His TR Device vibrated once in his pocket—one clean pulse, deliberate. When he pulled it out, the screen was already awake, and the Porygon2 icon was pulsing like a heartbeat.
A short alert stamped itself across the display.
[ TR DEVICE ALERT — PORYGON2 ]
3 markers approaching camp
Distance: closing
Signal type: TR Device presence
Enzo didn't slow down. He didn't frown. If anything, his mouth curved—small and controlled—like the island had finally decided to stop being boring.
He pushed into the officer's tent.
Inside, Proton was mid-routine: tightening straps, stacking gear, checking Poké Balls on his belt like a man who'd learned that "prepared" and "alive" were the same thing.
Enzo stepped in, still wearing that faint smile, and spoke without raising his voice.
"We've got guests."
Proton didn't jump. He didn't panic. He just glanced up, then toward the tent flap—calm, but alert.
"Lost recruits?"
Enzo didn't answer with words.
He tilted the TR Device toward him, letting Proton see the pulsing icon and the three approaching markers.
Then Enzo said it flat, like a correction.
"They're not lost."
Then Enzo looked down at the pulsing icon on his TR Device and spoke like he was giving an order to a weapon system.
"Porygon2," Enzo said out loud, calm as frost. "Breach their TR Devices. I want audio."
The screen flickered once.
A soft, artificial chime.
And then the interface snapped into a different mode—clean, clinical, military.
[ TR DEVICE BREACH — ACTIVE ]
Targets: 3 devices
Audio feed: LIVE
Location spoofing: ON
Trace risk: LOW
Proton leaned in without realizing it. His face didn't show fear—just that sharp, hungry attention of someone watching a trap close in slow motion.
The audio came through like a live call.
Wind. Stone. Footsteps crunching grit.
But the voices were clear—too clear—like Porygon2 had stripped the world down and kept only what mattered.
A girl's voice cut in first, smooth and confident. The kind of confidence you only get when the consequences always land on someone else.
Girl (audio): "I'll go first."
A pause. Wind sliding across rock.
Girl (audio): "I'll pretend I need help."
Another pause, almost amused.
Girl (audio): "Then I act interested."
One of the other voices made a quiet laugh—low, entertained, like this was their favorite part.
Girl (audio): "He drops his guard… and I kill him."
The laughter got sharper, nastier.
Then the girl's voice returned—flat now, businesslike.
Girl (audio): "You two handle his friend."
A second voice answered immediately, like confirming a delivery time.
Accomplice (audio): "Copy. We stay wide. Ten minutes out."
The third voice—short, impatient—added the final piece.
Accomplice (audio): "Don't mess around. In and out."
Inside the tent, silence fell so hard it felt physical.
Proton slowly turned his head toward Enzo.
Enzo slowly turned his head toward Proton.
They stared at each other for one perfect second, two predators hearing prey announce the ambush out loud.
Then they both broke.
Proton covered his mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking.
Enzo's grin widened, cold and bright.
Enzo's thumb slid across the screen.
The live audio died instantly—clean cut, like shutting a file.
No hesitation. No extra listening. He'd already heard enough.
The tent felt quieter without their voices in it, but the threat was still there—moving closer, measured in markers and distance instead of footsteps.
Enzo looked at Proton.
Like a commander assigning a task.
"You take the other two," Enzo said, voice even. "I'll take her."
Proton's jaw tightened.
"They said kill," Proton muttered, eyes flicking toward the tent flap like he could already see silhouettes in the wind.
Enzo didn't blink.
"I don't want them dead," he said.
Proton's gaze sharpened. "Then what do you want?"
Enzo's answer came flat and final.
"I want proof. Bring them alive. We can sell them."
A beat.
Proton exhaled through his nose—hard, controlled—then nodded once.
No argument. No drama.
Just acceptance.
"Alright," Proton said quietly.
He clipped his belt tighter, checked his Poké Balls by touch, then slipped out of the tent like a shadow—silent, deliberate, shifting into hunt mode as if he'd been born for it.
Now Enzo was alone.
Outside, the North kept doing what it always did—wind scraping the ravines, rock dust whispering across stone, the ground shifting underneath like something big was rolling over in its sleep.
Porygon2 stayed in the background, tracking without noise, three markers turning into two and one and then closer—silent math tightening around the camp.
Enzo stood near the edge of the plateau, still as a statue.
He listened.
Not for screams.
Not for footsteps.
For intent.
He didn't move.
He just waited.
Then a scream cut through the North like a blade.
"Help—! Please—!"
A woman's voice—fragile, cracking in the right places, pitched perfectly to make a man's instincts grab the wheel.
Enzo reacted instantly.
