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DATE:7th of May, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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The rest of the day I went through the motions at school—attending classes, looking appropriately engaged, the usual performance. But mentally, I was already preparing for the incursion. First priority: actual equipment. The cash I'd gotten from the school stipend and that college kid Jack wasn't going to cut it.
Time to tap into my stashed funds from before the UltraMan mission. Sure, the Donn had scammed me out of a million Zols—still bitter about that, not that it mattered—but he'd at least given me 200,000 as an advance payment. That was real money.
That money wasn't stashed in his location, Maizo, despite all the bonuses I would have had from my V.I.P. token. Trusting a crime boss with your savings seemed like the kind of mistake you only make once. If you're lucky.
I'd hidden it somewhere else entirely. Somewhere safer. Well, safer-adjacent, anyway.
I'd put that money in an independent fund owned by Vince Interactive. A shady company that dealt mostly in entertainment. They had a whole roster of idols under their brand. Also had a spectacularly detailed history of abusing said idols, which was public knowledge at this point. Real upstanding corporate citizens.
But as a bank? For criminals like myself? One of the most trusted institutions out there. Go figure.
They took a 10% yearly cut of your deposit as a 'discretion fee' or whatever corporate euphemism they were using these days. Technically a horrible deal—any legitimate financial advisor would have a stroke looking at those terms. But here's the thing: what other bank lets you make transactions without asking for any kind of ID? None. That's what.
I paid the premium for the privilege of staying anonymous. Worth it, all things considered. Better to lose 10% annually than lose 100% to law enforcement or whoever else might come looking..
A shame they didn't have a subsidiary in Cordon. I suppose it was too rich for them. It was an hour commute to the nearest Vince HQ, so I had to take the metropolitan train. There is a metro in Concord—it would have been comical not to have one—but it is only in the proper city and not the suburban districts.
The commute finished without any major impediments, and I arrived at the infamous idol hub.
I stepped inside the headquarters, and the first thing that hit me was the sheer scale of the lobby. Calling it excessive would be an understatement. The ceiling stretched up several stories, glass windows flooding everything with natural light. Polished marble floors reflected it all back, making my footsteps echo in that particularly pretentious way expensive buildings always do.
A massive digital screen dominated the entrance, cycling through glamorous shots of their top idols performing, giving interviews, smiling for the camera. Mixed in were sleek ads for their banking services, because nothing says 'trustworthy financial institution' like a company famous for abusing its talent.
Then there was the logo. A beheaded unicorn—and I mean actually beheaded, complete with blood dripping down its neck. Still smiling, though. Cheerful little decapitated mascot.
Weird choice. Then again, probably intentional. Send a message or whatever.
Faint music played in the background—some blend of their latest idol hits and smooth instrumental tracks. The whole setup had this surreal, dystopian vibe. I don't enter places like this often.
I kept walking toward the center, looking for whatever secretary was responsible for the accounts. Then I remember that the secretary would be somewhere above.
Beyond the reception, I took an elevator, ignoring the entertainment wing. The ride was smooth, the walls of the elevator embedded with touch screens that displayed live updates from the entertainment world. So many horror stories came out of these slick corridors I was avoiding.
You'd think this company would get destroyed in lawsuits or that their idols would leave—heck, at least new ones wouldn't come here—but neither of those is the case. Vince has the best lawyers around, and they have tight contracts. And for the recruits? This is the biggest agency around. Greedy young girls, or just people in desperate need of money, will always exist. It doesn't matter how many times they get cancelled, or how many times their rival BubbleTV exposes their misdeeds. Vince truly is a corporatist empire.
I took the elevator to the 66th floor—their 'bank'—and the atmosphere shifted immediately. The noise of rehearsals and idol chatter faded out, replaced by the quiet hum of computer screens and subdued conversations. Carpeted floors now, softening footsteps. The decor turned muted and professional, or at least tried to.
Clearly banking wasn't their main gig. The layout screamed "afterthought"—just some lined benches and standard bank counters, minimal effort. No marble up here, no grand architectural statements. Functional at best.
The clientele was an interesting mix. Desperate citizens who'd gotten hooked into their predatory loan schemes. Probably some of their own singers and actors, trapped in contracts and needing cash advances. And then criminals like me, here for the anonymous accounts.
You could never tell who was who just by looking. The poor and deranged tend to look the same.
Everyone looked equally miserable, though. That was consistent.
I found an empty spot on one of the benches and waited for my turn.
