

It was brutally efficient.

It was surprisingly low-tech.

And it was completely, utterly unimpressive.

From his VIP box, Silas Cross watched the brief, pathetic scuffle on a secondary monitor.

He saw the team in the red jumpsuits go down.

He saw the quiet, hooded boy and his two unremarkable teammates simply walk past them.

He almost laughed.

This was the ghost?

This was the great, terrifying threat to his empire?

A boy who won a fight with a cheap sonic gadget and a few basic martial arts moves?

He had overestimated him.

The boy wasn't a predator.

He was just lucky.

Silas turned his attention back to the main screen, where the real powerhouses were tearing each other apart in a spectacular display of fire and force.

He completely dismissed the small, quiet team that had just slipped into the shadows.

It was the biggest mistake he had ever made.

Down on the arena floor, Miles looked back at the three groaning, defeated thugs.

"That was your plan?" he asked Clara, a note of genuine surprise in his voice.

"To give them a headache?"

Clara just smiled.

"The loudest man in the room is rarely the most powerful," she said softly.

"We're not here to be loud."

"We're here to be invisible."

"And right now," she said, looking around the empty corridor, "no one is even looking at us."

Miles looked at her, then at Leo, who was already tinkering with his device, a cheerful smile on his face.

He had walked into a trap.

But he hadn't walked into it alone.

He was part of a team.

And they were about to tear this tournament, and Silas Cross's perfect plan, apart from the inside out.