Not because he was fooled.
Because he wanted whoever was watching to believe he was.
He spun, boots scraping black stone, and moved fast—fast enough to look panicked, fast enough to sell urgency. He crossed the plateau edge and dropped into a narrow corridor of red rock where the wind funneled harder, turning every sound into an echo.
Another cry—closer now.
"Please! Someone—!"
Enzo rounded the next bend.
And there she was.
A recruit collapsed on the ground like her legs had given up on her. Hair messy. Breath hitching. Tears running down her cheeks in clean, dramatic lines. Her uniform was "disturbed" in all the right ways—straps shifted, fabric tugged, neckline pulled low enough to make the message obvious without making it vulgar.
I'm hurt. I'm helpless. Look at me.
Her hands trembled—careful tremors, controlled enough that they could stop the moment she needed a knife.
Enzo's face did exactly what it was supposed to.
Surprise first.
Concern next.
He stepped in, lowering his center of gravity like he was about to help her up. His voice softened, his posture opened, his eyes focused on her the way predators hoped good men would.
He started to say the standard line.
"Are you—"
Then she lifted her face fully into the light.
And the present lost its color for half a second.
The wind was still screaming, but it felt far away. The rocks were still cutting shadows, but the shadows looked wrong. Even the air felt thinner, as if the island itself had paused to watch.
Because Enzo recognized her.
Elise.
The name hit like a nail driven into the center of his skull—sharp, cold, immediate—pinning memory to the moment, whether he wanted it or not.
His mouth didn't finish the sentence.
His expression didn't break.
But behind his eyes, something toxic woke up—quiet at first, then boiling.
Elise looked up at him through trembling lashes, wearing that perfect, helpless mask.
For half a second, Enzo didn't see the girl on the ground.
He saw a hallway that smelled like bleach, sweat, and old fear.
He saw a desk that was always too high. A clipboard that was always missing one signature. A boot that always found his ribs "by accident."
And he saw Elise—standing above him the same way she always did, like the world had been built for her height.
Back then, Enzo hadn't been Enzo.
He'd been Material Grunt.
A pair of hands. A stomach that never stayed full. A number that existed to carry weight and absorb blame.
Material Grunts didn't get "missions." They got errands. Deliveries. Cleaning. Repairs. Hauling crates until your shoulders stopped feeling like yours. And when you messed up—or when someone said you messed up—you paid for it with days you didn't have.
Elise loved that system.
Not because she was smart.
Because she was protected.
Her sister was a Squad Leader. Ariana's faction. That meant Elise walked through the base like gravity didn't apply to her. It meant staff looked away when she crossed lines. It meant her cruelty came with paperwork immunity.
Enzo learned her pattern fast.
He'd carry a delivery to her office—medicine, rations, equipment—whatever was on the manifest.
She'd glance once, barely, then smile like she was bored.
"Never arrived," she'd say later.
Or worse:
"Damaged."
And when you were Material Grunt, the record mattered more than reality.
So the punishment landed on Enzo. Extra shifts. Lost meals. Debt stacked like bricks on his back. And every time he tried to fix it, every time he tried to argue—
Elise would just look at him like a dog barking at a door.
That was the normal.
Then Ronnie happened.
Ronnie was the kind of person the world didn't know what to do with.
A full orphan. No parents. No visits. No story to soften the edges. He'd been rejected so many times it became part of his posture—like he expected the next hand to push him away before it even reached him.
He had green hair. Not dyed—green. Thick eyebrows that made every expression look exaggerated, almost cartoonish. In a world where humans were… better—stronger, faster, cleaner, and unfairly more beautiful than anything Enzo remembered from Earth—Ronnie was the exception.
The cruel joke.
The one who would still look "weird" even back home.
He tried anyway.
He joined Team Rocket because strength was the only language bullies respected. He went to Trial Island like everyone else—dreaming of rank, status, a Pokémon that would finally make people stop laughing.
And he got unlucky.
A defective partner. A feral Rattata encounter that went wrong in seconds. Teeth across his face, ripping a scar from his temple down toward his jawline like the island had signed its name on him.
He crawled back to base alive.
No one could explain how.
Then he failed. Became Material Grunt. Stayed alive anyway.
And Ronnie… Ronnie was trouble.
Not the controlled, useful kind.
The unpredictable kind.
He'd start fights he couldn't win. He'd say things nobody was allowed to say. He'd laugh at threats like they were jokes told badly. Half the base hated him because they never knew what he'd do next.
Enzo didn't care.
Because Ronnie was the only one who made the air feel breathable.
