Lougetown breathed uneasily.
Not loudly. Not in panic.
But in restraint.
Alpha felt it from the moment he woke beneath the collapsed rafters of an abandoned storehouse near the outer docks. The city's intent no longer flowed naturally. It paused. Doubled back. Watched itself.
They are waiting, he assessed. For me to move first.
That alone was unacceptable.
Alpha rose quietly, iron reinforcement dispersing the ache left behind by repeated evasions. His body was still young—too young—but the system compensated where biology lagged. He rolled his shoulders, testing response time. Acceptable. Not optimal.
Staying means compression, he concluded. Compression leads to error.
He needed space.
But leaving without consequence would only sharpen pursuit.
So Alpha planned something else.
A disappearance.
Not an escape.
A conclusion.
Lieutenant Harren stood on the western docks just after dawn, coat pulled tight against the sea wind. Reports had slowed overnight—too quiet. Harren disliked quiet more than chaos.
"Sir," a Marine approached. "No incidents reported since last night."
Harren's eyes remained on the water. "That's the problem."
He sensed it too—a pressure missing, like a note abruptly removed from a melody.
Alpha moved deliberately that morning.
He allowed himself to be seen.
Only briefly.
A merchant swore later that a child had crossed the street ahead of him—too calm, eyes too sharp. A dockworker insisted someone had jumped between rooftops without a sound. Alpha let the rumors spread unevenly, inconsistent enough to feel unreliable.
Then he staged the incident.
A pirate skirmish erupted near the outer pier—real pirates, drunk and violent, blades flashing. Alpha intervened openly for the first time.
Iron surged.
He met a blade head-on, forearm ringing like a struck anvil. He pivoted, swept, struck again—faster than before, harder. One pirate flew backward into the railing. Another collapsed clutching his ribs.
Witnesses screamed.
Marines charged.
Alpha turned—not fleeing inland—but toward the sea.
Harren saw him.
Clear as day.
A small figure sprinting across the pier, movements impossibly precise.
"There!" Harren barked. "Don't let him reach the water!"
Gunshots cracked.
Alpha felt one graze his shoulder—iron flared, dispersing force, but pain bloomed hot and sharp. His steps staggered.
Good, he thought grimly. Make it convincing.
He reached the pier's edge.
Leapt.
The sea swallowed him whole.
The search lasted hours.
Divers found nothing.
No body. No blood. Only shattered planks and the lingering echo of violence.
By nightfall, Harren stood alone at the pier, staring at the dark water.
"A child doesn't survive that," an officer said quietly.
Harren didn't answer.
But the city exhaled.
Far beyond the harbor, clinging to driftwood beneath the cover of night, Alpha floated silently.
Iron reinforcement locked his body against hypothermia. Haki dulled his presence to nothing.
Pain throbbed through his shoulder.
He welcomed it.
System Update:
Tactical Deception Successful
Marine Threat Status: Dormant
Injury Recorded — Adaptive Reinforcement Pending
Alpha stared up at the stars.
Disappearance achieved, he assessed.
Now came the long work.
Training.
Growth.
And the slow, inevitable return.
The Grand Line waited.