Elsewhere
In a dark room, nine chairs circled a single table. A voice sliced through the hush.
"One of the SSS-rated was spotted today."
"It was Ron," another answered, flat and cold.
"We searched the whole galaxy," someone else said. "He vanished as if the earth swallowed him. And now—he's back. How ironic."
A female voice, calm but wired with urgency: "Bruce is alive. New name: Jake Jacobs. His whereabouts are unknown."
Laughter — brittle, surprised. "These people never stop surprising me. Who survives an explosion like that?"
A man's voice, clipped with authority: " It was Ron — the man in the coffin. Thanks to his blood we're stronger than ever."
"Have the beings from forbidden region weighed in?" a different woman asked.
"They can't proceed," came the reply.
"Why?" she pressed.
"Because of a powerful presence in Hero Town."
Someone murmured, incredulous: "Someone strong? In Hero Town?"
The man in charge leaned forward; his words dropped like a blade. "Only three threats remain: Ron, DA, and Future Lia. The rest have been dealt with. Soon those three will be dead — then we move forward with our plan."
Back in Hero Town
Ron walked the hospital corridor with a numbness that had nothing to do with cold. He sat by the bed of the girl the doctors said lay in a coma — chances of waking, the doctor had said, were slim.
Ron's fingers found the rail. He bent close and murmured, "I wish I could do something for you."
He turned to the nurse. "Please take care of her. Don't worry about money."
"Please, sir. Calm down," she said, gentle but wary.
Outside, sunlight cut the street into hard lines. A poster flapped on a nearby wall: FOSTER ORGANIZATION — CONTROL FROM THE SHADOWS. Ron blinked and the Poster was never there, Ron realized his mind was playing tricks on him. But the name pulled at something raw inside him.
He remembered Bruce's warning, words spoken before everything spun:
"This Foster Organization controls everything behind the scenes — government, business, police, military. They place spies everywhere: beggars, clerks, teachers, officials. Men and women. Everything is planned. And from now on, Bruce is dead. I am Jake Jacobs." Bruce had handed him a flip-phone for their further communication.
Now, back in the present, Ron thought, The only lead is Locki's research.
Ron teleported to Locki's house. At home the door stood open. Instinct tightened his shoulders; he moved like a man expecting a trap, but found the house empty. He tore through rooms with methodical fury. Locki's laptop was gone. Files were thin and mundane — police reports, property papers. He fanned through three death certificates without names; one had stains, like water or tears, smudging the ink.
Kitchen. Cabinets. Cupboards. Nothing.
Exhausted, Ron collapsed in the living room. On the mantel lay Locki's badge and a framed photo of a man and a woman. When he shifted the frame, something slid and caught the light — a folded scrap tucked behind the picture.
Inside was a note,
a breath of revelation:
All the information you want about the Foster Organization is in the coffin — the same coffin where my brother found Ron. The coffin is at the northern end of DA's backyard.
To enter DA's house use code: "Ron"
His heart thudded. He framed the paper back into place, then vanished.
DA's gate read his name and opened like it had been waiting. A narrow path led him to the backyard. He found the patch of earth, the disturbed soil, and dug until the shovel rang against metal. He abandoned the blade and clawed with his hands until he unearthed the coffin.
Inside, wrapped in a small paper pouch the size of a pocket watch, lay a single USB. A note, taped to the stick of plastic, read: You have found it.
Relief softened Ron for a second; then the hairs rose along his arms. Presence. Not the wind — something alive, close.
"Thanks," a voice purred behind him. "You led me right to the USB. Wise decision by my superiors — to let you find it. Now I'll kill you and take it."
A man lunged.
The man lunged at Ron, fists clenched tight.
He moved like a blur—his first strike sent Ron crashing through stone, dust exploding across the mountain ridge.
Ron staggered, planted his feet, and looked up.
The man stood ahead, motionless.
A shadow loomed behind him.
Ron turned—same man.
He swung. Ron took the hit head-on and countered, his punch echoing through the valley as it launched the man into the opposite cliffside.
"When the hell did you get behind me?" Ron hissed.
The man climbed out of the crater, eyes cold and unblinking.
Ron dashed forward.
Then—impact.
A blow to the stomach.
Another to the jaw.
A storm of invisible punches and kicks.
Ron hit the ground hard, blood trailing from his lip. The man hadn't moved an inch.
"What the hell is going on?" Ron spat.
"I thought you'd entertain me for a bit," the man said, voice low and calm. "But you're weak as hell."
"Who are you? Why are you after the USB? Are you with Foster?"
The name made him freeze.
He raised his head slowly.
"So, you know about us. I am one of Foster's creations. My name is S-72."
"What do you people want?" Ron growled, forcing himself up.
"I don't know," S-72 said flatly. "I follow orders."
His arm warped—metallic flesh reshaping into a gleaming blade. He swung.
Ron vanished—reappearing behind him—fist cocked—
—but before it landed, he was struck again. A dozen unseen hits slammed into him.
Ron jumped back, breathing heavy.
What the hell is that ability?
S-72 rushed him again.