The only one who could get a laugh out of Enzo when Enzo had forgotten what laughter sounded like. The only one who'd shove a stolen snack into Enzo's hands and say, eat, like it was the most normal thing in the world. The only one who treated Enzo like a person and not a task.
Then came the day Elise decided she was bored.
It was supposed to be simple: a signature. A confirmation stamp. One line on a sheet so Enzo could log the delivery and not get punished again.
Elise made him wait.
She made him ask twice.
Then she stood up.
And she hit him.
Not once.
Enough times that the hallway tilted. Enough times that the world started to narrow at the edges. She called him names like it was entertainment. Like she was reading a menu.
Enzo tried to stay upright because being seen weak was expensive.
Then Ronnie walked in.
Ronnie didn't hesitate. Didn't "read the room." Didn't do the smart thing.
He just moved.
He stepped between Elise and Enzo like his body didn't understand fear.
"Enough," Ronnie snapped, voice sharp, insane, fearless. "Pick on someone who can hit back."
Elise's eyes went bright with something ugly.
A Material Grunt correcting her?
A defective nobody raising his voice?
She smiled.
And it wasn't a pretty smile.
"Victreebel," she said, like she was ordering a drink.
Ronnie didn't even get time to breathe.
Poison Jab landed like a decision.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
Just fast, brutal reality.
Ronnie hit the floor with a sound that didn't belong to a living person. His body twitched once more, and Enzo felt the poison like he could see it spreading under the skin, like ink in water.
Enzo crawled to him.
Hands shaking. Mind screaming. The world is suddenly too loud.
Ronnie's eyes found him.
And somehow, even then, Ronnie tried to make it lighter.
He smiled—crooked, exhausted—and forced the words out like a joke told through blood and pain.
"Run."
Enzo didn't run.
He begged.
He turned to Elise, voice breaking in a way he still hated remembering.
"Please. Help me carry him. Please—"
Elise looked down at them like they were trash blocking her path.
Then she turned her back.
Just like that.
A clean pivot. No guilt. No hesitation. She walked away as if she'd stepped around a puddle.
Enzo carried Ronnie alone.
Humans were stronger here, yes—harder to kill than Earth humans, tougher in ways that made pain normal.
It didn't matter.
Poison Jab didn't care about toughness.
By the time Enzo reached the base…
Ronnie wasn't breathing.
And the Rocket response wasn't grief.
It was the administration.
A section chief—someone who'd always hated Ronnie because Ronnie was "problematic"—looked at the body like it was an inconvenience. Then looked at Enzo like Enzo was the inconvenience attached to it.
"We can't cause issues," the man said, eyes already thinking about Ariana. "This isn't… politically good."
Then came the fine.
An "administrative penalty."
Five thousand Rocket Points.
As if death was a fee.
As if loyalty was taxable.
Enzo didn't even cry.
That was the worst part.
He was so exhausted, so hollowed out, so emotionally anesthetized by survival that he just nodded and kept moving—because that's what Material Grunts did.
They didn't get revenge.
They didn't get closure.
They got back to work.
And now—
Now, Elise was in front of him again, wearing a different mask, using the same kind of cruelty.
Enzo's face stayed controlled in the present—calm eyes, steady breath, the expression of a man who "just found a distressed recruit."
But inside?
Inside, something was detonating.
Enzo didn't want to do it.
Not because it was difficult, because once he used telepathy, the mask was gone. Psychic wasn't something normal.
He'd survived by being underestimated.
But Elise was right in front of him.
And Ronnie's death was still burning behind his ribs.
So Enzo pushed his senses outward, past the wind, past the rocks, past the camp—until he found Proton's presence hiding in the terrain, close to two other heartbeats.
He locked on.
And spoke directly into Proton's skull for the first time.
"Proton."
Somewhere out there, Proton flinched—just a tiny stumble, breath catching like someone had grabbed him from the inside.
Enzo didn't give him time to panic.
"I know this is strange. I'm Psychic."
Proton's mind scrambled—Pokéblocks, Porygon2 hacking devices, Enzo's training… and now this.
Proton's reply came fast—half fear, half respect.
"You scared the hell out of me."
Enzo's voice stayed flat.
"Sorry, I didn't tell you earlier."
Then it sharpened.
"Forget bringing them in alive."
A beat.
"Bring me their heads."
Another beat—swallowing it down.
"Alright."
"I'll see what I can do."
Enzo cut the link immediately.
No explanations. No discussion. No weakness.
His body relaxed.
Then his eyes went back to Elise.
His face stayed controlled.
But inside, something had already decided the ending.
Elise lifted her face from the dirt like she'd been dragged through hell.
