Thursday night falls over Guarly. Shadows move swiftly between the city's buildings, searching for something—but they find nothing. The one dressed in light blue leaps and hangs from a flagpole, balancing atop the metal as she scans the distance. Seeing no movement, she shakes her head toward her teammates, who nod and head elsewhere.
Minutes later, the vigilantes reach one of the entrances to Plata City. Alongside the one dressed in yellow, they land on the highway, where only a few vehicle lights pass by. They take cover behind low concrete barriers at the sides, lifting their heads to check both directions—still nothing. They signal their two companions, and the one dressed in blue jumps off, heading toward the last place where they had found one of the weapons trucks. When Lapislázuli arrives, however, there is nothing. She frowns and signals the others that she found nothing, so the four shadows move on toward a safer place to discuss their enemies.
In a small parking lot, the detective steps out of his patrol car, holding a cup of coffee. Leaning against the vehicle, he takes a long sip. At that moment, the vigilantes emerge from a dark alley. Matias watches them for a second, then calmly asks:
"How did it go?"
The one with the silver hood replies, "We didn't find anything. They could still arrive during these remaining four days, but I'm a bit worried."
The adult takes another sip of coffee. "You shouldn't worry, Emily. You said it yourself—it hasn't happened yet."
The blue-eyed girl steps out of the shadows. "Yes, but what worries me is what they might be planning with so many weapons."
Matias looks up at the sky. "I don't know. But based on my investigation, the amount of weapons carried by just one of those trucks would be enough to arm about a thousand soldiers."
Francesca, serious, asks, "Do you think they'll try to take Guarly by force?"
Matias drinks his coffee. "It's only a possibility—an estimate based on the shipments that were already intercepted. But if it happens, there will be a lot of suffering. The people of Guarly won't give up their home just because armed lunatics demand it."
Emily looks down. "There will be many injured. We won't be able to save everyone."
Alexa places a hand on Emily's shoulder. "No one knows that for sure. But one thing is certain—we'll fight to prevent it, right?"
The detective makes a small, pleased expression and finishes his coffee. Francesca, meanwhile, analyzes how three trucks could enter the city without many witnesses. Her eyes widen as she realizes a foolish oversight—they might be using routes other than the most visible entrances.
With a mix of confidence and nervousness, she asks, "Mr. Matias! How many ways are there to enter the city?"
The long-haired detective closes his eyes, stroking his chin thoughtfully. After a moment, he answers, "Eight in total…"
He falls silent as he watches the one dressed in blue immediately start typing on her phone, then whisper something to Plata, who also checks her device. A few minutes later, the blonde and the brunette say in unison:
"We need to split up—each of us has to check these locations!"
Messages from Nya arrive on their phones with GPS routes. Emily and Francesca are the first to leave. The detective drives off in his patrol car to check his assigned areas. Alexa prepares to go, but notices the one in yellow staring at his phone.
"Is everything okay, Ty?" she asks.
"Huh? Yeah. I'm heading out," Tyron replies, eyes still on the screen.
That's enough for Alexa, who nods and leaves. Tyron is left alone, rereading the message he sent his best friend three days ago—still unanswered. He feels regret for revealing his identity as Topacio, but what worries him most is whether he's been blocked or if Antonio is just processing the information.
Gathering his courage, he types:
"Hey Anto, how are you? I just wanted to know if you'd like to go to the central park tomorrow morning to shoot some hoops with me and Gregorio 😅😅😅"
When the delivery checkmarks appear, he exhales with mixed relief and sadness. At least he didn't block me… Then he leaps off to inspect one of the city's entrances.
At the same time, in the large house where Prosecutor Maxwell resides, a dark-skinned, white-haired man opens a window cheerfully. "Good evening, family!" No one answers. He pouts exaggeratedly, then heads to the fridge, pulls out a can of beer, punctures it with his thumb, and drinks. Walking into the living room, he says aloud:
"I miss that damn beret. It was so fun squeezing his fragile neck…"
He jumps onto the couch, spilling some beer on the upholstery. Amused, Reyik takes his last gulp and pours the rest onto the floor. Standing up, he mutters:
"Disgusting—months working for that damn Captain of the Director. No extra pay for overtime, and I can't even turn against him because of the contract clauses."
He strokes his thin mustache, then crushes the TV with a side kick. Drawing his machetes, he gleefully smashes the furniture until the living room is half-destroyed or unusable.
