"Enough!" Timothy's voice cracked through the tension like a whip. Everyone went silent the moment he spoke, conversations freezing mid-sentence.
He stood, frustration clearly written on his face.
"What the hell is going on? Seriously — what's with the argument? For fuck's sake."
"Not everyone, just those two," Larry muttered, pointing subtly.
Timothy turned to him with a glare so cold it practically pierced skin. Larry shrank back immediately.
"I'll just... shut up now. Not talking for the next ten minutes," he mumbled, eyes downcast.
Timothy refocused on the group.
"As I was saying — guys, we've gone past the stage where petty taunts should set us off. Jakson. Rudy. You two are close. What's going on? Whatever this is, sort it out between yourselves."
He paused, then swept his gaze across the room.
"We shouldn't be acting like this — not in front of the commander. We're better than this."
His words struck home, quieting the room even more.
"Seems tensions have dropped. We can get back to the main course of this meeting," Johnathan said.
The screen lit up, displaying an image of Scythe. The rest of the squad finally saw the man Jakson had been talking about.
"So that's the guy? He looks tough," Derick said, folding his arms.
"Can't lie, the guy's got a nice fit," Max added, stroking his chin.
"Don't start another conversation, Max," Raymond warned.
Johnathan took over.
"The guy you're seeing here is a villain from Starc City."
"Really? Starc City? Isn't that where... you know who... are?" Derick asked, surprised.
"Yep, where the big boys are," Raymond replied.
"If he's from Starc City, what's he doing here then?"
"That's what we don't know," Johnathan said. "You see, Scythe isn't exactly... active. He shows up, causes a scene, then disappears for like six months. It's like he's being paid to create chaos and vanish."
"The guy's mysterious. His abilities are still unknown. We'll be getting intel on that soon. But from what Jakson shared—and from what little I know—he's no joke," Timothy added. "We need to act fast."
"Sage, can't you look into him with your magic?" Rudy asked.
"I can, but I can't," Sage replied. "I'm still recovering from the barrier's effect. If I try that kind of magic now, I could lose my eyesight."
Everyone glanced at each other, shocked.
"That's harsh," Rudy muttered.
"You think that's harsh? If I go blind, I'll just heal it. Not a big deal." Sage shrugged.
"You can heal blindness?" Rudy blinked.
"Mr. Rudy, I can do things you wouldn't even imagine," Sage said with a slight smirk.
"Alright, okay. Seems like we can call it a day," Johnathan concluded. "We all know our target—let's prepare. Thank you."
As the meeting wrapped up, Layla rose from her seat. Johnathan stood too. But before they could leave, Timothy stepped up quickly beside her.
"Johnathan, sorry—can you give us a minute?" Timothy asked.
Johnathan nodded and stepped aside.
"You didn't say a word, Layla. I'm concerned," Tim said, voice low.
"Nothing to worry about. I just didn't feel like talking. Johnathan handled it well—so did you. I'm just... a bit stressed," Layla replied.
"Then you need rest, Layla. Take the day off. No one's going to question you."
"I know. Don't worry. I'll dig up more on Scythe—why he's here, and what he wants. I'm heading out now. Anything else?"
"Nothing else. Bye," Tim said gently.
Layla nodded, then signaled to Johnathan. As he walked past Timothy, they shook hands firmly.
"Yo," Rudy said, calling out to Jakson.
Jakson didn't respond. Rudy lightly banged his arm.
Jakson turned to him, clearly annoyed. "What's your problem, dude? Can't you just let me be?"
"Nope, I can't. Still pissed about earlier?" Rudy asked.
"I'm not pissed anymore," Jakson replied with a sigh. "What got me worked up was being the center of attention—like everyone was focused on me."
"I get that feeling. It was my fault. I overstepped. Sorry," Rudy said sincerely.
He held out his fist.
Jakson looked at it for a moment, then bumped it. The tension melted. Both of them smiled, walking side by side down the hall. Rudy slung a casual arm over Jakson's shoulder.
"So, gist me—what happened before Scythe showed up?" Rudy asked, grinning.
"Nothing fun happened," Jakson replied dryly.
"Come on, say something!" Rudy pressed.
From a distance, Timothy and Raymond stood watching them.
"They made up fast," Raymond remarked.
Timothy nodded. "That's good. I knew that wouldn't break their bond." He sighed, running a hand down his face. "Another villain… and this one's unpredictable. Makes me miss the days I used to deal with street-tier goons."
Timothy flopped onto the couch.
Raymond sat in a nearby chair and said, "Street-tier? Please. More like you enjoyed bullying the average joe."
Timothy turned his head left and right. "At least it was fun. Now I've got to worry about a guy with a black scythe, mysterious powers, and possibly unknown allies."
"Come on, Tim. We'll face this like we've handled the others. Let me borrow a line from our comrade's notebook: 'It's just one guy.'"
Raymond stood up and left the room. Timothy stayed behind, slowly dozing off on the couch.
Somewhere else.
In front of an ATM, a man withdrew some cash and walked off, mumbling to himself. He bumped into a passerby.
"Hey! Watch where you're going," the man barked.
"Sorry, sir. But you didn't have to raise your voice," the hoodie-wearing figure replied calmly, turning away.
The first man wasn't done. "What did you say? Come back here and apologize properly!" he snapped, now walking faster—his orange tank top and shorts flaring with each step.
He chased the man in the grey hoodie into a quiet corner, away from the crowd.
"You broke boy—don't even try running!" he snarled.
The man in the hoodie, Craig, suddenly turned. Without a word, he yanked the aggressor forward, grabbed his neck, and lifted him off the ground—choking him midair.
The man gasped, barely able to form words.
"I... em... srry... plese... et... e... go…"
Craig's voice was low and cold, his aura colder.
"So you beg..."
Still choking him, Craig continued, "You think your status gives you power. But you've forgotten—we're not living in the days of old. Now we have superhumans. And we are the powers of this era."
He slammed the man against the wall. The body dropped like dead weight.
The man, terrified and trembling, tried crawling back. But Craig was already over him. He pulled out a pocket knife—swiftly driving it into the man's eyes.
A muffled scream tried to escape, but before it could—Craig slit his throat.
Then, he began stabbing—again and again. Fifteen times, maybe more. Each thrust was mechanical, precise. No rage. No mercy. Just silence and steel.
His eyes were cold, unreadable—dark voids that held no spark of humanity.
"Stabbed," Craig muttered, his voice flat.
"Thinking I'd feel something."
Blood soaked the concrete. Craig stood, his expression unreadable, and walked off.
On his way, he spoke to himself, calmly.
"Sorry, Mr. You were just a stress release. I don't kill randomly. The ones I want to kill… are the so-called Hero Squad."
He then lifted his eyes to the sky and whispered:
"See you soon… Sister."