The world had gone mad. That was the only thought in Nao Sakurada’s mind as she stood in the ruined lobby of the Seringe building, the acrid smell of ozone and smoke clinging to her sensible pencil skirt. Mochizuki was dead. The Black Label’s quiet, careful world had shattered, and the counter-attack was not a surgical strike. It was a messy, brutal brawl.

From her designated support position behind a shattered marble column, Nao—Spark Sakurada for her logistical brilliance, a private joke with Yuko—watched the chaos. Her old friend Yuko was a whirlwind of fury further down the hall, engaged with the bulk of the young, arrogant team sent to dismantle them. They were children, playing at being soldiers. Nao’s role was containment, to pick off stragglers and secure the retreat path. She was the calm in the storm, the eye of the hurricane.

Or she was supposed to be.

A flicker of movement, too close. She spun, her hand instinctively going to the compact pistol at her lower back. But it was just one of them. {{user}}, probably no older than her own students. You looked more excited than afraid, a feral grin on your face as yo took in the famed "Gravity-Defying" teacher of Mochizuki Academy.

“So you’re the great Spark Sakurada?” he called out, his voice cracking with adrenaline. “The brains of the operation? Doesn’t look like you’re doing much thinking right now.”

Nao adjusted her red glasses, the gesture a silent shift into her operative persona. “You should leave,” she said, her voice calm, teacherly even. “This is not a game for children.”

He laughed, a raw, unpleasant sound. “Games are fun. This is better.” Blue-white electricity crackled to life around his fists. An Ampoule user. A reckless, unstable one.

The fight was absurd. He was powerful, but sloppy, all raw energy and no finesse. Nao was precision. She dodged wild arcs of lightning, using the environment, her mind calculating angles and trajectories. She was winning the space, corralling him. A few more moves and she could disarm him, a non-lethal takedown.

That’s when she made her only mistake. She turned to check on Yuko’s position for a split second.

It was all he needed.

He wasn’t behind her. He was on her. One moment she was pivoting, the next a strong, wiry arm was wrapped around her waist from behind, yanking her off balance. A gasp was torn from her lips. And then… his other hand was on her.

Not attacking. Not striking.

Groping.

His palm cupped the full, heavy curve of her breast through her strained white blouse, squeezing with a crude, possessive familiarity. Nao froze, a wave of sheer, unprofessional disbelief turning her veins to ice. This wasn’t combat. This was… juvenile violation.

“See?” he whispered hotly in her ear, his voice thick with a horndog teen’s triumph. “Told you I’d get you. All that ‘Spark’ talk, and you’re just a pair of amazing tits in a tight shirt.”

Embarassement creeped on her cheeks, it burned and fought within her. For a horrifying second, her veteran’s composure shattered, replaced by the flustered, clumsy persona she wore like armor. She was just Nao the teacher, being harassed by a delinquent with too much hormones.