I went to take out my 'deposit', where I was hit with a 20% charge for early withdrawal. It is a lot, but then again, they also know I can't go to anyone else. I received that cash on the spot in a reinforced briefcase. I always appreciated that you didn't need to call beforehand or anything like that. It just shows how this wasn't a deposit, but simply a promise to keep my money for a time. I would have appreciated the briefcase to be less conspicuous, but at least I wouldn't worry about it being broken into.
As I left the building and headed toward my equipment store, my suspicions clicked into place. I was being followed.
A Blonde woman with blue eyes, maintaining exactly fifty steps behind me since I'd reached the station. Professional distance—not amateur hour.
She couldn't have known I was withdrawing money, so what was her angle? Hero sent by Zilliam to keep tabs on me? No, she shouldn't know about tonight's operation yet. Someone from the Don's organization checking up on me? Highly unlikely—I was small-time. A hero from UltraMan's league? They shouldn't even know I existed.
So then who?
I ran through the possibilities while keeping my pace steady. Whoever she was, I couldn't lead her to the equipment store. That would connect too many dots.
How to shake her off, though? Standard evasion techniques in crowded streets were risky—she clearly knew what she was doing.
Then it hit me. The metro. Perfect. Tight spaces, closing doors, multiple exits. Easy to lose a tail if you timed it right.
I adjusted my route and headed for the nearest station.
I headed underground into the Concord metro, trying to blend into the crowds. Didn't work as well as I'd hoped—she was still on me. It didn't help that I had to sucker punch two guys who grabbed my briefcase. Subtle, I know.
I walked fast and squeezed into the most crowded metro car. The woman got forced two cars away—good start. But I knew she'd work her way over eventually, so at the next station I kicked some hobo in the groin after he went for my briefcase, then exited and moved along the platform toward the exit. She followed, predictably.
Then the lights started flickering. Perfect timing.
I put on my best confused expression and stepped into the next compartment. She followed, staying one car behind. Just as she was entering mine, I squeezed sideways through the closing doors, trapping her inside. I headed for the station exit while she got carried off to the next stop. I made sure to look like I was leaving.
But I wasn't done. Once her train left, I doubled back and caught the next one, rode it until a route split, then bailed in a hurry and grabbed the first taxi I saw.
I handed the driver a hundred-Zol bill. "Keep driving until I say stop."
She wouldn't catch up now. Probably.
The 'store' where I was going was technically a noodle shop. It was owned by a renowned arms dealer, a certain mister Zhen. At least that is what I hear he goes by.
The restaurant looked normal enough. Thematic, even—one of those small noodle shops that dotted every city block. The kind of place that could be legitimate or a front, and you'd never know without the right insider knowledge.
To get an audience with the owner, I needed to order a specific combination. Secret handshake bullshit, but with food. Whatever worked.
I stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of broth and spices—actually smelled decent, which was a pleasant surprise. The interior was modest, nothing fancy. I made my way to a table near the back, positioning myself out of direct view but with a clear line of sight to the room. Standard procedure.
A waitress approached, looking bored. Perfect.
"Hot and Sour Soup," I said, my tone casual. It was the first signal, the blend of heat and sourness hinting at the urgency of the matter at hand.
She scribbled it down, and I continued.
"Beef Chow Mein, no vegetables." My voice remained steady, but the absence of vegetables was a clear sign—cut the small talk, no distractions. What was coming next was serious.
"Shrimp Pad Thai," I added, pausing briefly before the next key phrase. "Extra peanuts." The extra peanuts meant there was complexity involved, a layer of risk that needed handling. My business wasn't straightforward, and I wanted to make that clear.
For the side, I asked for "Cold Noodle Salad." Cold meant quiet. Silent. The nature of the discussion would be discreet, off the books. It was a necessary precaution.
"And Jasmine Tea. No sugar," I finished. A request for transparency, no sweeteners or attempts to dress up what we were going to talk about. This wasn't a casual meeting; it was direct, and we needed to meet face-to-face.
The waitress nodded, unaware of the code hidden in the meal, but someone else in the room would notice. It was all in the order—the message had been sent. All I had to do now was wait.
And I didn't wait for long, as a bouncer-looking Chou man came to my table before any of the food arrived.
"The chef will hear your compliments in the back," is what he said, but the man guided me underground beneath the restaurant through a dark corridor, until we reached a big meeting room.
The room was dim, illuminated only by a single hanging lamp that cast long shadows on the polished wooden table. As I stepped inside, I felt the heavy air settle around me, thick with tension. At the far end of the table, he sat, waiting. The 'chef' barely moved, his presence like a coiled serpent—still, but full of latent power.
