Enzo stepped into the hallway.
The floor was covered in thick, expensive carpet that swallowed the sound of his boots. The walls were decorated with tasteful abstract art, and a room service trolley sat abandoned near the elevator. It was a stark contrast to the underground bunkers of Viridian. This was a luxury hotel—one that just happened to be owned by a shell company of the organization.
He walked down the corridor, counting the gold-plated numbers until he reached Room 202.
He didn't knock. He just tapped the frame once with his knuckle.
The door opened almost instantly.
Proton stood there. He wasn't wearing his full uniform, just a white undershirt and tactical trousers. His hair was damp, like he'd just washed his face to stay awake.
When he saw Enzo, the tension in Proton's shoulders dropped. A genuine look of relief crossed his face—rare for a man who usually looked at the world like he wanted to bite it.
"You're alive," Proton said, stepping back to let him in.
Enzo walked inside.
Proton's room was a mirror image of his own suite: king-sized bed, city view, minibar. But it was emptier. No incubators. No complex setups. Just the bed, a desk covered in maps of Cerulean, and his gear organized with military precision.
On the bed, the Sprigatito was curled up on a pillow, sleeping. It opened one eye when Enzo entered, flicked an ear, and went back to sleep.
"How long?" Enzo asked, his voice raspy.
"A full day," Proton replied, closing the door and engaging the electronic lock. "Twenty-four hours straight. You were out cold."
Enzo blinked. A full day. The memory download from the System had taken a heavier toll than he thought.
"I took the liberty of entering your room while you were under," Proton added, leaning against the desk. "Someone had to keep the zoo alive."
Proton started ticking them off on his fingers, looking exhausted but proud of the work.
"I fed everyone. That Deino of yours tried to take a finger off, but we came to an understanding."
He paused, shaking his head.
"You're running a shelter in there"
Enzo nodded, genuinely appreciating the initiative.
"Thank you," Enzo said.
"Don't mention it. We're a unit," Proton said. Then his expression shifted. He became serious, pointing to a black box sitting on the center of the desk.
"That arrived six hours ago."
Enzo looked at the box. It was sleek, matte black, with no logo.
"Who delivered it?"
"A courier," Proton said. "Didn't speak. Didn't ask for a signature. He just scanned the door, left the box, and vanished. High clearance."
Enzo approached the desk.
He ran a hand over the lid. No traps. No sensors.
He opened it.
Inside, resting on black velvet, were two items.
The first was a plastic card. Enzo picked it up. It felt solid, expensive. The lamination shimmered under the room's light.
It was a League Identification Card.
It had his face—a recent photo, likely taken from Team Rocket's surveillance during the Draft, but edited to look friendlier. The name wasn't a code. It was a full, civilian identity.
Name: Enzo Vance Origin: Cerulean City Status: Civil Class / Independent Trainer ID No: K-784-992-L
It was flawless. It listed his birthplace as Cerulean City—the very city they were standing in. It grounded him here. It made him a local. It would pass police scanners, Pokémon Center checks, and tournament registrations without blinking.
"Clean," Proton murmured, looking over his shoulder. "That's a Ghost Identity. Expensive."
"It's not just an ID," Enzo said.
He picked up the second item.
It was a document. Heavy paper. Cream-colored. The header was embossed with a thunderbolt insignia.
Enzo read the text.
OFFICIAL LETTER OF RECOMMENDATIONVermilion City Gym
To the Tournament Committee:
I, Lieutenant Surge, Leader of the Vermilion Gym, hereby certify that the trainer Enzo Vance has undergone private evaluation under my supervision.He demonstrates the discipline, tactical aptitude, and combat readiness required for professional competition.He acts with my sponsorship.
Signed,Lt. Surge
Enzo stared at the signature. It was inked in heavy, aggressive strokes.
Giovanni hadn't just given him a fake name. He had given him a pedigree. By attaching Lt. Surge's name to his file, Enzo wasn't just some random orphan from the streets anymore. He was a "protégé" of a war hero and a Gym Leader.
It explained why he was so strong. It explained where he came from. And most importantly, it gave him immediate legitimacy in the eyes of the public.
