Sandile spilled out of the Poké Ball like dead weight.
It hit the stone on its side and didn't even flinch—still fainted, still cooked from taking a Self-Destruct at point-blank range. Its chest barely moved. Dust clung to its scales. One of its legs twitched once, then went still again.
Enzo crouched immediately.
No hesitation. No victory speech.
A Potion can hissed in his hand, and the spray hit Sandile's body in a cold mist—soaking into burns, sealing bruises, knitting the worst of the damage into something survivable. Enzo wiped grit from its face with two rough swipes of his thumb, like cleaning blood off a tool.
Sandile's eyes snapped open.
Not wide. Not panicked.
Just sharp—instant awareness, instant hostility, even with its body still heavy and weak.
It tried to rise.
Failed.
Its jaw flexed anyway, like it wanted to bite him out of principle.
Enzo didn't pull back.
He kept his hand on it, steady, dominant—like the idea of being bitten was an inconvenience, not a threat.
Then he spoke, calm and final.
"From today on, you're part of my team," Enzo said. "I'll train you… and I'll protect you for the rest of my life."
No warmth. No softness.
A contract.
He leaned in a fraction more, eyes level with Sandile's.
"Help me… and I'll make you the strongest Krookodile alive."
Sandile didn't wag its tail. Didn't look grateful.
It just stared at him—hard, rigid, evaluating.
Then… it stopped trying to pull away.
It didn't bite.
It didn't fight the touch.
A tiny loosening in its posture. The smallest possible acceptance from something that refused to be "tamed."
Enzo lifted his hand slowly.
"Good," he said.
Proton came in while Sandile was still blinking itself awake.
He stopped a few steps away, eyes flicking between the new Poké Ball in Enzo's hand and the battered little crocodile on the ground, like he still didn't fully believe it was real.
For once, his voice didn't have sarcasm in it.
"You actually did it…"
Enzo didn't look up like he was waiting for praise. He capped the Potion, wiped the spray off his fingers on his sleeve, and answered like he was closing a report.
"Without you, none of this happens."
That hit Proton harder than any "good job" ever could.
He shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, eyes sliding away as if credit was something you could catch like a disease.
"I just ran," he muttered. "That's it."
Enzo's gaze finally lifted—cold, direct, and weirdly fair.
"Exactly," he said. "You did your job."
No hype. No emotion. No speech.
Just recognition.
And Proton—still half embarrassed—nodded once, because he understood what that meant in Enzo's world:
Competence was currency.
Enzo's gaze drifted past him, toward the morning training ground—the stone markers half-buried in dust, the wind corridor where Corvisquire always cut through the air like a blade. Then he looked back at Proton, voice low and steady, like the decision had been made hours ago.
"But saying 'thank you' isn't enough."
Proton blinked. "What do you mean—?"
Enzo was already turning away, already moving, like he didn't need permission for the world to follow.
"Come with me," he said, not looking back.
Proton hurried after him.
Enzo nodded toward the training site again, a routine carved into the terrain.
"I've got something for you."
Enzo stopped at the edge of the training ground, where the stone markers still sat like silent witnesses, and the wind never learned how to shut up.
He didn't waste time.
He reached into his bag, pulled out a Poké Ball, and held it out to Proton.
"For helping me," Enzo said. Then, after a beat—calmer, heavier—"And because I trust you."
Proton froze.
He stared at the ball as it might hiss.
Slowly, he took it—two fingers at first—like he was handling a grenade with a bad safety pin.
"What is this?" Proton asked, voice cautious. "Enzo—"
"Open it," Enzo cut in.
Proton hesitated. His thumb hovered over the release button like he was trying to predict which way the blast would go.
Then—click.
Light spilled out.
And the smell hit first.
Grimer slumped onto the stone like a sack of wet misery—thick sludge body sagging, goo dripping in lazy strings, stench sharp enough to make Proton's eyes water. It didn't threaten. It didn't posture.
It just looked exhausted by the concept of being alive.
Proton's face changed so fast it was almost comedic.
He took one involuntary step back—pure survival reflex—then stopped himself mid-motion as he'd just remembered he was supposed to have dignity. He turned his head slightly, trying not to breathe, trying not to gag, trying not to offend a gift that was actively assaulting his nostrils.