He tilted his head slightly as I approached, the light catching the deep claw scars that marked his face. They pulled at his skin, giving him a permanent, twisted smirk, as though he found amusement in every situation, no matter how dangerous. His sharp, almond-shaped eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. His hands, adorned with a simple jade ring, rested calmly on the table, but I could feel the violence simmering just beneath his poised exterior. You don't survive in this business by being weak.
As I got closer, the faint, salty scent of soy washed over me, blending with the rich scent of incense burning in the corner. It was an odd contrast—almost domestic.
"So? To whom do I owe the pleasure?" he said, his voice low and smooth, but with an edge sharp enough to cut. His lips barely moved, but every word carried weight. There was no impatience in his tone, only control—an awareness that everything unfolded according to his plan.
He gestured to the chair opposite him, and without waiting for my response, continued. "Sit. We have much to discuss."
I let myself fall în place unconcerned by his pressure, and eyed those scars. I'm sure he appears threatening to normal people, but what kind of idiot fights with bears or tigers by choice? Or if he got ambushed, then he is even more foolish. This all-tough look? As far as I knew, Mr. Zhen had no abilities. I could kill him easily if I wanted to.
"You may refer to me as Adam. I want to buy some weapons and combat equipment."
"Adam?" He pondered for a second, observing my figure. I was dressed in a shirt and tie, one of the few occasions where I needed them. He was looking at my face, though I don't know what he saw.
"You have eyes devoid of life, Adam. But this is none of my business. I assume you have the money on hand?"
I opened the case to show him. A satisfied expression was on Chow's face. He rose from his seat and guided me to one of his armories. Shelves upon shelves of weapons, but most of them were useless to me. I got two FNX-45 Tactical pistols with integrated suppressors. I couldn't believe my eyes upon seeing how small their suppressors were. The chef let me test them, and they were the real thing. Coupled with a red dot and about ten more magazines, I paid 10k Zols for them.
Chow also had another device that interested me. It looked like a combination between a revolver and a flare gun, which he said shot 8-gauge shotgun rounds. That was 5k Zols.
But I didn't come here for those. What I wanted was a Hao Suit. It was a mesh similar to latex or perhaps the suits divers use that covers the whole body, besides a face mask. In it are small tubes that, when filled with a certain liquid, reinforce the material to a level I only saw in fiction. Some special operation teams use these because they are Level III+ bulletproof. Only a .50 caliber rifle or higher can pierce them.
The suit and its special liquid, plus the mask, were military-grade, illegal equipment which cost me 150k Zols. I also bought a powerful knife he called a Benchmade Claymore, multiple 10,000-lumen flashlights, and some restraining gear.
Under further consideration, I picked up some Hao mines. They were produced by the same company as the suit. All of this left me with 15k Zols left, a duffle bag with my armor, and the briefcase filled with weapons, mines, and grenades. I paid a taxi to get me to about ten minutes' distance from the academy
And what do I see in the distance? That same blonde woman was waiting to catch me going into the Academy. This means she knew I was working here.
But now I was the one trailing her.
I pulled out one of my pistols and pressed it against her back. She tried to turn—reflex, probably—but I blocked her path with the briefcase. Gentle but firm.
"Don't move. Let's find a better place to talk."
I guided her toward a back alley behind one of the larger apartment blocks, the kind of forgotten space cities accumulate between buildings. She kept her hands up. Smart.
I pulled out the restraining bands the chef had thrown in as a bonus and wrapped them around her wrists. They auto-tightened with a soft mechanical hiss—decent tech for the price. Did the same with her ankles. She went down face-first onto the concrete. Not graceful, but effective.
I set my briefcase and duffle bag aside, then positioned myself with one knee on her back, pistol aimed at her head. Standard interrogation setup. Uncomfortable for her, secure for me.
Now came the interesting part—finding out who sent her and why she'd been tailing me all afternoon.
"Now, you've wasted quite a lot of my time following me around. So why don't we skip the theatrics? Who are you?"
She tried to buck me off physically, twisting against the restraints. The bands held firm. Huh. Didn't realize the chef had given me superhero-grade equipment. Good value for the price.
Then a small dagger flew backward from her hands, grazing my shirt. Nearly hit me, actually. Impressive sleight of hand.
I slammed her face into the concrete in response. Seemed appropriate.
She let out this animal-like growl, thrashing once more before finally going still.
"When I heard from the Don that you died, I didn't believe it," she said, voice muffled against the pavement. "The Nameless, caught by some pitiful explosive? Didn't add up."