"Lt. Surge," Proton read, a low whistle escaping his lips. "The Boss didn't hold back. Having a Gym Leader vouch for you... that's a free pass into the Junior Tournament."
Enzo placed the letter back in the box.
"It's a shield," Enzo said quietly. "And a test."
"A test?"
"Surge is one of us," Enzo explained. "But he's also proud. If I go into that tournament using his name and I lose..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. In Team Rocket, embarrassing an Executive was a death sentence.
Enzo closed the box.
The registration was solved. The Identity was created. But now came the tactical question.
Enzo looked down at his belt.
He had an army now. Haunter. Krokorok. Corviknight. Houndoom. Hypno. Weezing. And the babies: Deino and Froakie.
Eight Pokémon. But the Junior Tournament regulations were strict.
Only four Pokémon were allowed per trainer. And there was a power control rule to keep the competition balanced: the average level of the team could not exceed Level 38.
This changed everything. It forced mathematics into the combat.
Enzo looked at his Poké Balls, calculating.
Corviknight and Haunter were his heavyweights. They were too strong. If he brought them, the level average would spike, forcing him to use incredibly weak Pokémon to compensate. Besides, Haunter was his silent assassin—a weapon he preferred to keep in the shadows for real Team Rocket missions, not to display on national television.
They were out.
That left him with the rest.
I am a protégé of Lt. Surge, Enzo thought, looking at the letter. I should act like it. Disciplined. Tough.
His hand hovered over Houndoom and Krokorok.
He hesitated.
These were his core. His true style. But they looked... evil. Houndoom looked like a demon. Krokorok looked like a thug.
I can't walk in there and fight like a criminal, Enzo thought. People will look at me, look at my Pokémon, and see a villain.
He started to reach for a "safer" option, to hide his nature.
Then, he stopped.
A brilliant, cold idea clicked into place.
Wait, Enzo thought. Why am I hiding it?
If he tried to act like a generic hero, he would be forgettable. But if he leaned into the fear? If he took the scary reputation of his Pokémon and flipped it?
I can create a narrative, Enzo realized.
He looked at the black Poké Ball of his Houndoom.
I won't be the scary kid with the dark monsters. I will be the crusader.
He began to draft the lie in his head. The perfect story to feed the cameras and the interviewers. A story that would make the audience cheer for a Dark-type trainer.
"People think Dark-types are evil," Enzo rehearsed the thought. "They think they are treacherous. But I am here to show the world that they are reliable. That they have hearts, just like any other Pokémon."
He needed an origin story to sell it. Something emotional. Something that explained why a rich, talented boy like "Enzo Vance" would choose such terrifying partners.
The story formed instantly:
"When I was six years old," the fake memory wrote itself, "I was lost in the Viridian Forest. I stumbled into a nest of Beedrill. The swarm chased me. I was terrified. I thought I was going to die."
"No one came to save me. Except one."
"A wild Houndour jumped between me and the swarm. He was small. He was trembling. But he didn't run. He took the stings for me. He barked and fought until the swarm left us alone. That Houndour is now my Houndoom."
Enzo smiled. It was perfect.
"Since that day," the narrative concluded, "I made it my mission to show everyone the truth: Dark-types aren't monsters. They are protectors."
It was the ultimate shield. It gave him a moral high ground. It allowed him to use his most violent, underhanded tactics, and frame them as "misunderstood loyalty."
He looked at Proton.
"I have the angle," Enzo said. "I'm not going to hide the Dark types. I'm going to make them the stars."
He tapped Houndoom and Krokorok's balls.
"These two are the core. The 'Misunderstood Heroes.'"
"But that's only two," Proton pointed out. "You need four for the roster."
Enzo frowned. He looked at the rest of his belt. Weezing was a pollution hazard—too ugly for a hero narrative. Hypno creeped people out in a way that couldn't be spun as "heroic." Froakie and Deino were babies.
"I have two slots open," Enzo said, calculating the levels. "I need two more Pokémon that fit the 'Dark/Misunderstood' theme, but keep my level average below 38."
He closed the black box with a snap.
Enzo tapped the black box.
Enzo said, his voice sharpening into command. "We're done waiting."
Proton pushed off the desk, a grin touching his lips.
"Where are we going?"
Enzo tapped the black box.
"To register."