SSS-Rank Corporate Predator System

The world inside Miles's head was a cold, quiet, and deeply satisfying hum.

He had absorbed the crystal's energy.

He hadn't just taken the key; he had become the key.

He felt the power settling deep in his bones, a new, clean, and terrifyingly potent fuel source.

The system, which had been a screaming mess just moments ago, was now a silent, purring engine.

[SYSTEM CORE STABILIZED.]

[FOREIGN ENERGY INTEGRATION: 7%... 12%... 21%...]

[ESTIMATED TIME TO FULL SYNTHESIS: 12 HOURS.]

[NEW EVOLUTIONARY PATHWAYS UNLOCKED.]

He looked up from the now-empty pedestal, his gaze sweeping across the chaos he had created.

The crowd was a panicked, surging sea of bodies, all scrambling for the exits.

The other teams were either unconscious or trying to crawl away from the crazy kid who had just eaten a magical glowing rock.

And then there were the hunters.

Dozens of them.

They were pouring into the arena from every conceivable entrance, their black combat gear a stark, ugly contrast to the flashing lights and corporate banners.

They moved with the cold, disciplined efficiency of a pack of wolves, their energy rifles raised, their movements a synchronized, deadly ballet.

They were forming a circle.

A cage.

And he was the prize animal in the center.

"Okay, so the good news is, I feel great," Leo's voice crackled over their comms, his tone a high-pitched, frantic squeak.

"The bad news is, I think we are about to be introduced to the concept of overwhelming and probably very lethal force."

"Does anyone have a plan that doesn't involve us being turned into a fine, red mist?"

Miles looked at Clara.

She was watching the approaching hunters, her face a mask of calm, analytical focus.

She was his anchor.

And right now, he was pretty sure they were both about to drown.

"The exits are blocked," Clara stated, her voice a steady, low murmur in his ear. "They're funneling us."

"They're not trying to kill us here," she continued, her mind moving at a thousand miles an hour. "This is a capture mission."

"They want you alive, Miles."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better," Miles thought, a wave of bleak sarcasm washing over him.

"They don't want to kill me."

"They just want to kidnap me, strap me to a table, and probably scoop my brain out with a melon baller to see what makes me tick."

"It's the little things, you know?"

The circle was tightening.

The first rank of hunters arrived, their rifles aimed directly at them.

The air crackled with the sound of charging energy capacitors.

This was it.

The end of the line.

And then, from the high, shadowy rafters of the arena, a figure dropped from the sky.

It wasn't a slow, graceful descent.

It was a silent, lethal plummet.

The figure landed in the center of the arena with a soft, almost inaudible thud, right between Team Revenant and the advancing line of hunters.

It was the Masked Fighter.

He stood there for a moment, a silent, enigmatic specter in a featureless white mask.

The lead hunter, a grim-faced man with a captain's insignia on his armor, barked a command.

"Identify yourself!" he yelled. "This is a restricted Cross Corp operation!"

The Masked Fighter didn't even look at him.

He just raised a hand, and their blade of pure, brilliant, white light materialized in his grip, humming with a quiet, hungry energy.

He turned his head slightly, his blank mask fixing on Miles for a single, fleeting second.

Then, he spoke.

Their voice was a low, distorted whisper, filtered through their mask, but in the sudden, tense silence of the arena, the words carried with the weight of a thunderclap.

"Gideon Thorne sends his regards."

And then, he attacked.

It wasn't a fight.

It was a slaughter.

The Masked Fighter moved like a storm, a whirlwind of white light and impossible grace.

He didn't just fight the hunters.

He dismantled them.

His light-blade was a blur, disarming, disabling, and destroying with a surgical precision that was both beautiful and terrifying to watch.

Miles just stood there, his jaw somewhere near the floor.

He had fought this person.

He had been his equal.

Now, seeing him unleashed, seeing his true power, he realized he has been toying with him.

He hadn't been fighting him.

He had been testing him.

"Okay, I am officially terrified and a little bit in love," Leo's voice whispered over the comms.

The diversion was perfect.

The entire army of hunters was now focused on the single, impossible threat that was tearing their ranks to shreds.

"Now!" Clara's voice commanded, snapping Miles out of his trance.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the side of the arena, toward a large, unassuming maintenance door that was now completely unguarded.

"Leo, the door!" she yelled.

Leo, who was already there, had a small, spider-like drone attached to the electronic lock.

"Give me three seconds," he said, his fingers flying across a handheld keypad. "Two… one…"

The lock clicked open.

They slipped inside, leaving the chaos of the arena, the roar of the crowd, and the impossible, beautiful violence of the Masked Fighter behind them.

They were in a sterile, white service corridor that smelled of disinfectant and recycled air.

"Okay, so new question," Leo panted, trying to catch his breath as they ran.

"Who the heck is Gideon Thorne?"

"And can I get his autograph?"

"Long story," Clara replied, her voice tight. "And no."

She led them through a maze of identical-looking corridors, her steps sure and confident.

She wasn't just running.

She was following a path.

"My father has been in hiding for a long time," she explained as they ran. "But he never stopped watching."

"He has backdoors into almost every corporate and government building in this city."

"He's a ghost, just like you, Miles."

"But his secrets are older."

"And run a lot deeper."

They finally reached a heavy, rusted metal door at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

It looked like it hadn't been opened in fifty years.

Clara placed her hand on a small, almost invisible panel beside the door.

There was a soft chime, and a faint, blue light scanned her palm.

A series of heavy, metallic clunks echoed from inside the door as ancient locks disengaged.

The door swung open with a low groan, revealing a cloud of dust and the smell of stale, dead air.

They stepped through.

They were in a vast, dark, and completely silent space.

It was a deserted subway station.

The tracks were rusted.

The old, tiled walls were covered in a thick layer of grime and faded, peeling advertisements from a forgotten era.

It was a tomb.

A perfect, hidden place in the heart of the city that the world had forgotten.

And they were not alone.

A figure stood on the far platform, his back to them, a long coat obscuring his form.

He was just standing there, waiting.

As if he had been waiting for a very, very long time.

He turned around slowly as they approached, his heavy boots making a soft, crunching sound on the debris-covered platform.

The man was broad-shouldered, his face a landscape of old battles and quiet, weary strength.

He had streaks of silver in his dark hair, and his eyes, a piercing, intelligent gray, seemed to see right through Miles, right down to the humming, stolen power in his soul.

He looked at Leo, a flicker of something, a deep, painful sadness, in his gaze.

He looked at Clara, and a hint of a proud, fatherly smile touched his lips.

Then, he looked at Miles.

He studied his face for a long, heavy moment, his expression unreadable.

He finally spoke, his voice a low, steady rumble that seemed to fill the vast, empty station.

"You have your mother's eyes," Gideon Thorne said.

His gaze was heavy, full of a history that Miles was only just beginning to understand.

"And your father's foolishness."