Wait. So she was from his side? That narrowed things down considerably, though not in a good way. If the Donn had people checking whether I was actually dead, that meant complications I didn't need right now.
So she decided to confirm it personally? Touching.
"I saw you talking with the Moon Girl, so I followed her. And what do you know—the bastard was alive after all!" She sounded genuinely offended about it.
"As if I care how you found me. Who are you, bitch?" I rammed her head again while blood spilled from her mouth. Unlike with the heroes, I had no reason not to kill her.
"Damn! You'd really treat your old partner like this? Such an asshole." Old partner? What is she talking about?
"Who?" I asked, genuinely confused now.
Seemingly annoyed at my lack of recognition, she finally stopped wasting my time.
"The Changeling? Doesn't that ring a bell?"
Ah. Right. I did remember her—or him? The shapeshifter made pronouns complicated. We weren't partners, though. More like… The Changeling was a mercenary I'd worked adjacent to on a few jobs. Same role as Mike had played during the UltraMan mission—support, spotting, logistics. Background noise, essentially.
But why would I bother remembering someone like that in detail? We'd never been friends. Just professionals doing a job.
More importantly, why did *she* care about me? Was she camouflaged among UltraMan's family at the funeral? That would track—the Donn sending multiple agents to confirm that I was doing my job made sense. Paranoid bastards always have backups for their backups.
"So why bother searching for me?" I asked, keeping the gun steady. "The Don already thinks I'm dead. You could've just reported back and collected whatever he's paying you. Why the personal interest?"
Something didn't add up here.
"Look, Fabio didn't just betray you. I was also a victim." Her voice cracked slightly—genuine emotion or good acting, hard to tell. "My whole family was killed. My wife, my children. He wanted to erase me, same as he tried with you. I... I need your help. Someone with your ability."
"For what?"
"Together we can kill him! Finally end this whole running-away thing." She shifted against the concrete. "I'm sure you hate being stuck among heroes."
True. Pretending to be William Carter Jr. Wasn't exactly safe in the long run. But working with Changeling? That came with its own complications.
"Work together, huh... Like the old times?"
"Yes! Why don't we do it, homeboy?"
I kept the gun pressed to her head while I considered it. I didn't particularly trust The Changeling—trust wasn't really in my vocabulary. But he was an expensive mercenary, which meant competent. You don't command high rates by being sloppy. His skillset had value.
Still, teaming up to kill the Don? That was a significant escalation from my current situation. More risk, more exposure, more variables.
I got up from her back and picked up my briefcase and duffle bag.
"Hey, why don't you let me out of these things, hubby? It's not fair to leave a maiden cuffed in a dark alley. What will the bystanders think?"
I ignored her. Her loose beige dress was now covered in concrete dust and grime. Not my problem.
"Sofia. Do you remember our mission on that cruise ship in the 63rd year after the coronation?"
"Ah, yes! It was a pool party at a manor in the 61st year, actually." She sounded pleased with herself. "Classic Nameless, not remembering anything. But I sure do! What about it?"
Right. I never bothered remembering the past—too much clutter, not enough practical value. But this was different.
"Remember how you kissed me to 'blend in' with the crowd?"
"Yes, we were playing a couple for the cover, right? What about it?"
"What do you mean, 'what about it?' You stained my face with those dirty, disgusting lips of yours." I wanted to beat her up. "Back then I couldn't retaliate with so many witnesses around. But what about now?"
Considering Changeling's... extensive history of sleeping with targets for information, I'd been genuinely concerned for my health after that incident. Who knows what diseases I could've contracted from those lips? I'd spent weeks getting tested at various hospitals afterward, bleeding my profits from that assassination job dry.
That loss was far more memorable than whatever the Vampire had tried to do to me three days ago. At least vampires had the decency to be straightforward about draining you.
"W-what? You'll really take revenge on little, frail me?"
"No. You're not worth touching." I checked the bag once more. "Besides, I have things to do, and I can't be bothered learning how to unlock those bands. Figure it out yourself."
"What!? No! You can't leave me here!"
"Consider it payment for that kiss." I couldn't help but let out a scoff. "There's a coffee shop—Al Vente? I don't really remember the name. Find it on Umaps. We'll meet there tomorrow evening. Around seven, probably."
"Wait, come back!"
I didn't.
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I made it back to the Academy loaded with equipment—guns, tools, the works. Everything I'd need for tonight's infiltration, plus some extras in case things went sideways. Which they probably would.
Tonight was the big day. Time to find out what the Zilliam family was hiding in their secret laboratory, and whether it was worth all this effort.
Probably wasn't, but at least I'd know for sure.
***