"Haha! I think I've been paid for the extra time, you piece of shit. Keeping me on the sidelines when your only problem is a bunch of stupid kids."
Hearing a car pull up, Reyik calmly grabs one of the few intact chairs and sits, waiting. Keys jingle. The door opens and Maxwell enters, eyes closed, scratching the back of his neck.
"I hope you didn't make too much of a mess, filthy mercenary. I just had dinner with the mayor and other officials…"
He opens his eyes, sees the devastation, and sighs tiredly. "You're like a badly trained dog."
Reyik stands, resting a machete on his shoulder. "Oh yeah? Why don't you come try to teach me some manners? Go on—throw the first punch. I'll just rip out your spinal cord."
Maxwell surveys the destroyed room, drops his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. "I suppose this is one of your tantrums because you're bored."
"No," Reyik grins. "It's extra pay for time not covered by the contract."
"Fine. Thanks for the trouble," Maxwell replies, stepping closer.
Suddenly, he lands a punch on Reyik's left cheek, knocking him to the floor. As Reyik tries to rise, a heel slams into his back, followed by Maxwell's arm choking his neck. Reyik grins, grabs a finger, and relieves the pressure, then drives an elbow into Maxwell's stomach and kicks him into a wall. The fight rages—blows, kicks, throws—until Maxwell finally steps back, frustrated.
"That's enough!"
Reyik laughs. "What's wrong? Run out of guts? Afraid to break a nail, you fairy?"
"I'd love to beat you half to death," Maxwell replies coldly, loosening his tie. "But I need you. On Monday, you'll supervise the arrival of the weapons."
"So I'm finally in the game?" Reyik asks, rising.
"If you encounter the vigilantes, do whatever you want. Your job is just to oversee unloading at the warehouse."
Reyik grins maliciously. "Let's hope my bad behavior doesn't show up there," he says, spitting at Maxwell's neck.
Maxwell dodges and punches Reyik in the face, drawing blood. "Let's hope not."
The sun shines brightly over Guarly. On a basketball court in the central park, the ball spins through the air. Tyron catches it and sprints toward the hoop, but his opponent effortlessly steals it, smiling confidently as he dribbles back to midcourt. Tyron grunts and chases him down. Gregorio beckons him closer, teasingly dribbling the ball. Tyron lunges but misses; Gregorio spins the ball on his finger, then darts past him for another dunk.
Laughing, Gregorio says, "This is fun, Ty, but…" He picks up the ball. "…you seem distracted. Everything okay with Fran?"
Tyron drops onto the court. "Huh? Yeah, for now. Sorry I'm not playing my best."
Gregorio chuckles. "I usually beat you, but today it's rough. Sixty to zero? That's a beating."
Tyron stares at the sky. "Yeah, show-off… but what does Fran have to do with it?"
Gregorio tosses him a water bottle. "When you came back from the beach, you couldn't stop smiling after sharing a seat with her. I thought it might be related."
Tyron smiles. "That was great. But she's not the issue now."
"Then what's distracting you?" Gregorio asks, sitting in the shade.
"I think I ruined a very important friendship," Tyron admits.
"Someone dear to you?"
"My best friend… or at least, he was."
Gregorio pats his shoulder. "Hey, best friends fight. What matters is not holding grudges. Real friendship is accepting each other—flaws and all."
"Maybe you're right," Tyron says softly.
They return to the center court—until a shout interrupts them.
"There he is, officer!"
Tyron turns and freezes as Antonio's red-haired mother approaches with a dark-haired policeman.
"That's him!" she cries. "He's the reason my son is in the hospital!"
Tyron's eyes widen. "What happened to Antonio?!"
She glares at him while the officer approaches. When he doesn't act immediately, she grabs Tyron. "What are you waiting for?! Arrest him!"
Gregorio intervenes gently. "Ma'am, you should calm down."
Jason steps in sharply. "Ma'am! They're minors. Touch them again and you'll come with me to the station."
She screams accusations—but Jason reviews the messages and finds nothing incriminating.
"These are just messages between teenagers," he says firmly. "You have no proof."
Grumbling, he escorts her away.
Tyron stands shaken, worried about Antonio—but relieved that his identity was protected. Gregorio laughs softly. "Man, you really attract trouble."
Tyron smiles weakly. "Yeah… guess I do."
If Antonio's in the hospital, Tyron thinks, I'll have to tell the girls what I did—so they can help me fix this huge mistake.