Two weeks had passed since the Alley Cutters were found dead in the transport convoy, their bodies left as a message no one officially acknowledged. There was no signed confession, no intercepted transmission that proved it outright. Still, anyone who understood Haven City's undercurrents knew where to point the finger. Decay didn't leave loose ends. Liza felt it every time she suited up.
She didn't talk about it much. Not with Evermend, not with ISC oversight, and definitely not with the rookies. But the worry sat behind her eyes, a constant low-grade pressure that sharpened her focus in the field. Justin noticed. He always did.
In the quiet moments between patrols, when the city noise softened and the adrenaline bled off, he'd hover nearby with a soda, a bad joke, or some casual comment that was very clearly not casual at all. He never asked directly what was wrong. He just stayed present and steady, like he was anchoring the space around her.
"You know," he'd said one night, leaning against a rooftop railing, "statistically speaking, worrying ages you faster. I'm pretty sure that's how villains win."
She'd rolled her eyes, but she hadn't told him to leave.
Somewhere along the way, Liza realized she'd grown comfortable with both of them. Justin's confidence, Braxton's sincerity. They followed orders, adapted fast, and never complained about grunt work. As probationary subordinates went, they were almost unfairly good. The month was already halfway over, and she caught herself thinking about their futures.
They stayed busy. Mostly C- and D-rank work. Smash-and-grab crews, minor mutant humans testing their luck, and the occasional illegal tech bust. The mundane hero stuff slipped in too. Cats in trees. Traffic accidents. A lost kid who just wanted his mom.
During one rooftop scuffle with a heat-based thug, Justin had grinned mid-dodge and called out, "Man, you should really turn the thermostat down. This is brutal."
Liza had groaned into her comm. "Focus, Atlas."
Justin struck a pose after the takedown anyway, waving at a hovering news drone like it had personally offended him. Since the Solomon fight, cameras seemed to find him everywhere. Social feeds buzzed with clips of Emerald Atlas lifting cars, smiling mid-combat, and tossing out quips like candy. He loved it. A little too much.
Braxton didn't care. He just looked proud, like Justin's wins were his own. Liza told herself she didn't mind the attention. Fame was a currency, and Justin was cashing in early. Still, sometimes, when she watched him soak it up, a tightness settled in her chest. Not a bitter one, but still a tightness.
The patrol had stretched on for hours before Liza finally called for a break. They ducked into her favorite corner sandwich shop, still fully suited, drawing a few stares but no panic. The owner barely looked up anymore.
They ate and talked for a few quiet minutes, the city hum muffled by warm bread and grease. A small kid worked up the courage to approach their table and asked Justin for an autograph. Justin straightened instantly, voice booming as he launched into a practiced, over-the-top speech about courage and responsibility, sounding more like a sports broadcaster than a hero.
Liza snorted despite herself as the kid beamed and hurried out clutching the signature.
Braxton barely noticed. He was focused entirely on the three-foot-long subs in front of him, eating with alarming efficiency.
"You know," Liza said dryly, "one of these days that endless stomach will give out on you, and you'll be the most bloated-looking cat that ever lived."
Braxton swallowed with a grin towards her without responding.
"Something tells me we're about to get a call," Justin said, tipping his soda back while lounging in the booth.
Liza frowned. "Why?"
Justin nodded toward the window.
A scream cut through the street outside. Traffic had locked up as a massive white snake slithered down the road, scales scraping asphalt, cars swerving as people bolted for cover. A man stood balanced on its head like it was a surfboard, laughing as the creature reared.
Liza was already standing. "Alright, boys. Off your asses. Time to work."
Braxton was moving before she finished the sentence. Justin followed more slowly, pushing himself up with a grunt. "I told you I shouldn't have gotten extra cheese."
The door bursts open as Braxton hits the sidewalk, his body twisting mid-stride into his were-tiger form. He roared and charged straight for the snake, drawing its attention as it coiled to strike.
The rider leapt off, landing lightly behind the chaos. He strolled forward, pale as a corpse, black trench coat flapping, gold chains clinking against a graphic tee. A bucket hat sat crooked on his head as he chewed gum loudly.
He stopped a few feet from Liza and Justin, eyes narrowing.
"Yo," he said, irritation dripping from every word. "Which one of you bitches is called, uh… what was it… Oh yeah. Emerald Atlas?"
He squinted. "Is it you, green boy? Wing lady? Or Tiger tits over there?"
"Wow. Straight to insults. No hello. No foreplay." Justin smiled. "Though, Tiger Tits is one I might just use as your new nickname, B."
Braxton shot an annoyed look over his shoulder at the nickname before driving his fist into the snake's jaw, sending the massive creature skidding across the street in a spray of shattered pavement.
Justin stepped forward, relaxed, hands in his pockets. "Yeah, that's me. Emerald Atlas. Happy to sign something later."
The man clicked his tongue. "Figures." He gave a mock bow. "Name's The Cleaner. I make problems disappear for people who can afford it."
His smile thinned. "And after a very generous donation, that problem is you."
Liza's wings flared slightly, and her eyes narrowed.
"The Decay Group sends its warm regards, friend," the Cleaner added, slamming both hands onto the asphalt.
A glowing magic circle flared beneath him. The street cracked as two massive snakes burst forth, twin replicas of the first, hissing as they lunged toward Justin and Liza. Justin and Liza brace themselves as they slither forward.