Koffing's Poké Ball was warm in Enzo's palm—too warm, like it was holding a fever.
Forty-eight hours.
That was what the System had said. Forty-eight hours until the suicidal purple bomb could float again, grin again, and threaten to erase everything within ten meters.
Enzo slid the ball into his pouch and didn't look back at the crater.
He didn't look back at the bodies either.
He checked the timer instead.
The blue numbers didn't blink.
They just waited.
He had a knife, two Great Balls, and three enemy Poké Balls stuffed deep in his bag like stolen coins. All three Pokémon were fainted, and all three were useless long-term.
Enzo wasn't going to waste money healing trash that wasn't even his.
And he definitely wasn't going to be seen using them.
Not after today.
Rumors would spread. Fear would spread. And fear always attracted hunters.
So he made the only smart choice.
He went to the base.
The last time he'd walked that route, he'd been shaking so hard he could barely breathe—an orphan without a Pokémon, running through the island like prey.
This time, he moved like someone returning to a familiar prison.
He knew the safe paths.
He knew where the wilds thinned out.
He knew which ridges the bullies loved to patrol… and which gullies even they avoided.
He didn't need a partner to survive the road.
He just needed memory.
The base rose out of the trees like a scar.
Not a fortress—Team Rocket didn't waste resources on comfort—but a hard knot of metal and concrete jammed into the island's spine. Floodlights hung from rusted poles. Chain-link fencing looped around it in crooked layers. Cameras stared from corners like dead eyes.
Enzo slowed as the sound reached him.
Voices.
Shouting.
Orders being snapped. Arguments being swallowed. The constant background hum of a place that existed to turn kids into tools.
He stepped through the outer checkpoint without drawing attention.
A bored grunt watched him from behind a mesh window—eyes dull, hand resting near a baton that had seen too much use. The man looked Enzo up and down, took in the dirt and ash, then looked away like it didn't matter.
It didn't.
Not unless you were bleeding.
Enzo crossed into the main yard, and the island's chaos hit him all at once.
On the left—logistics.
Men in black uniforms dragged crates off a flatbed with practiced brutality—food packs, medical kits, cheap knives, bundles of rope. A technician argued with a recruit over a stamped form, voice sharp.
"Sign it properly or you don't get supplies!"
On the right—the broken.
Recruits sat on the ground in clusters, backs against concrete walls, eyes empty. Some stared at their hands like they couldn't remember what they were supposed to do with them. One kid clutched an empty Poké Ball so tightly his knuckles were white—like if he squeezed hard enough he could pull his Pokémon back out of the past.
A girl with torn sleeves rocked slightly as she whispered to herself, the same sentence on repeat.
"I had it… I had it… I had it…"
No one answered her.
And further ahead—near the central boards and the brighter lights—were the hunters.
Not staff. Recruits.
Groups forming, whispering, counting heads. Some held crude maps scratched into paper. Others checked their gear like they were about to go to war. Faces leaned in close, voices low.
Enzo caught fragments as he walked past.
"The Mad Bomber…"
The words came out like a superstition.
Another voice, tighter:
"Two bodies."
"A crater," someone swore. "Like the ground got deleted."
A few people went quiet.
One recruit actually took a step back, glancing toward the entrance like the jungle might spit a Koffing out at any second.
Someone else muttered, half-angry, half-afraid:
"They said he didn't even run."
An older voice answered immediately, sharper than the rest.
"Doesn't matter. If the Mad Bomber's real, we don't go alone."
Enzo didn't turn his head.
He didn't react.
But inside, something cold and satisfied settled behind his ribs.
Fear was already doing its job.
He moved through the yard like he belonged there—like he wasn't a recruit with a deadline ticking down. Like he was just another piece of Rocket machinery sliding to its next station.
A pair of recruits argued near a water tap—one accusing, one pale.
"You lost your Pokémon again?"
"It ran," the other snapped, almost crying. "It just ran!"
Enzo stepped past them without breaking stride.
His eyes didn't linger.
He'd seen worse.
He'd been worse.
A sign bolted above a reinforced door came into view ahead, painted letters chipped by salt air and time:
EXCHANGE CENTER
The Exchange Center smelled like metal, disinfectant, and old sweat.