Tears clung to her lashes in perfect little beads. Her breathing hitched at the right rhythm. Her hands trembled—just enough to look fragile, not enough to look weak. Her clothes were "messed up" in a way that didn't scream panic… it screamed intention. A neckline shifted like a weapon being unsheathed.
She looked up at Enzo as if he were salvation.
But behind those wet eyes, there was nothing soft.
Just a black, quiet calculation.
Enzo let his shoulders drop a fraction. Let his expression smooth out. He put on the face of a recruit who still believed in coincidences.
He forced his voice into normal.
Concerned. Plain. Easy to control.
"What happened?" Enzo asked, stepping closer like he didn't notice the way she angled her body to shorten the distance.
"Are you hurt?"
"Do you need help?"
Elise's lips parted like she was struggling to speak. She hugged herself, small and shivering, then let her gaze flicker over him—thermal suit, belt, posture—and she decided he was the one to use.
"O-oh my god…" she breathed, voice trembling in a way that sounded practiced. "Y-you're the Number 1…the mad bomber...."
Her eyes widened, as if the thought terrified her.
"Please—don't attack me."
Enzo leaned in like he felt sorry for her. Like he was too kind for this island.
"It's okay," he said gently. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
Elise swallowed, then forced a weak smile—relief, gratitude, a fragile little thing built to make men feel strong.
"You're the Number 1," she whispered again, like repeating it would make the world safer. "The… mad bomber, right?"
Enzo blinked once, slowly. A hint of awkwardness. A hint of embarrassment—just enough to look inexperienced.
"People call me that, but I'm not really a crazy person," he said.
Elise's expression brightened, just a little—because of course it did. Men always softened when you made them feel misunderstood.
She took a step closer. Then another. Her knee touched the stone near his boot like it was an accident.
"I thought you'd be… cruel," she said softly. "But you're not."
Enzo gave her that slightly stupid, slightly gentle look again.
"I can help you," he said. "Come on. You'll freeze out here."
Elise hesitated—just for show—then nodded like she'd been given permission to live.
Enzo guided her back toward the plateau.
Not dragging. Not rushing. A perfect little escort.
Outside the tent, Enzo sat her down at the camp table like she was a guest, not a threat. He pulled a blanket over her shoulders. Warm, careful. Almost domestic.
Then he handed her a cup of tea.
Steam rose in thin curls, fighting the North wind.
"Drink," Enzo said, voice soft. "It'll help."
Elise wrapped both hands around the cup like she was a trembling orphan.
Inside her head, she was already smiling.
What a stupid man.
They're all the same.
She sipped. She sniffed. She let her shoulders relax.
And she kept talking.
Not too much—just enough to gather details.
"Y-you live here?" she asked, looking around like she was amazed he'd built something stable. "Just you and your friend?"
Her eyes flicked toward the tent entrance—measuring where Proton might return from. Measuring time.
Enzo nodded, still wearing pity like it suited him.
"Yeah," he said. "Just us."
Elise's mouth curved slightly.
Like she'd just confirmed exactly where to stab.
Elise stared down into her tea and let her breath wobble—quiet sobs, controlled, clean.
Enzo leaned forward like he was actually worried.
"What happened?" he asked again, softer this time. "You can tell me."
Elise shook her head.
"N-no…" she whispered. "I—I can't."
She hugged the blanket tighter, eyes shining.
"I'm scared what you'll think of me…"
Enzo played his part perfectly.
"Hey," he said, like a kind idiot. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me anything."
He gave her a small, reassuring smile.
"You're safe now."
Elise looked up slowly—like those words had saved her life.
Then she smiled.
Not big.
Just confident enough to show she believed she'd already won.
"Maybe… maybe the rumors were wrong," she murmured, voice turning soft and warm in a way meant to sink under skin.
Enzo blinked at her.
Elise tilted her head, eyes lingering on his face like she was admiring a trophy.
"No one told me," she whispered, "that the Mad Bomber was so… perfect, emotionally... and physically..."
She let the word hang.
Enzo's cheeks warmed—just a little. A fake flush. A fake embarrassment.
Elise's confidence spiked.
She shifted closer, slowly, carefully—like approaching a wild animal that thinks it's in control.
Then she sat on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her fingers touched his collar.
"I should thank you," she murmured.
Enzo's hands stayed still for half a second—playing stunned. Playing flustered.
Elise leaned in and kissed him.
Soft. Slow. A weapon disguised as affection.
Then she pulled back just enough to smile.
"Thank you…Enzo...." Elise whispered, warm and satisfied
Enzo's eyes lifted, slowly.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
He smiled back—small, polite, almost gentle.
And his voice came out calm as a trigger being pulled.
"You shouldn't know my name yet."