Unable to find the missing fragment in his memory and barred from retrieving what Sani had erased, Solgrave decided on something drastic, if only to burn off excess irritation. Perhaps he would even reclaim a few escapees along the way.
Not that it mattered. Solgrave had all the time in existence—literally, and presently, mortally too—because no Broken–Soul was ever insane enough to do something reckless during a timeline crisis.
…Right?
"Suspect is digging his fingers into the concrete like it's soft butter—"
"—Director," Edon snapped. "Location only."
"He's hopping from building to building, sir. We can't pursue on foot or by vehicle."
"See? Easy." Edon growled, crushing donut holes under his fingers. "What do you think Kudo would do if he were here?"
"Call the captain," the beat cop answered without hesitation.
Edon rammed his fingers through five donut holes. "Told you." He cut off his protégé's laughter with a satisfied glance.
"Dismissed," the protégé said, waving the beat cop away from the back seat of the patrol car.
"You owe me ten," Edon said, biting down on the donuts stuck to his fingers.
Despite his urge to always have something between his teeth—an underling, a suspect, or a snack—Edon remained infuriatingly fit. Mock, his protégé, blamed it on Edon's ever-burning rage toward Kudo, metabolized into pure calorie incineration.
Mock patted his stomach with conflicted reverence as Edon reduced the donut box to crumbs. Unlike his superior's freak metabolism, Mock had to hit the gym every day just to preserve the outline of his abs. The word 'Cheat day' had died years ago; forgotten, unmourned, erased from his mental dictionary.
He questioned every life decision he'd ever made, waiting until the beat cop was well out of earshot before opening his mouth.
"Everyone knows he's one of the good ones—but if we don't change the pattern, Kudo will bag us all at once. Like he always does!"
"We aren't donuts," Edon said, stuffing another fistful of donut holes into his mouth. "And he's not some legend. He's not untouchable. And for the record—" He paused, annoyed. "We're not the bad guys. We're the good ones."
He believed that more than anything else he'd said all day.
"Pick a side," Mock warned, voice low as he leaned in. "Otherwise you'll end up with the worst of both worlds... And quit throwing his name around like that."
"Relax," Edon said, leaning back with the confidence of a man who had never once relaxed in his life.
He kicked his feet up—aiming and missing the dashboard due to a sudden cramp, and hitting the box of donuts instead.
The box of donuts somersaulted into the air, releasing a slow, majestic snowfall of pastries.
"Crap!"
Edon lunged to save them—missed entirely—and instead elbowed his coffee. The mug tipped, hesitated, then dumped its contents straight onto his lap.
"Hot—hot, hot—HOT!"
He sprang up, slipped instantly on the powdered sugar now coating the floor like a crime scene, and windmilled his arms in heroic, utterly pointless circles. His feet flew out from under him, and his skull met the door with a solid 'thunk,' slamming it shut.
At the same time, the rolling window ascended, locking and pulling his necktie along...
"Cho—ch…!" Edon gagged as the tie cinched tight, donuts rolling away in silent judgment, coffee dripping, powdered sugar clinging to his suit, while the window continued its slow, merciless ascent—determined to finish what failed mechanics had started.
"I'm locked in!" Mock yelled, yanking futilely at the door handle. "I never considered divine intervention!"
He dove forward, half-collapsing through the car's mid-windshield like an overcommitted action hero, reaching for Edon's strangling necktie. "Hold still!"
"I can't!" Edon wheezed, eyes bulging as the window inched higher with smug determination.
Mock's fingers brushed the knot, sliding right off. "Why is your neck wet?"
"S—sauce!" Edon croaked. "I panicked!"
"Of course you did!"
Mock tried again. And again. Each attempt ended the same way; his fingers skidding uselessly over Edon's sauce-slicked collar as if the tie had been greased on purpose.
"Why is there this much sauce?!" Mock screamed.
"I—I... li-ke fla--vor!" Edon choked.
Mock growled, wiped his hands on his pants—somehow making them worse—and lunged once more, slipping forward until his forehead smacked Edon's.
The window ascended another inch, into some unknown space tucked within the limited frame.
Both men froze.
"…Okay," Mock said, barely holding it together. "New plan…" He yelled for help, the sound ricocheting uselessly inside the soundproofed car.
Within the shadows of a Gifted, Sid gawked at his rival gang, watching this comical chaos unfold.
"You guys are crazy." He yelled, trusting the shadows to dampen the sound.
"We call it efficiency—hic!" Lila slurred, rocking on her heels with a wine bottle in hand as if it were her lifeline. "Have I told you about my parents?" she asked softly, pointing at a dustbin with far too much sincerity.
"Indian. Angry. Predictable," Sid said, placing himself squarely between her and the bin.
Lila ducked around him and peered into the bin. "Jesus—" she gagged, then laughed mid-heave. "Typical fucking Indians—yeah, I can say that… right?"
Sid sighed. "That's not cultural. That's human."
"Relax, nig--ha," she hiccups.
"That—you can't say."
"What? I'm not brown enough for that?"
"The word you're looking for is Bla—."
"That's an S–22Gt," Mark interrupted, stiff. "Soundproof."
"Who's the racist now?" Lila snickered.
Eshelon cracked his knuckles, killing Mark's boost instantly. "Then it won't stay that way for long. Let's show these clowns—"
—Two discs tore through the air; one biting into the car's frame, the other dissolving into the alley's dark.
Mock slammed his fists against the vehicle, the impact rippling through the paired discs as sound transferred cleanly from one to the other.