It wasn't a shop. Not really. More like a checkpoint where Team Rocket decided what your life was worth—then paid you in numbers.
A reinforced counter cut the room in half. Behind it were shelves of sealed crates and locked drawers. Behind those, a bored grunt with a toothpick and dead eyes tapped at a terminal like he'd been born doing it.
Enzo waited his turn without speaking.
Two recruits in front of him argued over bandages and a single Antidote like it was treasure. A third slapped down a handful of Rocket Points and bought a cheap potion with shaking hands, as if that bottle could fix more than wounds.
When it was Enzo's turn, he stepped up.
"I need the item list," he said.
The grunt lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"You can read?"
Enzo didn't react.
The grunt sighed, reached under the counter, and slid him a battered tablet—screen scratched, corners chipped, the Rocket "R" stamped into the casing like ownership.
Enzo took it.
The interface was simple. Brutal. Categories and prices. No decoration.
He scrolled.
Basic supplies. Food packs. Water refills. Cheap rope. Repel sprays. Antidotes. Potions.
Then he hit the section nobody talked about out loud:
ACQUISITIONS — RESTRICTED
His thumb slowed.
Not items.
Pokémon.
Not wild catches either—stock. Inventory. The kind of thing you didn't get unless you were someone important… or someone profitable.
Lines of text stared back at him like a joke with teeth.
Dratini (No Rank Evaluation): 10,000,000 PointsAron (Green Rank): 3,500,000 Points
Enzo's mouth went dry for half a second.
Ten million.
Three-point-five million.
Numbers so high they didn't even feel real—like the Exchange Center was selling dreams to keep recruits running, bleeding, and obeying.
A reminder: You'll never be free. You'll just be useful enough to rent better chains.
Enzo handed the tablet back without comment.
The grunt took it with the same boredom he gave everything.
"So?" he asked. "Buying anything?"
Enzo pulled out three scorched Poké Balls and placed them on the counter with a soft clack.
The grunt's eyes sharpened—not much, but enough to show interest.
"Salvage," Enzo said, voice flat.
The grunt picked up the first ball. Weighed it. Pressed the button halfway like he knew the feel of fear inside cheap metal.
He didn't need Enzo's System. He had Rocket equipment.
A small scanner under the counter flashed once.
"Zubat," the grunt said. "Level six."
He picked up the second.
"Geodude. Level five."
The third.
"Ekans. Level four."
He tapped something into his terminal. The screen reflected in his eyes.
"Potential?" Enzo asked.
The grunt's mouth twitched.
"Orange for the bat. Red for the other two."
Enzo didn't flinch.
"Points?" he asked.
The grunt finished tapping his terminal.
"Nine hundred for the Zubat," he said."One-eighty for the Geodude.""One-twenty for the Ekans."
He looked up, toothpick shifting.
"Twelve hundred Rocket Points."
Enzo didn't move.
"Keep eight hundred," he said.
The grunt paused, amused.
"And why would I do that?"
"Because I'm not buying points," Enzo replied. "I'm buying a lead."
The grunt's smile widened slowly.
"Eight hundred for information," he repeated, tasting the number. "That's expensive."
Enzo's eyes didn't blink.
"A common Green is more expensive."
For a moment, the grunt just stared—then he chuckled, like he'd finally found a recruit worth talking to.
"Fine," he said. "You get four hundred points. And you get a tip worth the other eight."
He leaned in, voice dropping like gossip.
"Northeast. Past the ridge. They dumped something new there—flying types."
Enzo's gaze sharpened.
"New how?"
The grunt's grin turned sharp.
"Not from here. Shipment got intercepted. Came in from Galar—breeder stock." He tapped the counter once. "If you've got the courage, go see what survived the drop."
Enzo nodded once.
"Deal."
The grunt slid a small receipt token across the counter—400 RP credited—and Enzo pocketed it without a word.
After that, Enzo moved away from the counter and scribbled on a small piece of paper. A minute later, he returned.
"One more thing," Enzo said.
The grunt lifted an eyebrow.
Enzo's voice stayed even.
"I want these ingredients. And a room for the next two days."
The grunt laughed quietly. He took the list, read it once, then looked back up.
"That'll cost you 400 RP."