It had been several year since that night.
Jetsling Beroba, now nine years old, sat alone on the edge of a rooftop, overlooking the decaying sprawl of the lower city. The skyline glittered far in the distance where the heroes, the rich, and the polished monuments to justice stood. But down here, the streets were narrow, twisted like broken veins—and forgotten.
The sky was grey. Not the kind of grey that promised rain, but the kind that lingered like rot. A slow decay that gnawed at the bones of the world.
Jetsling's legs dangled freely, his frame still small, still lean, but his presence held a tension now. The innocence of childhood had faded from his eyes—those crimson irises always calculating, always watching.
He wasn't just a survivor anymore.
He was something else.
He pulled the ragged hoodie tighter around him. The city hadn't grown any kinder since his rebirth. It had only become more brutal. And more empty.
This place can be said to be a place where heroes do not came. A place more akin to a slum.
His fingers traced the edge of a broken pendant that once belonged to Nina. A simple piece of metal, cheap and rusting, but the last thing she had left behind.
A bitter wind blew, and with it, memories.
____________
It had been late. Close to midnight.
He'd left their hideout only for an hour. The bakery at 3rd and Kino dropped its unsold buns before closing, and if he was fast enough, he could grab a few before other scavengers got there.
He remembered smiling. He had two red bean rolls wrapped in a half-clean napkin, and he'd found an unopened can of soda in the trash—slightly dented but still sealed.
It was supposed to be a good night.
But when he returned...
Nothing.
No laughter. No warmth. No smell of cheap firewood or candle wax.
Their base—tucked inside the hollow of a collapsed drain tunnel—was gone.
Not destroyed.
Erased.
The crates were gone. The stolen blankets, gone. The chalk drawings on the tunnel wall—gone. As if it was scrubbed clean by a cleaner but no cleaner can be that fast.
No blood. No signs of struggle. No footprints.
Even the scent was wrong. Sanitized. Sterile.
He'd stood there, frozen, as the cold soda fell from his hand and rolled down the tunnel.
"Nina... Kazu..."
He called their names until his voice cracked.
No one answered.
----
Now, a year later, the ache hadn't dulled.
Jetsling clenched the pendant until his knuckles turned white.
They hadn't run. Nina wouldn't have left without leaving a message. Kazu wouldn't have vanished without his knife. They were taken. But not by common thugs or random street scum.
Whoever it was had precision. Money. Resources.
Even the System couldn't trace it.
[Surveillance Reconstruction: Corrupted.]
[Timeline Gap: 63 Minutes Lost.]
[Unknown Interference: Level 6 Clearance Override Detected.]
That was the clue.
Not a villain. Not a street gang.
A pro-level cleanup.
Maybe even a hero agency.
He had his suspicions.
---
Jetsling rose slowly to his feet. Below, traffic crawled like insects between the cracks of the city.
His stomach growled again, but he ignored it. Hunger had become a companion. A reminder that he was still alive.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Rider Core. More of a toy rather than containing power as it can be said to be his own symbol.
A small device no bigger than a wristwatch, etched with the twin symbols of Vail and Delta.
"One year," he whispered. "That's how long I've waited."
He turned the device over in his palm, his expression unreadable.
"I still don't know why they were taken. But I know the kind of people who could do it."
He stared toward the Hero Tower rising in the distance, its glass body shining like a blade in the sky.
"They pretend to be justice. They wear smiles and capes. But someone behind that tower knows."
His hand tightened into a fist.
"I'll make them tell me."
And if they wouldn't...
He would become something even the heroes feared.
He stepped off the edge of the rooftop—and landed silently in a crouch three stories below, like a shadow.
The hunt had begun.