A few hours later…

The med bay was a war zone of its own—2,000 soldiers groaning, bandaged, and sprawled across cots, all taken down by one man. Upstairs in the command office, the air was thick, like a storm about to break.

Cross had just rolled in from his night out, still sharp in a tailored jacket, reeking of cologne and bad choices. But his face? Pure, unfiltered rage.

He stood, arms crossed, glaring at Suhal, Elara, and Byron. The room felt like it was choking on tension.

“Two thousand people,” Cross said, his voice low, sharp, like a blade held to a throat. “You fucked up two thousand people… for your little stunt.”

Suhal leaned back in his chair, trying to play it cool, but his smirk was shaky. “Aye, not my fault your guys are so—”

SHING—!

Suhal’s eyes went wide, pure panic flashing across his face. His body locked up, like he’d been stabbed clean through by a dozen invisible blades. He gasped, clutching his chest.

What the hell…? He patted himself down, frantic. No blood. No wounds. Why’d it feel like I just got run through?

Cold sweat trickled down his neck. That’s no trick… that’s just raw aura. Killing intent…

Elara and Byron exchanged a glance, shaking their heads like they’d seen this play out before.

“Poor kid,” Elara muttered under her breath. “Doesn’t know Dario don’t play that ‘wannabe tough’ shit.”

“Yup,” Byron said, leaning back. “He’s about to fuck around… and find out.”

Cross stepped closer, his presence turning the room sweltering. He got right in Suhal’s face, close enough to smell the fear.

“Listen up, boy,” Cross growled. “I don’t know what kinda clown-ass games you pull back home, but under my command? We don’t do that disrespectful, lone-wolf, anime-villain bullshit.”

Cross dropped him. Suhal hit the floor hard, gasping.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Cross grabbed a box of napkins off his desk and tossed it at him. “Clean yourself up. Then drag your dumb ass to the med bay and apologize to every one of those 2,000 people you fucked up. And don’t forget that hundred grand each.”

He stormed toward the door, throwing it open. Elara and Byron were still there, waiting.

Cross didn’t break stride. “Get him up. Take his bitch ass to the med bay. I’m going to bed.”

The door creaked shut behind him.

Elara and Byron stepped in, eyeing the wreck that was Suhal.

Elara couldn’t resist. “Damn… you got knocked the fuck out, man.”

Byron nudged her, stifling a laugh. “Be nice.”

Suhal raised a shaky middle finger, still wheezing.

Byron crouched down, hoisting him over his shoulder with a grunt. “Welcome to the U.S. branch of the Fraternity.”

They headed out, Elara trailing with a smirk. “Well, you fucked around…”

“…and definitely found out,” Byron finished, shaking his head as they made their way to the med bay.

Later that day…

Suhal trudged through the med bay, a walking disaster. Bruised, battered, his pride dragging behind him like a dead weight. One by one, he faced every soldier he’d wrecked, muttering apologies through gritted teeth.

“Sorry for cracking your ribs.”

“My bad for turning your spine into a question mark.”

“Sorry for snapping your arm like a twig.”

With each apology, he handed over a check—$100,000 a pop. By the time he reached the last bed, he looked like he’d been through a war himself. Sweaty, hollow-eyed, his swagger gone. Two hundred million dollars, gone in a day.

He didn’t dare complain. Not a word. Not because he wasn’t pissed—he was livid. But every time he thought about mouthing off, those eyes flashed in his mind. Cross’s stare. That suffocating, stabbing aura. Like death itself was watching.

Suhal didn’t sleep that night. Pain was one thing, but the paranoia? That was worse. The nagging fear that if he even thought about stepping out of line, Cross would materialize like some vengeful spirit and beat his ass again—just for kicks.

He learned two things that day:

One, money couldn’t buy everything.

Two, in the U.S. branch, Cross was God.

A few days later…

Suhal slunk through the nursery halls, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the cribs. Just regular babies—soft, squishy, crying little things wrapped in pastel blankets. Where’s this damn freak baby?

“Can I help you with something?” a voice cut through, sharp and not remotely friendly.

Suhal turned to see Victoire, arms crossed, staring him down.

