Morning crept in slowly. Light spilled through cracked shutters and thin curtains, painting golden lines on the worn wooden floor. The house stirred with the usual rhythm of people waking — footsteps, soft voices, the clatter of plates downstairs.
Everyone was awake.
Except him.
An hour passed.
The mood had shifted by then. The kitchen, once filled with idle chatter, fell into a quieter tempo. Spoons paused mid-stir. Eyes flicked toward the hallway.
No one said it, but they all felt the same unspoken thing: Someone has to wake him.
Eventually, Lindsay stood. Not with urgency, but resignation. Kraft glanced at her, then followed, as if it had already been decided without words.
They moved down the hall in silence. The door to his room was closed, as always. Lindsay reached for the handle – then stopped.
Hesitation. Just a second.
Kraft caught up beside her. They didn't speak. Just shared a look that held more caution than fear, more respect than worry.
Together, they opened the door.
The light in the room was dim, curtains barely drawn. He stood shirtless by the window, back partially turned, his body wrapped in something black — not mist, not cloth. Something that didn't belong. It snaked along the scars on his torso like it had grown from them, not wrapped around them.
He looked over his shoulder, met their eyes. Calm. Unbothered.
"I'll be downstairs in five," he said simply.
That was all.
Lindsay and Kraft didn't linger. They stepped back, closed the door behind them.
Downstairs, they gave the same message.
"He'll be here shortly."
No one asked what they saw.
They didn't need to.
Ten minutes later, he entered.
Cape draped over his shoulders, colors of the task force catching the light like a silent statement. A plain black shirt underneath, matching jeans, worn but clean boots.
He moved through the room without tension, nodding a simple "Morning."
Conversation stopped. Everyone looked.
It wasn't fear anymore — not quite. Just focus. Quiet respect. Curiosity sharpened by time.
He didn't sit.
"We'll begin with a split training rotation," he said, moving right into it. "Focus today is coordination, not output. Don't aim to win, aim to sync."
As he continued, his voice steady and matter-of-fact, someone finally broke the rhythm.
"What should we… call you?"
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
The room froze, like it had all been holding its breath this whole time.
No one knew his name.
He had never offered one.
And now, all eyes turned to him.
He paused. Looked at them — each one. Not surprised. Not annoyed. Just. quiet.
Then he answered: "Kuro."
It landed like a quiet victory.
Some of them smiled. Some just nodded. Even Felix muttered it under his breath, testing how it felt.
Kuro continued without missing a beat.
"Lindsay, Felix, Ivers — you're with me today."
The reaction was instant.
Heads turned. Murmurs rose.
"That's not fair—"
"Why her—"
"She shouldn't—"
He didn't respond to any of it.
Just moved through assigning the remaining teams. Calm. Unshaken. Efficient.
When it was done, he looked back at the three of them. "Outside. Thirty minutes."
Then he walked away.
The others were still arguing.
But the ones he chose were already too distracted to join them.
Outside, the three of them waited in awkward silence.
Lindsay's mind churned. Why her? She thought maybe it had something to do with last night. Did he see something? Did he hear something?
Felix cut in, loud and unfiltered as always.
"You think he picked you because you've got some kind of… connection with him?"
Ivers snorted. "Don't be stupid. He doesn't feel anything. He's like a damn ghost."
"But you were always the closest to him," Felix said, staring at Lindsay.
Before she could reply, a cold voice came from behind them.
"We're going."
They turned.
Kuro was standing there, his hand already out. They did not even have a chance to ask, as he teleported them all.
Within an instant, they were in a forest clearing.
Lindsay blinked. She knew where she was.
His home.
She took a step forward. "Why are we here?"
There was no response. He led the way into the house. They followed.
Inside stood three people: Kuro, an old man with silver hair and a missing eye—Reinhard—and a small girl with mismatched socks, holding a steaming mug with both hands—Marie.
Lindsay's breath caught.
Felix stared. "Who the hell are these people?"
Before anyone could answer, Kuro disappeared again—taking Felix with him.
They reappeared a second later. Felix looked pale, shaken, eyes wide like he'd seen death itself.
Kuro ignored it.
He walked to Marie and gently took her hand.
"Reinhard," he said, not looking back, "you're free for today."
Marie beamed.
"She'll help train you," he added, glancing at the three. "She's useful."
They exchanged looks, confused—and in Felix's case, still trembling.
Kuro took Marie's other hand and, without warning, touched Lindsay and Ivers' shoulders.
Teleport.
This time, the air wasn't thinner — it was heavy.
They landed in a facility that had clearly once been clean, orderly, scientific.
Now?
The corridors were cracked, vines clawing through old vents, bloodstains long dried on silver floors. Lights flickered overhead, and the hum of buried machinery echoed through empty halls.
Lindsay's mouth was dry.
No one spoke.
Except Marie.
"Why here again?"
She asked it softly, like a child trying not to make noise in a haunted house.
Kuro answered her without pause. "They need to get stronger."
Marie looked back at the three of them.
Smiled. "Okay!"
Her tone was light. Too light.
They walked in silence after that, through hallways lined with broken monitors and dormant locks. Something in the air pulsed. Old pain. Ghosts of memories.
After what felt like an eternity, they opened up into an enormous reinforced room. Along the wall stood four massive training bots, paint chipped, plating scarred. One was still and currently sparking from the neck.
Kuro gestured.
"You'll be training here for the rest of the month."
Felix raised a brow. "What, with these tin cans?"
Kuro nodded. "They don't break. Trust me. I tried."
He pointed. "Robot 1 — Felix. 2 — Ivers. 3 — Lindsay. Do not touch 4.
They approached their assigned units slowly.
"Hit it," Kuro said. "Hard as you can. No holding back."
Felix didn't need telling twice. He raised his hand, water coiling into a writhing shape — a serpentine form, teeth and flow.
"Hydra."
It slammed into the robot's chest. The bot staggered, but didn't fall.
Marie's eyes glowed faintly.
"Twenty-seven percent," she said.
Ivers blinked. "What?"
Kuro gestured. "You're next."
Ivers flexed his arms. Skin turned steel. He launched forward and struck the bot with everything he had.
"Twelve percent," Marie said quietly.
Then it was Lindsay's turn.
She didn't move.
Kuro didn't push.
Not yet.
"She has a power," he said instead, gesturing to Marie. "Analyzer. A failed experiment, by their standards. Works fine for me."
They looked at Marie again. She smiled, almost proud.
"She reads potential. How much you used. How much you could've."
Felix frowned. "That's it?"
"That's enough," said Kuro. "We're training you to break 50%."
None of them queried what was meant by that.
They were too occupied with whether or not they'd survive it.