The helicopter rotors slowed into a heavy churn, their rhythm dulling as the skids settled fully onto the pad. The city’s skyline stretched behind them, but it was the figure waiting on the concrete below that anchored Don’s attention. He stood just beyond the landing circle, his coat whipping awkwardly in the wash of the blades. The material of his suit—brown, loose, and shiny at the wrong angles—looked like something salvaged from a department store clearance rack in 1992. It was the type of fabric that creased too easily and hung too heavily, calling to mind washed-up detectives in flickering VHS tapes. He kept fussing with it, palms running over his trousers as though patting down wrinkles would make the suit appear newer. Don unbuckled his harness and pushed the cabin door open. The blades above continued their slow turn. Charles lingered for a moment, leaning slightly toward the cockpit. "Wait for me," he told the pilots, voice raised just enough to rise over the hum. "I doubt this will take too long." The nearest pilot twisted in his seat, giving a short nod. "Not a problem, sir." Charles adjusted his cuffs with the kind of patience he was known for, then stepped out into the wind after Don. The slap of air tugged at Don’s shirt and pressed his chain against his chest as he crossed the tarmac. Sanchez didn’t raise his head until Don was within arm’s reach. Only then did the man straighten his thinning hair with quick fingers, plastering it back across his scalp like the final touch on a bad disguise. "Ah—good morning, Mr. Don Bright." His voice carried that strained politeness people used when they were faking cheer. "So good of you to come early. Very good. The school was just about to send for you right now." Don raised a brow, pausing mid-step. Send for him? That made no sense. Behind him, Charles’s shoes clapped lightly against the pad as he approached, his long silver hair flowing through the gusts. He had caught the same words Don had. "What do you mean send for us?" Charles asked evenly, adjusting his aviators as he came to stand beside him. Don just stared at Sanchez, silent, his expression resting somewhere between confusion and boredom. The man couldn’t even hold his gaze. He kept looking away, fussing with his trousers again, palms smearing down the outdated fabric as though that could hide the way his knees twitched. Charles tilted his head slightly, hair flicking with the wind, his tone still polite but carrying an edge as he added, "If there was something important taking place, why send short notice?" Sanchez gave a high, shallow laugh, stretched too long and then said. "Oh—well, in this case, I wasn’t as informed and only found out this morning..." His words tumbled fast, like he was trying to outrun his own trip-ups. "But let me explain first, as I’m sure I’m not making sense. Aha." Don thought the laugh was worse than the lie. It was the sort of defense that belonged to a man who had long since stopped caring if people noticed his lies. To be fair, politicians got away with worse every day. Sanchez was just the cheaper, local brand. The dean cleared his throat, wiped his palms across each other, and clasped them behind his back. Sweat already darkened the seams of his shirt. "The thing is," Sanchez began, eyes flicking briefly to the side, "our school currently has a very special guest on grounds. Because of this, the school board didn’t communicate this to me until earlier this morning. And I was only told some moments ago that this particular guest was interested in the students of the Elite Hero Program." Don studied him. The story wasn’t impossible. Just shaky. Too shaky for Charles. "The whole program?" Charles asked, shifting his weight as the wind pulled faintly at his shirt. "So the others have been informed?" Sanchez’s Adam’s apple jumped. He swallowed hard, a sound Don could hear over the wind. That single gulp told him everything. Charles noticed too. He didn’t even give Sanchez the chance to answer. He let out a short chuckle and shook his head, his silver loafers scraping against the pad as he shifted closer to Don. "So, let me see if I understand," Charles said, his words courteous but angled sharp enough to cut. "An important guest is visiting with the purpose of seeing students in the Elite Hero Program, and we weren’t informed. But the others were?" Sanchez chuckled again, strained, his face too tight to pass for genuine composure. "I do apologize for the error on the school’s part. But the guest has only just arrived now, and so I assure you—you haven’t missed anything." Charles allowed another chuckle, but this one sounded more amused than accepting. "Missed?" he repeated. "We aren’t even aware what’s going on." The dean stumbled on his words, trying to backpedal with fragments of apologies that didn’t form a whole sentence. Don finally stepped in, brushing off the farce. "Well, we might as well see what this guest wants," he said, voice level. "More out of curiosity than actual care." Charles inhaled, slow and steady, before smiling faintly. "Yes, I suppose we should" he