“The hell you can. Mind your business,” he snapped, waving her off.

She tilted her head, unfazed. “Watch your tone, little boy. You put the whole med team through hell cleaning up your ‘I’m better than you’ stunt. And now you’re salty ‘cause an old man handed you your ass?”

“Bitch, who asked you?” Suhal shot back, still stinging from his beatdown. “Fuck all that—I’m here to see the heavy-ass mutant baby. Bet that thing looks fucked up.”

Victoire rolled her eyes, sucking her teeth. “Uh, no, boy. He’s perfectly fine, thank you. If you knew how to ask like a human, I might’ve let you see him.”

Suhal stepped up, puffing out his chest. “How ‘bout I slap you around ‘til you feel more generous?”

Victoire just laughed, low and mocking. “Oh, you really don’t know where you are, huh? Cross watches every camera in this place, sweetheart. You so much as raise a hand—”

The overhead speakers crackled. Cross’s voice cut through, cold as ice: “Try it. I’ll put belt to ass again—but this time, I’m breaking something.”

Suhal froze, jaw tight, shoulders hunching. He let out a slow, shaky breath. “…Can I please see the kid?” he muttered, each word like swallowing glass.

Victoire smirked. “That’s more like it. Follow me.”

They reached the daycare, where Leo sat calmly in front of a TV, tiny hands gripping a PlayStation controller like he was born with it. He was playing with the kind of focus most adults couldn’t muster.

Suhal blinked, thrown. “…Why the hell’s a toddler in here? Don’t tell me y’all tryna raise another Cross. His old ass needs to retire.”

Victoire smirked. “That’s him.”

Suhal stared, dumbfounded. “You’re lying, bro. Ain’t no way that’s the baby. You sayin’ that’s the newborn?”

“I assure you,” Victoire sighed, “that’s the kid. Physically and mentally a toddler now. Rapid growth. Mental acceleration.”

Suhal gaped through the glass. “Man, what the hell… He’s just sittin’ there playing PlayStation like it’s nothing. What game’s that?”

“Crash Bandicoot. Beat it ten times today. I’m thinking of getting him something harder—he’s bored.”

“No offense, but newborns shouldn’t be gaming like that,” Suhal muttered.

Victoire rolled her eyes. “Oh, and what? You think I just park him in front of a screen all day? That’s his reward. For actual work. And it’s not even fun for him—look at his face. He’s on autopilot.”

Suhal squinted at Leo’s blank expression, navigating the game with surgical precision. “…Man, get off his dick! He’s barely a month old, and you’re hyping him like he’s Jesus. What’s next? He plays piano?”

“Oh, you want the rundown?” Victoire asked, her tone sugary but sharp. She whipped out a stack of papers—thick, at least 35 pages. “Here. Read it. All of it.”

Suhal snatched it, grumbling. “Man, get that weak sh—”

He flipped a page. Then another. His eyes widened. “…Can play Beethoven’s symphonies… knows every form of sign language… solves middle school puzzles… What the fuck!?”

“Told you,” Victoire said, smug. “He’s earned the hype. At this rate, he could probably do anything he wants. Feeling a little insecure now, huh?”

“Insecure? Over a baby? You got me all the way fucked up,” Suhal scoffed. “Ain’t nobody insecure. And look—” he jabbed a finger at a page. “Says he’s got ‘Asperger’s Syndrome.’ Boom. Flaw. Right there.”

Victoire’s eyebrow arched. “…And? Your point? He’s got Asperger’s. How’s that a win for you?”

Suhal shrugged, smug. “I’m just sayin’. He’s good at all this other shit, but he’s still a little nigga who’s retar—”

SMACK!

Victoire’s hand cracked across his face, splitting his lip.

“Say that again,” she hissed, teeth clenched. “He’s not stupid. You are. I tell you how incredible he is, and you’re so insecure you spit that ignorant shit? You’re a kid playing grown-up.”

Suhal staggered, blood trickling from his lip, fury blazing in his eyes. His fists clenched—he wanted to swing back, bad. But he stopped. The cameras. Cross.

“…You just gonna let her slap me like that?!” he shouted at the corner camera.