Within seconds, the street erupted. Cops swarmed the car, bullets cracking against the reinforced glass, their frantic response dragging the entire neighborhood into the chaos.
"I'm sorry," Diulz snorted as the discs snapped back into his palm, "did I interrupt a thought you were having?"
"We've got this," Lila waved them off, flipping her hair. "You guys will only slow us down." She glanced at Dozy climbing into a dustbin. "Sleep tight. We'll wake you if this gets interesting."
"The boost is fading!" Sid yelped, surprised at Lila's quick sobering demeanor, then zeroed in on the bottle she tried to stuff into her pocket. "That's Mark's gift, not yours!" He smacked his forehead.
"That thing has a name," Mark snapped, stepping forward, hand poised at his watch.
"And he's got a crush on it," Olivia mocked.
"Whose side are you on?" Mark asked, genuinely baffled.
"I did." She smiled, batting her lashes. "You're the one who won't commit."
"She's a civilian."
"Exactly my point!"
"Enough," Mark grunted. "Can we focus on what's happening now?"
Triksy cut in, twirling her metallic index finger in a lazy circle. "No-no—NO! Focus on this. Whatever this is…"
Gears within her finger whirred, glowing to life as her wish crystallized into command.
"Handle it. Now."
She giggled, turned on her heel, and walked off, leaving Dozy's team still bickering as reality quietly snapped into place.
────୨ৎ────
Coincidence was a peculiar notion, especially when there were beings capable of playing with fate itself.
As Zack played, Yash, Bossy's son, unleashed the Hound; Triksy's team stirred the cops and the neighbors; Mark's team played their rivals; And Zack's team, blind to the pattern, played themselves, becoming the final push that delivered the Hound to its prey.
The Hound was born strong, destined to become stronger still. Fear had never found a home in him, except once.
Chief Thomson Thimothy.
That name alone had once drained the life from his veins. But the Hound told himself it meant nothing. Thomson was an anomaly, nothing more than a flaw in the world's design, thrown into his path to sharpen his resolve.
The Hound knew what he was.
A beast.
But Thomson was something else entirely.
Something more…
Perhaps he had been meant to be a savior. And possibly, when he chose to don the mantle of the white knight, that choice had twisted him into a monster instead. Or maybe the truth was simpler: roles reversed, lines blurred, purpose corrupted.
Either way, Thomson was the epitome of what humanity had to offer. And that terrified him far more than any beast ever could.
Idiots mistook confidence for intelligence, and intelligence for weakness. Let them.
Going to jail was deliberate.
Every one of Thomson's victims gathered under one roof; what better hunting ground to measure the distance between prey and predator?
Prison became his proving ground. Its inmates became tests. Disposable trials to estimate Thomson's real power. His limit… that seemed endless.
In stalking Thomson, he encountered others cut from the same cloth—lean bodies, brutal strength, and powers that whispered of something far beyond human.
The Hound sought martial arts to bridge the gap. His strength climbed, his discipline sharpened, yet the madmen still vanished in flickering light, circling back to ambush him despite their terror.
That's when it clicked.
They weren't using martial arts at all.
Whether it was guns, knives, or armored cheats, the Hound always held the edge; He even tested himself against cops in full armor once he heard whispers that the Chief could stop bullets with his skin.
True or not, that rumor dragged the Hound into the realm of the Gifted, where scrawny bodies hid truths far heavier than muscle.
You forgot, didn't you?
The Hound was smart.
He never stopped at being gifted; he pushed further and refined himself beyond expectation. The fools who underestimated him never understood what he had become.
And before they could classify him as a Monster, he had already broken beyond.
This wasn't some pointless monologue. This was the Hound's life, unspooling in fragments as it flashed before his eyes.
"I win," the Hound croaked, his voice drowned in blood and shattered ribs. "I'm the strongest—"
"—Who told you that you were allowed to reincarnate?"
The voice cut through him like a blade.
"I'm not done with you yet."
The little girl dragged his soul back into his ruined body and slammed it into place. His heart convulsed—alive—only for the blood flooding his lungs to choke him again, spilling out in thick, wet gasps.
She frowned after the fourth forced revival. "Aren't you supposed to be smart?"
She tilted her head, annoyed.
"Cough out the blood, dumbass."
She tapped his back gently, yet the power within made it punch straight through him.
Again…
Again,
Again—
Again.
Each command yanked his soul back as he begged, sobbing, bargaining; his strength, his brilliance, his invincibility reduced to noise.
Around them, people—and gods—remained busy. Their precious coincidences demanded attention elsewhere. And for a fleeting moment, some wondered about the Hound: The thing born from the accumulated hatred of every human who had ever lived.
Soon the thought passed…
News faded. Stories decayed. Interest moved on.
Time stretched infinitely within a single second as the Hound vanished from history. Erased so thoroughly, he became nothing more than a myth.
A cautionary tale.
A story told to frighten stubborn children into obedience.
And nothing more.
────୨ৎ────
Author's concern: As an author, I firmly believe that the Hound did grow stronger. With Sani involved, he had to.
And when he finally reached Sani's precipice, he made a choice — not of conquest, but of escape. He chose to end it himself, hoping death might offer the freedom denied to him in life.
Yet legends persist.
They whisper of a Hound still trapped; enduring torment for torment's sake. Not as punishment. Not as justice. But as cruelty without purpose, without mercy. His only wish… forever denied.
A sentence that lasted beyond death.
Beyond the soul....
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter Thirty-Seven. ———<>||<>———