agreed, almost under his breath. The two of them moved past Sanchez without further word. Don walked first, eyes already on the doors ahead. Charles lingered a half-step behind, pausing long enough to give Sanchez one last look. His smirk was mild, but his eyes weren’t. The scoff that left him was soft, nearly carried away by the dying churn of the rotors. But Sanchez heard it. Then Charles turned, catching up to Don as they entered the building. A few minutes later... The hall stretched long, white stone set against steel trimmings that gleamed faintly under the light panels above. Their steps carried evenly over the polished floor, Charles’s loafers striking lightly in rhythm with Don’s sneakers. Behind them, Dean Sanchez trailed, his cheap suit brushing awkwardly at his legs. Don’s eyes slid briefly along the walls—rows of framed commendations and overdone murals of past SHU triumphs. He and Charles stopped short of the dean’s office door, both tilting their heads slightly without speaking. It didn’t take a second. "There’s someone outside," a gruff, unfamiliar voice said. Stern. Measured. "Is it them?" Don’s gaze narrowed faintly. Then came another voice. Deeper, eloquent. Too familiar. Don caught Charles’s eye in the corner of his vision. Neither moved, but both registered the same thing—wariness. Sanchez, either oblivious or pretending well enough, stumbled forward with his hand already reaching for the knob. His laugh sounded forced. "Hah—aha—good news, Mr. Xiao. The boys hadn’t received the notice. Thankfully they were already in the midst of arriving on campus." A red beam traced over him from the wall scanner, flicking across his torso and settling with a faint beep. Only then did the lock click~. The knob turned, and Sanchez pushed the door open with sweaty fingers. The office should have been familiar. It wasn’t. The desk that usually swallowed half the room now looked diminished by its occupant. Mr. Xiao sat in the dean’s chair. He wore a dark, Chinese-styled suit trimmed in faint red edges, intricate patterns woven into the fabric that caught the light when he shifted. His hands rested loosely on the armrests, posture relaxed, face bent into that smug smirk Don had learned to expect from him. But it wasn’t Xiao that pulled Don’s eyes first. It was the figure standing before the desk. A giant—easily two meters, if not more. His frame looked carved for war, shoulders broad enough to shadow the desk itself. The man wore a soldier’s attire: green camo patterned neat as if freshly pressed, sleeves folded tight and buttoned up, boots polished to a dark shine. Each brass button was in order, a uniform meant to project control. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by novel⟡fire.net Smoke curled upward from the cigar between his fingers, the scent carrying across the room before the man even moved. His head was blocky, jaw set like stone, neck thick enough to look unyielding. A trimmed moustache rested above his upper lip, brown hair cropped short with military standard. His eyes, dim green and cold, looked the type that had stared down more men than Don could count. His forearms flexed casually against the fabric, corded muscle straining against discipline. Sanchez moved deeper into the office with hurried steps, gesturing with open hands as if to smooth the air. Don and Charles, however, paused just past the threshold. That was when Don noticed the others. Thunderclap stood off to the left, visor tinted against the office light. His arms crossed hard against his chest, leather jacket straining faintly against his frame. Dog tags clinked softly as they tapped against his plain white shirt. His boot tapped once against the floor. Phantom Strike leaned in the shadowed corner, black jeans tucked into combat boots, hoodie drawn low. Beneath it, the faint outline of a balaclava clung to his features, the thin fabric hiding all but the cold patience in the way he stood. Frostbite sat neatly on one of the side chairs, posture composed, fingers drumming once against the pearl necklace at her throat. Her light blue sweater seemed almost too soft for the chill she carried in her gaze. White trousers, ice-toned heels—the pieces all matched the image she liked to project: elegant, cold, unshaken. He leaned casually against the far wall, collar open on a crisp white shirt, a gold chain gleaming faintly at the dip of his chest. Aviators with golden frames covered his eyes despite the indoor setting. His gold watch, belt buckle, and loafers looked more suited for a runway than a classroom. He smirked faintly when he noticed Don, though whether in mockery or greeting wasn’t clear. All of them had been looking toward the giant. Now, each gaze shifted toward Don and Charles. The soldier took another pull of his cigar, ember glowing hot at the tip. When he spoke, smoke rolled out between his words. "So that’s them?" His voice was firm, heavy, with weight that pressed down even without effort. Don held his stare, unreadable. He didn’t know who this man was, but the sense was immediate. This one was strong. Very strong.