The speaker crackled. Cross’s voice was ice-cold. “You got disrespectful over a baby. You deserved that. I don’t wanna hear it. Disengage and get lost.”

Suhal stood there, seething, then spun around and stormed off, stomping like a toddler denied a toy.

Victoire sipped her coffee, unfazed. “Cry about it.”

A few hours later, outside the Fraternity gates…

Two female guards, Rozālija and Laudine, stood posted up, arms crossed, faces sour.

“Ughh… great,” Rozālija groaned. “All the guys got their asses handed to them, and now we’re stuck out here holding the line. Figures.”

“Right?” Laudine huffed. “New episode of Boston Public drops tonight, and instead of kicking back, I’m out here with a gun and an attitude.”

Rozālija rolled her eyes. “Tch. You still watching that garbage? That show ain’t lasting past six years. It’s ass.”

“Rozālija, you always hating on my shows,” Laudine snapped.

“Not my fault your taste is trash, Laudine. That show’s got plot holes bigger than your forehead.”

“Oh, please,” Laudine shot back. “This from Miss ‘I watch anime and simp over some dude playing dramatic card games like it’s the Super Bowl.’”

Rozālija’s eyes narrowed. “Hold the fuck up. Don’t you dare come for Big Yugi. You’re about to ruin the cute little vibe we got going. I’m dead serious.”

“Man, fuck a Yugi. A Seto. A Joey. A Tía. All of ‘em. With your crusty otaku-ass looking like a background character.”

“You wanna go, bitch?!”

“You ain’t bout it, bitch!!”

They squared up, hands twitching, ready to throw down—

A smooth voice cut through. “Signore, please… do not fight. I’d hate to see such beautiful faces bruised over something so petty.”

They froze.

A man stood a few feet away, dressed in a sleek, tailored mobster-style suit, fedora tipped low. Shoes polished to a mirror shine. His aura was calm, confident, like he owned the ground he stood on.

Both guards snapped their weapons up.

“Oh, hell no,” Rozālija barked. “Last time some fancy-dressed clown showed up, we had a massacre. I ain’t going to the ICU over no fedora-wearing smooth talker!”

The man chuckled, stepping closer, even as their guns pressed into his chest. His hands stayed relaxed in his pockets. “Signore, Signore… no need for hostility. Violence is never necessary among civilized people.”

Then, quick as a blink, he gently took both their hands—and kissed them.

“I would never harm two stunning Signore like yourselves. That would be most unbecoming of a gentleman. Chivalry is key.”

Rozālija yanked her hand back. “Don’t kiss my hand, you fuckin—wait… Laudine!?”

She turned to see Laudine practically melting, eyes sparkling. “Ohhh my… you’re quite the charmer…”

The man removed his fedora, revealing soft, styled hair and sharp hazel eyes. He slid an arm around Laudine’s waist, his voice warm and curious. “So tell me, I overheard you mention a show you like. Boston Public, was it? I’d love to hear more.”

Laudine giggled, leaning into him. “Oh, sure! If you really wanna know…”

Rozālija facepalmed. “Are you seriously falling for this? Yeah, he’s cute, but there’s no way he’s—”

The man turned to her, that same disarming smile in place. “And you, you’re the one who likes Yu-Gi-Oh, yes?”

Rozālija blinked, caught off guard. “Wait—what?”

“I love that show,” he said smoothly. “Been watching since it first aired.”

“Name some cards,” she challenged, arms crossed.

He smirked. “Dark Magician. Exodia the Forbidden One. Magical Hats. Exchange. Blue-Eyes White Dragon. Blue-Eyes Ultimate Dragon. Red-Eyes Black Dragon. Dark Magician Girl. Shall I continue?”

Rozālija’s face went crimson. “…God, I am so shallow for how turned on that just made me…”

Meanwhile, in the security office, Cross slouched in his chair, boredom eating at him like a slow poison. He flicked through the camera feeds, barely paying attention, until something snagged his focus. His brows furrowed.

“…Why the hell is the front gate wide open?” he muttered, leaning closer to the monitor. “I know I made it crystal clear—one guard on duty at all times.”

