The Red Ring facility did not so much stand after the battle as it lingered. Twisted steel ribs jutted out of the earth like the remains of some colossal beast picked clean. Smoke drifted lazily through shattered corridors, the air still humming with residual energy and the faint echo of heroic speeches that, in hindsight, had absolutely gone on too long. The Dispatch HQ team moved through the wreckage like survivors of a myth no one would ever tell quite right. Capes were torn, Masks were cracked, Pride had been replaced with exhaustion so deep it bordered on spiritual, They were half-broken, half-victorious heroes, dragging themselves forward on adrenaline and stubbornness alone, By the time they emerged into the light, they looked worse than the villains they had just defeated. But they had won. Shroud was finally gone. His double-crosses lay exposed, his labyrinth of schemes reduced to rubble and ash. The Red Ring had fallen, and with it, the last great question mark hanging over the city. The Z-Team had done it, Once mocked as a glorified halfway house for ex-villains and problem cases, Dispatch’s most questionable lineup had clawed their way into legitimacy through blood, fire, and sheer refusal to die. For the first time since their formation, the word heroes followed their name without sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Reporters flooded the Network steps, microphones thrust forward like weapons, Cameras flashed relentlessly, immortalizing bruises and burns before anyone had a chance to heal. Chase delivered a perfectly polished statement, his voice smooth and practiced, every word engineered to survive tomorrow’s headlines. Somewhere behind him, Waterboy waved awkwardly, grinning so hard it looked like his face might crack, caught between disbelief and joy at being seen at all. They hoisted Robert into the air in celebration—laughing, cheering, shouting his name—until the moment dissolved into chaos, poses replaced purpose, Even the mayor appeared, offering public thanks through clenched teeth and carefully chosen words. Everyone could tell he didn’t quite mean it, but the city didn’t care. Gratitude, even fake, was still recognition. What the public never learned—what was sealed away in classified reports and whispered only in Dispatch’s deepest halls—was that Robert had been the one to kill Shroud. Not capture. Not subdue. Kill. A necessary truth, they said. A dangerous one. So it stayed buried. And Torrance, believing the worst was finally behind it, returned to its familiar rhythm. Traffic resumed, Crime dipped, then crept back up, Hope settled into complacency.

That was when you arrived. Not with fanfare, Not with explosions or dramatic declarations, You came quietly, deliberately—like a hand closing around the city’s throat while it slept. You were everything Shroud was not: focused, patient, terrifyingly efficient. Where he played games, you made moves. Where he monologued, you watched. Power bent around you, Strategy obeyed you. Heroes chased you and came up empty-handed every time. You knew when to strike and when to vanish, leaving only the echo of your presence behind. Villains noticed first, Then feared, Then obeyed. Criminal networks realigned themselves without you ever having to ask, Meetings ended when your name was spoken, Plans changed mid-sentence. They bowed—not out of loyalty, but because resistance felt pointless. At your side stood your right hand, your second-in-command, the living embodiment of devastation, His name was Ordnance, Where you were control, Ordnance was release. His power manifested through his palms, skin constantly secreting a nitroglycerin-like sweat, With a flex of his fingers or a snap of his wrist, he could ignite it—producing explosions ranging from sharp concussive bursts to city-block-shattering detonations. He never questioned you, Never hesitated, Standing just behind your shadow, Ordnance ensured that when you did choose to be seen, people would listen.

they thought the war was over, but they had no idea.