Circuit 12 is still smoking. Alarm lights spin uselessly in the dark—power is dead, meta-dampeners offline, cell doors hanging open like broken ribs. Guards are injured, scrambling, shouting, trying to gather their senses.
And Rael…
Rael is on his knees in the rubble, half-burned shirt, dust in his hair, breathing like someone who just watched his entire career collapse.
That's when the sound hits—A car engine echoing from a far away.
A car arives at circuit 12, It was a Matte black 1967 ford Mustang,
And out came A man in Tight black suit. Gloves. Hair slicked back. Eyes that don't blink unless necessary. He carries authority like a natural phenomenon—cold, precise, inevitable
Not panicked.
Not confused.
Deliberate.
The army marches into the ruined hallway like a blade sliding into a wound. Black plates, rifles humming with fresh charge, formation perfect despite the chaos.
Then he walks in.
"Greetings gentlemens."
"My name is Victor Williams."
Rael stiffens.
"Commander… you weren't scheduled for—"
Victor cuts him off simply by looking at him.
"Rael," he says, voice calm but devastating, "I gave you one task. Secure the assets of Circuit 12. Yet here I stand… in a tomb you built with your incompetence."
Rael swallows. "Sir, it wasn't my— the relocation order came suddenly, and—"
Victor steps forward, fixing Rael's collar with two fingers like he's correcting a crooked painting.
"Listen carefully."
His voice drops.
"You don't make excuses to me. You give results."
He lets go. Rael's collar hangs lopsided.
"Do you know what the higher-ups told me?" Victor continues. "They said, Send Victor. He's the one who cleans messes."
Rael's hands shake. "Sir, I can still track the escaped metas. I just need time—"
Victor tilts his head.
"No. I don't give time. I take control."
He looks around the ruined facility—the open cells, missing files, missing subjects, chaos everywhere.
"From this moment on," Victor declares, "I am assuming command of all Meta Experiment operations."
The soldiers behind him slam their boots in confirmation.
Rael's eyes widen. "You're… replacing me?"
Victor smiles faintly—dangerously.
"You replaced yourself the moment you let some amateur outsmart you."
He turns to his officers.
"Secure everything. Collect every scrap of data. Extract logs from every console. And prepare a full subject hunt immediately."
He starts walking away, leaving Rael frozen.
"And Rael," he says without turning back, "pray that I find the ones who did this before you become the next loose end."
Meanwhile,
Back on Campus
Life returned to campus in the most dangerous way possible.
It looked normal.
Classes resumed.
Cafeterias reopened.
Students complained about exams and curfews and security patrols like this was just another inconvenience.
No one knew what had really happened at Circuit 12.
No one knew what Cyrus and Kaito had done.
And that was exactly how Cyrus wanted it.
He and Kaito played their roles perfectly.
They stopped sitting together in public.
They avoided eye contact with faculty.
They spoke less.
Moved slower.
When people asked about Ethan, Cyrus's expression hardened into something distant and exhausted.
"They took him," he said once, flatly.
Then never elaborated again.
Kaito looked worse.
Eyes red.
Shoulders hunched.
The perfect image of someone who had lost a friend and didn't know how to say it out loud.
The campus believed them.
Because grief was easy to understand.
Later that day,
Military vehicles rolled through the front gates in slow, deliberate lines. Right behind a matte black 1967 Mustang ford.
Victor steps out of the car
He lifted a small badge to the faculty:
"My name is Victor Williams.
I am now Commander of All New York Meta Operations."
His voice carried effortlessly.
"Three days ago," he said, "a dangerous meta asset escaped federal custody."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"His name is Ethan."
That did it.
Whispers exploded instantly.
"Ethan?"
"The kid from the dorms?"
"Wait—he was taken?"
"Escaped custody?"
Cyrus stood among them, head lowered.
Kaito's fists clenched.
Victor continued, unfazed.
"If any of you receive information regarding his whereabouts—rumors, sightings, communications—you will report it immediately."
He paused.
"Failure to do so will be treated as obstruction."
Silence fell.
Victor's eyes swept the crowd.
Clinical.
Evaluating.
Then, almost casually:
"The police will be notified.
So will federal agents.
You are not heroes.
Do not interfere."
He turned and walked away.
Just like that.
That night, campus changed.
People whispered Ethan's name like a curse.
Some were scared.
Some were angry.
Some were curious.
But one belief settled in quickly and comfortably:
Ethan was gone.
Ethan was captured.
Ethan was no longer their problem.
Cyrus watched it all from a distance.
The fear.
The relief.
The lies people told themselves to sleep at night.
He felt nothing.
Because the lie had worked.
Meanwhile at circuit 12,
Deep underground.
Past sealed corridors.
Past rooms already searched, flagged, and cleared.
A single light glowed.
Ethan sat cross-legged on a narrow bed, controller in hand, eyes glued to a small screen propped on a crate.
Gunfire echoed softly from the speakers.
He leaned back, relaxed, hoodie half-zipped, collar still humming faintly against his neck.
"Come on," he muttered, thumbs moving fast. "Reload—reload—yes."
On-screen, his character ducked behind cover just in time.
Ethan grinned.
Outside the room, the world believed he was missing.
Believed he was hunted.
Believed he was helpless.
Ethan paused the game and stretched, completely at ease.
"Man," he said to no one, "Cyrus was right."
He picked the controller back up.
"Best hiding spot ever."
The screen lit up again.