The doors to the Phantom Hunter Institute slid open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing George, Saya, and Ryan stepping through. The trio still wore the battle-worn remnants of their gear, but their expressions carried the afterglow of victory.
Inside the command chamber, Chairman Lawrence stood waiting—tall, composed, his long coat swaying faintly behind him. He was flanked by a handful of instructors and high-ranking staff. As the trio approached, Lawrence clapped once—slow and deliberate.
"Well done," he said, his voice booming across the hall. "Oben was a threat we've had eyes on for weeks. Military installations have reported attacks—soldiers torn apart, outposts burned to ash. And always the same thing left behind…"
He tapped a panel beside him. A projection screen came to life, displaying images of scorched symbols painted in green Lixar across concrete walls and crumbling buildings.
"His signature," Lawrence continued. "We knew he had returned from the underworld. What we didn't know was where. Until now."
He looked to Ryan first. "You neutralized him cleanly. Efficiently."
Ryan shrugged casually. "Wasn't easy. But satisfying."
Lawrence's gaze fell to George.
"And you…"
George tensed. Was he about to be criticized? He hadn't done much, had he?
"…showed potential I haven't seen in years. Most rookies take time just to understand how to activate Gill or Ko. Some spend weeks learning how to survive against D-Class phantoms. But you? First mission. First confirmed kill. And it wasn't sloppy."
A brief pause.
"Your base evaluation has been upgraded. You're officially a B-Rank Hunter."
George blinked. "Wait… seriously?"
Lawrence nodded. "Which means two things. First, you'll begin receiving mission-grade assignments instead of trainee simulations. And second—welcome to payroll."
George tried to contain his excitement, but his voice betrayed him. "How much?"
"B-Rank hunters start at twenty-five thousand a month," Lawrence replied smoothly. "Before taxes, of course."
George grinned wide and genuine. "I'll take it. Taxes and all."
Ryan elbowed him. "We should've bet on how fast you'd get promoted."
Saya leaned in beside him, smirking. "Still not A+, though."
George looked between them, mock offended. "And what do you two make?"
Saya stretched her arms behind her head, then stuck her tongue out playfully. "Fifty grand. Monthly."
Ryan flashed a proud grin. "Perks of being at the top, rookie."
George rolled his eyes, but the smile never left his face. "Whatever. I'll get there."
"You've got time," Saya said, tapping him lightly on the shoulder.
As their laughter faded, George grew quiet for a moment.
"I'm heading to the hospital. Mom said my brother's doing better. I need to see them."
Lawrence nodded. "Of course. We've arranged a driver."
Saya offered a soft smile. "Tell them we said hi."
"Yeah," Ryan added. "And bring your brother something cool. He probably thinks you're out here flying helicopters or something."
"I'll do that," George said, turning to leave.
The ride to town was calm. George sat in the back of a sleek black institute vehicle as skyscrapers and city lights passed by. He held a bouquet of white lilies in one hand and a bright red balloon in the other—the kind with cartoon eyes and a grinning face. He had no doubt Terry would love it.
When they pulled up outside the hospital, George thanked the driver and stepped out into the evening air. The building loomed above—cold, sterile, and too familiar. He hadn't been here in days, focusing on training. But now, the thought of seeing his mother and brother filled him with a different kind of energy—something deeper than adrenaline.
He walked the halls slowly, nodding at passing nurses. Room 313.
His heart raced.
When he opened the door, his mother sat beside Terry's bed. She turned instantly, her tired eyes lighting up.
"George," she whispered, standing quickly.
His little brother, Terry, sat up with a grin. His cheeks were fuller than before, color returning to his face.
"Big bro!" he shouted.
George didn't say anything at first. The flowers slipped slightly in his hand, the balloon brushing against the doorway. Emotion caught him by surprise—an overwhelming wave of warmth, relief, and guilt.
He crossed the room and dropped everything into the chair beside them, then pulled both his brother and mother into an embrace. Tears escaped before he could stop them.
"I'm glad you're okay," he said, voice thick with emotion.
His mother stroked his hair gently, holding him tighter. "I'm glad you're well too, my son."
Terry squeezed into the hug. "I missed you so much!"
"I missed you too, little man." George finally pulled back to look at them. "You're looking strong."
Terry flexed one arm dramatically. "I've been working out with the nurse!"
George laughed, eyes still wet. "You'll be stronger than me soon."
His mom smiled, brushing his cheek. "You've grown, George. There's something different about you."
He sat beside the bed, wiping his face. "Yeah. I guess I have."
He didn't mention the phantoms. Or Lixar. Or paychecks, or blood, or glowing green corpses. None of that mattered here.
Here, he was just George. Son. Brother.
Home.