Kurogai felt it before he reached the room. Two presences lived inside the building, one unmistakably belonging to William Baker, the man called Sandman, and the other carrying a colder, darker signature that made the hair on the back of his neck lift. Sandman's real name was William Baker, known also by the alias Flint Marko.
Spider-Man? No, he should not be here now, Kurogai thought, though the thought barely registered. It did not matter who else might be inside. Kurogai's purpose was simple: find William Baker and test whether the conditions were right to open another pupil ring. Time was a currency he could not waste.
He stepped forward without hesitation. The moment his hand reached for the door, the two auras inside flared like tinder in a gust of wind, and the atmosphere snapped. A massive fist of granular sand smashed through the gate and sent a thin figure tumbling into the street.
The sound pulled the neighborhood's usual cast of onlookers—kids and low-level thugs—toward the commotion. They stopped dead when they saw the fist: fear and fascination made them scatter, one by one retreating from the scene.
Kurogai watched without surprise. He had learned long ago that most people run from what they do not understand. He remained, taking in details with clinical calm.
The sand-man's attack had struck a tall, gaunt figure who rose slowly from the rubble. He was tall but scrawny, all lines and angles, his skin an odd, unhealthy pallor, a shade paler than the average white man. He brushed dust off his shoulders and stood as if the blow had barely touched him.
Not a normal man, Kurogai thought. He had seen that presence before in memory and in dossiers: a predator with an appetite for blood. The gaunt man fixed Sandman with a look that said there had been a prior arrangement, one now dishonored.
"William Baker, are you planning to break our agreement?" he asked coldly, as if demanding an explanation could remake the bargain.
The sand-formed arm reshaped, the fist compressing and then relaxing. A stockier, middle-aged man stepped forward from the sand-made mass, anger carved into his face. He spat accusations in a rough voice, calling the pale man a coward, swearing he would not be used for whatever scheme had been hatched in shadow.
The gaunt man's smile widened, cruel and certain.
"Dare to renege on the agreement," the pale man said, "and you know what your end will look like. Adults do not let this kind of betrayal pass. Not you, not your family, not anyone you love."
Sandman answered with a roar. His hand turned to a sledge, and he swung with the kind of force that bent air. The thin man dodged with almost inhuman speed, but the sand exploded against his back and sent him soaring into a brick wall. The impact punched a dark stain of blood into the mortar.
The thin man grunted, tasting blood at the corner of his mouth. He had thought himself strong, perhaps stronger than ordinary men, but the Sandman's raw, angry force was different, brutal enough that the aftershocks might take more than a moment to recover from.
"This cannot continue," the pale man muttered, eyes sweeping the street for a new source of strength. All around them had cleared. The chaos had driven the usual witnesses away, leaving only those who refused to move, or who had no choice. His gaze found Kurogai across the street, watching with indifferent curiosity.
If the pale man could not match Sandman directly, he would find another way: blood to refill his well. He moved as if the air bent around him, closing on Kurogai faster than a normal sprint. Kurogai had not intended to engage; he had come specifically for William Baker, not to be a target.
"You must die here," the pale man said, voice low and terrible, "and repent in hell."
Sandman struck again. The pale man ducked, then surged straight toward Kurogai, fangs flashing—four razor points bared where teeth should have been—aiming for the neck.
Lucky, Kurogai thought, almost with detached amusement. A vampire and a sand-man in the same alley. Opportunity presented itself even when he did not seek it.
His hand closed on the Space Gem. The artifact's pull was familiar, its cold, compact promise of infinite distance folded into a tiny, glittering surface. Kurogai called that power, not to tear open portals, but to anchor and restrain. An invisible pressure flowed from his palm, pressing the vampire to the pavement with a force that felt like the weight of the world.
The gaunt figure hissed and spat, struggling against the invisible hold. He had not expected Kurogai to move; he had expected only to pluck a passerby and drain him. Kurogai did not gloat. He kept the gem's pressure focused and steady. The vampire could not lift his head, could not twist to bite. He did, however, glare with a ferocity that promised more trouble later.
Kurogai's mind catalogued and evaluated as always. Vampires—if that identification was accurate—were dangerous, ancient in appetite and quick to regain momentum. Sandman was unpredictable, a force that could be either brutal adversary or reluctant ally. Their conflict had an unfinished thread Kurogai could not untangle in a glance.
He still had a purpose. William Baker's presence was the primary variable. If the Sandman could provide the conditions Kurogai needed to advance another pupil ring, then the rest—vampires, alley fights, frightened punks—were variables he could manage. For now, he kept the Space Gem's pressure tight and prepared to step in if the struggle between Sandman and the pale man tipped into something that might destroy the one resource he had come for.
The vampire's breathing grew ragged under the invisible force. Sandman flexed, turning his sand-shoulder toward Kurogai as if sizing the new element in the scene. The fight had paused, a held note in a dangerous chord, and for a long beat Kurogai let himself measure the players.
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