When Tema finished talking to the mayor.
Tema wen tback to her temporary house.
A motel.
The motel room was small.
Too small for someone like Tema.
Thin curtains fluttered as traffic passed outside. The remaining heroes were scattered across the rooms—injured, exhausted, alive. That alone should have been enough to calm her heart.
It wasn't.
Tema sat at the edge of the bed, hands clasped, eyes unfocused. The mayor's offer replayed in her mind again and again, each time heavier than before.
Chitki noticed first.
"You've been staring at nothing for ten minutes," she said, closing her laptop. "What happened?"
Tema hesitated.
She didn't want to burden them. Not now. Not when everything was already broken.
But silence weighed more than words.
She exhaled and told them everything—about the hospital visit, the mayor, the offer, the rebuilding funds, the conditions. She didn't dramatize it. She didn't soften it either.
When she finished, the room fell quiet.
Poppy adjusted her glasses, fingers tapping lightly against her notebook. "From a strategic standpoint," she said slowly, "rejecting the offer puts us at a severe disadvantage. Financially, politically, structurally."
Chitki typed rapidly, screens reflecting in her eyes. "Reconstruction alone would take years without external support," she added. "And we'd be exposed the entire time."
Tema lowered her head. "So… you think I should accept?"
Poppy nodded. "Yes. But cautiously."
Chitki stopped typing and looked up. "If there's a contract," she said firmly, "read every word. If something feels wrong, question it. Don't sign out of pressure."
Tema gave a weak smile. "I will."
The hospital was quieter the next day.
Machines hummed softly. The smell of antiseptic lingered in the air.
Tema checked each room.
Bear was stable—injured, but breathing steadily.
Tuka lay unconscious, arms bandaged, chest rising unevenly.
Chiki's room was the hardest. Severe skull trauma. Tubes, monitors, weeks—maybe months—of recovery ahead.
Bandy's room was sealed off entirely.
Tema didn't stay long.
As she stepped into the corridor, a familiar voice spoke behind her.
"Have you decided?"
She turned.
The mayor stood there, hands folded behind his back, expression calm. Too calm.
"Yes," Tema said quietly. "I'll accept."
His lips curved slightly. "Very well."
He gestured, and a bodyguard approached, handing her a thin tablet. "Just a formality," the mayor said. "Standard support agreement."
Tema sat down and began reading.
Line by line.
Then she stopped.
Her eyes narrowed.
7. IDENTITY & OWNERSHIP
7.1 The Asset's hero name, image, likeness, and legacy are the exclusive property of The Organization.
7.2 Retirement does not revoke ownership.
Her hand tightened around the tablet.
"I don't agree with this," Tema said, looking up. "My heroes are not assets. They're people."
The mayor sighed gently, as if disappointed—not angry.
"You're misunderstanding," he said. "This is merely legal protection. Branding rights. Media usage. Nothing more."
"It says ownership," Tema replied.
"And ownership," he said calmly, "is what prevents others from exploiting them. Without this clause, corporations, private militias, even foreign governments could claim them."
He leaned closer, voice low. "This keeps them safe. Under one banner. One authority."
Tema hesitated.
"You've already seen what happens without structure," he continued. "Your headquarters destroyed. Children injured. The world is watching now. They trust you—but they expect accountability."
Silence stretched.
"You can still protect them," he said softly. "This just ensures you're not alone anymore."
Tema's hands trembled.
She signed.
Later, as Tema walked away toward Chiki's room, the mayor remained behind.
The tablet vanished into the bodyguard's hands.
The mayor smiled.
Not wide.
Not proud.
Just… satisfied.
Far away from the city.
Far from sirens, cameras, and heroes trying to heal—
A place existed where light struggled to stay alive.
Stone corridors curved inward like ribs around a beating heart. The air was cold, but not empty. Screens hovered silently in the dark, projecting fragments of battles, hospital footage, medical reports.
A woman stood before them.
Her posture was relaxed. Too relaxed.
Long dark hair fell down her back, barely moving as if time itself hesitated around her. Her eyes were fixed on the projections—not blinking, not reacting.
"They survived," she said softly.
Her voice wasn't surprised.
It was… amused.
The screens shifted.
Bear—unconscious, wrapped in wires and bandages.
Tuka—broken bones, clenched fists even in sleep.
Chiki—machines beeping irregularly beside his bed.
Bandy—surrounded by doctors, lightning scars burned into the floor.
The woman tilted her head slightly.
"…Not all futures ended there," she murmured.
A shadow moved behind her.
Someone unseen. Someone listening.
"The boy with no power," she continued, eyes lingering on Tuka's image. "He stood longer than expected. Pain tolerance exceeded predictions."
Another screen flickered.
"The quiet one," she said, watching Bear. "His path fractures… but does not break."
Her lips curved faintly.
"And the explosive child…"
A pause.
"…He will decide more than he realizes."
The shadow finally spoke.
"Enough."
The screens went dark at once.
Footsteps echoed as the unseen figure stepped closer, stopping just short of the light.
"Choose," the voice said calmly.
The woman turned.
For the first time, she smiled—not happily, not cruelly.
Knowingly.
"There is one," she said. "A hammer. Crude. Loud. Effective."
The shadow was silent.
She continued, almost conversationally, "Send him now. While they're weak. While their faith hasn't recovered."
"Send Drayke."
The space beside Relix warped.
Air folded inward, collapsing into itself with a sound like tearing metal. Heat poured out—not flame, not energy, but something heavier. Older.
It was a portal to a different dimension.
A tall figure stepped through.
His skin bore markings that didn't resemble any known language. His eyes glowed faintly, not with rage, but with boredom. Gravity itself seemed to bend subtly around him, as if the world was unsure how close it was allowed to stand.
Drayke smiled.
"Earth again?" he asked. "You really enjoy breaking your toys slowly."
The voice answered, cold and precise.
"Bring me the three."
Drayke's grin widened.
"And what if I resist?"
A pause.
"Then I guess your dimension," the voice said, "has no right to survive."
"Alright! Alright!."
Drayke said.
"I understand but I need minimum 4 months to analyse and prepare myself to fight because you know I don't like defeat."
The voice answered.
"Fine. But make it quick."
The portal opened behind Drayke once more.
As he stepped through, Relix looked away—just slightly.
The lights around her flickered.
As if it was indicating something.