The café had gone silent. Chairs lay overturned, glass shattered, and blood crawled across the tiled floor like it was searching for something it lost.
Raymond stayed on his knees, his trembling hands pressing against Derick's lifeless body. The familiar warmth he always felt from him was gone—replaced by a cold stillness that bit through his skin.
"Come on…" Raymond whispered. "You can heal. You always heal."
No response. Just the faint hiss of the evening breeze slipping through the broken café window.
His throat tightened. He shook Derick's shoulders harder.
"Get up, damn it! Don't make me freeze your corpse just to keep you here."
For a moment—just a moment—he thought he saw the faintest flicker of movement under Derick's skin. But it faded. His body remained still, pale.
Raymond's phone buzzed—a call from Timothy. He picked up.
"Got your call," Timothy said. "What's up?"
"I met the big bad," Raymond replied, his tone tight. "Something happened to Derick."
"You met Al-Daeem? What happened?"
"Derick was cut in half. His regeneration… it hasn't kicked in yet. I don't even know if it will."
There was a pause. Then Timothy asked, "Are there people around?"
Raymond blinked, finally looking up. The street was empty. The noise, the crowd—gone. His brow furrowed. How didn't I notice? There had been people before.
He muttered into the phone, "No one. We're the only ones here."
A short laugh escaped Timothy. "Ha. That sick idiot—he asked Jean to clear the area so you'd have no help. Still, good for us; no witnesses to what happened."
Raymond's arms were still wrapped around half of Derick's body when it twitched—then, in a blur, the two halves sealed back together. Derick gasped, blinking back to life.
Raymond exhaled, relief softening his face. Derick groaned, clutching his head. "Ugh… my head hurts. What did I miss?"
Raymond smirked, tightening his fist—and drove it into Derick's gut. Derick's cheeks puffed like a puffer fish.
"Get up," Raymond said, turning away. "We're leaving."
The tall, dark man doubled over, groaning. "Why'd you hit me like that?"
"Shut up." Raymond snapped, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Thank God," he thought. For a second, I thought he was gone. Good to know he's still unkillable.
Raymond walked ahead, Derick trailing behind—heading to regroup with the others.
****
The guys arranged to meet in an open warehouse at the edge of the district. It wasn't much, but it was quiet and away from the crowd—the kind of place where no one would overhear a hero's conversation.
They all sat round, prepared to say all they have. The first to speak was the mullet-styled Timothy; his eyebrows were arrowed at each other, and his voice had his usual calm, authoritative tone. He said.
"Good to see you're alive Derick. Derick replied with a smile and a gesture of salute.
Tim continued, "The main reason I wanted to speak here and not there is because I have a feeling we might have snakes in the association. We don't know who might be listening to our conversations because he already has everything planned. We don't even know when Phase Three will start."
Raymond broke in. "Phase three is very near; remember I said we met him, and he said phase three would make me wish I never left Starc City. The bastard knows where I came from. What else do we think he knows?"
Timothy's eyebrows went up and dropped—he felt no surprise hearing that from Raymond; he had to say the words out. "Not surprised at all; he knows my family. He possibly has been planning all this for years."
Larry's dark eyes lasered down, brainstorming for answers when Max, seated next to him, said to him.
"You guys kept saying the word 'recreate' throughout our way here. What exactly was recreated?"
Larry's reply came out casually, like it was nothing unusual.
He said, "The massacre yesterday—Timothy did it."
Max froze. His eyes darted around, hands trembling as he stammered, "Why did you say that like it meant nothing? People died, Larry! Lives were wasted, and the killer's right here—and you knew? You didn't even turn him in?"
Larry only shook his head, unfazed. His mind seemed elsewhere as he said, "There's a reason for that. Guess I should've told you earlier."
What came next was a blur of wind—the afterbreeze of Max's speed.
He dashed straight for Timothy, slamming him against the wall before anyone could react.
The others could only watch as Max gripped their supposed leader by the collar.
Timothy's eyes narrowed; his tone sharp, he barked, "What the hell!"
"Larry, what's wrong with your guy?" Raymond asked, a long icy blade formed in his hands, ready to strike.
Larry came forward; he also had no idea what was going on with Max, he said. "Dude, why the hell do you have Tim pinned like that?"
Max, anger burning through him, shouted, "You all know who did the killing yesterday, and it seems like you're all comfortable with it! You call yourselves heroes when the so-called protector himself is no different from the villains we fight!"
The pinned Timothy muttered, "I hate speedsters."
With a sharp kick to Max's ribs, Timothy broke free, standing to his full height. "You just assume I killed them—with no reasoning at all?"
Max got back to his feet, glaring. "I don't need to hear your reasons to know they're bullshit."
From the side, Derick muttered under his breath, "Been there."
Max moved—no sound, just a burst of pressure. Then came the delayed whoosh, rattling chairs as the wind chased after him.
The eye couldn't even react to his speed. The speedster's aim was clear—Timothy. He thought he could grab Max mid-move, but a speedster will always be significantly faster than a normal person.
Still, Timothy was far from normal. The punches came fast—too fast—but he started reading the patterns. With precise timing, he drove a fist into Max's chin, knocking him down.
Max tried to get up, his body twitching for another burst of speed. Timothy readied himself, but before either could move, the ground turned cold. In a heartbeat, everything froze.
Raymond's voice cut through the icy air. "Enough. Timothy, he deserves an explanation—let's give him that." He turned to Max. "And you… let's resolve this amicably."
Timothy's clenched fist loosened. His eyes fell, guilt heavy in them. "I Hate Myself," he muttered.