He cycled through the angles, hunting for Rozālija and Laudine. “If I catch those two slacking, they’re gonna wish they—”

He stopped. Faint audio crackled through the feed. Voices. No—moans.

Cross squinted, cranking the volume.

“Ohh my God~” Rozālija’s voice purred through the speaker.

“Don’t stop, please~ don’t—Ah~!” Laudine’s moan followed, loud and unmistakable.

A long pause.

Cross stared at the screen, his face a blank mask. “…You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”

He exhaled slow, rubbing his temple like he could massage the irritation away. “A damn three-way… I can’t even be mad. Did the same shit back in ‘87…” he mumbled, shaking his head.

But the gate being open? That was a problem. A big one.

He snatched the phone and dialed.

Byron picked up, voice casual. “Yo, what’s up?”

“We got some young ones in the female sector fuckin’. Need you to break it up and get their asses back on duty,” Cross said, flat and unamused.

Byron paused, thrown. “You… snitchin’, Cross? That’s new.”

“They left the front gate post.”

Silence.

Byron’s tone shifted, all business. “Where they at?”

“Female sector.”

“Got it.”

Click.

Byron was already moving, his casual vibe gone. He stormed toward the female sector, the sounds of Boston Public and Yu-Gi-Oh fangirling replaced by something far less innocent. The moans echoed down the hall like a damn beacon.

BAM!

Byron kicked the door open, fury radiating off him.

Rozālija and Laudine shrieked, scrambling to cover themselves with whatever they could grab—pillows, a stray jacket, anything. On the couch, cool as ice, sat the man in the mobster suit, fedora still low, cigarette dangling from his lips like he was in a movie.

“Mr. Byron!?” Laudine stammered, clutching a pillow like a shield. “Uhh… it’s not what it looks like?”

Byron’s fists clenched, his jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. He looked ready to tear into them for being so reckless—but then his eyes landed on the man. He froze, took a deep breath, and forced himself to calm down.

“You two,” Byron said, voice like steel. “Get dressed. Get back to your post. I’ll deal with you later.”

They bolted for the bathroom like their lives depended on it, slamming the door behind them.

Now it was just Byron and the man.

The guy puffed his cigarette, blowing a lazy ring toward the ceiling. “What? Long trip, signore. Needed to unwind.”

Byron looked like he wanted to cuss him out in every language he knew, but he just sighed, rubbing his face. “I’m pissed you’re a bad influence… but at least you ain’t Suhal.” He eyed him, sharp. “Calling you a womanizer’s an understatement, Prudenzio.”

The man smirked, flicking ash off his cigarette. “Let’s just say… my file doesn’t do my skills justice, signore. Not one bit.”

Prudenzio Giro—the Firearms Specialist, the Gun Genius—had officially landed in Louisiana. And, as expected, his entrance was pure chaos.

Back in the security office, Cross watched the feed, shaking his head. Another damn showboat. He leaned back, muttering, “This place is turning into a circus.”

He flipped to the daycare feed, where Victoire was still with Leo. The kid was now speedrunning Crash Bandicoot like it was his job, his tiny hands moving with eerie precision. Cross’s eyes narrowed. Seventeen days old, and he’s already this advanced…

He thought back to the PROJECT ÜBERMENSCH file, the weight of it sitting heavy in his mind. Suhal’s a pain in the ass, and Prudenzio’s a walking soap opera, but this kid? He’s the real wildcard.

Cross grabbed his radio. “Victoire, you there?”

The speaker crackled. “Yeah, Cross. What’s up?”

“Keep an extra eye on Leo. We got two new clowns in town—Suhal and some smooth-talking Italian. Don’t let either near the kid without me or Byron there.”

“Got it,” Victoire replied, her voice firm. “Leo’s safe with me.”

Cross set the radio down, his gaze lingering on the screen. Leo’s blank expression as he played didn’t sit right with him. Too calm. Too focused. Too… not human.

He leaned back, muttering to himself, “Thirteen years, huh? Hope you’re right about this kid, Byron. ‘Cause if you’re not…”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. The weight of what Leo could become was enough to keep him up at night.