"…What the hell—" Proton choked out, voice cracking.
Grimer lifted its eyes—half-lidded, hateful, anciently offended—and stared at Proton like your existence is loud.
Proton stared down at it. Then, very slowly, he looked back up at Enzo with an expression that screamed are you serious right now?
"This…" Proton said, careful, horrified. "This is what you're giving me?"
Enzo broke.
Not a small chuckle. Not a smirk.
He actually lost it.
A full, sharp laugh ripped out of him—rare enough that it sounded wrong coming from his throat. He bent forward slightly, one hand braced on his knee, shoulders shaking as if Proton's face had finally pushed him past the point of control.
For a few seconds, the wind and the rocks and the entire North just had to listen to Enzo laughing at the pure tragedy of it.
Proton's ears went red. "Bro—"
Enzo waved a hand, still laughing, barely able to speak.
"He—" a breath, another laugh, "—he looks like that because he hasn't eaten in weeks."
Grimer didn't move.
It just kept staring at Proton with the same dead-eyed expression of I hate existing, as if it were offended that anyone expected effort from it.
Proton pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting for his life. "You're insane."
Enzo's laughter finally tapered into a grin—still sharp, still amused.
"Maybe," he said. "But you're welcome."
Proton looked back down at the sludge lump like he was trying to decide if it counted as a Pokémon or a biological punishment.
"So this is just… trash," he muttered, half to himself. "You're gifting me trash."
Enzo's grin didn't move.
That was the problem with Proton sometimes—too honest, too quick to label something by its smell.
Enzo let the silence stretch just long enough for the wind to whistle through it.
Then he dropped the line like a detonator.
"That Grimer is Blue potential."
Proton froze so hard it looked like somebody had hit pause on him.
His eyes snapped to Enzo. "What?"
Enzo didn't repeat it louder. He didn't dramatize it. He just held Proton's gaze, calm as stone.
"Blue," Enzo said again, flat. "Potential."
For a second, Proton's brain refused to cooperate. Then it caught up, and his face shifted from disgust to disbelief to something dangerously close to panic.
He stared down at Grimer again—this pathetic, starving, dripping mess—and it was like reality didn't match the words.
"That's—" Proton swallowed. "That's impossible."
Grimer blinked once, slow and offended, as if it hated being included in a conversation.
Proton's hands tightened around the Poké Ball. Then he shoved it back toward Enzo as it burned.
"No." He shook his head hard. "I can't take that. Keep it."
Enzo didn't move to accept it.
He didn't even look at the ball.
He looked at Proton, and the amusement drained out of his expression like someone pulling a plug.
Proton's jaw clenched. "Enzo, that's too precious. That's—blue potential. That's an executive-tier asset."
Enzo finally reached out—not to take the ball, but to push Proton's hand back down. A simple gesture. Final.
"I need strong allies."
Proton's eyes hardened. "I'm already with you—"
"That's not what I said." Enzo's voice stayed even, but it cut cleaner now. "Listen."
He stepped closer, close enough that Proton could feel the difference between them: one man thinking in survival terms, the other thinking in trajectories.
"If I outgrow you too much…" Enzo said, tone flat as a report, "…I'll have to leave you behind."
Proton flinched like the words had weight.
Enzo didn't stop.
"And if that happens—how do we take revenge on the League?"
The air shifted.
Not wind.
Something older. Something that lived behind Proton's ribs.
His mother. Hoenn. Kanto. That hospital room. That promise.
Proton's throat worked once. He didn't speak. He couldn't, not immediately.
His eyes dropped to the Grimer—still dripping misery, still smelling like despair—and for the first time, he didn't see trash.
A chance.
A way to not be left behind.
Enzo looked down at the sludge heap and spoke through telepathy—calm, flat, and cruel in the way only a man with leverage could be.
"Grimer. This is your new trainer."
Grimer's half-lidded eyes shifted, slow and resentful.
Enzo's voice didn't soften.
"He's competent. He'll feed you. He'll train you."
A pause—just long enough for hope to start forming.
Then Enzo cut it.
"But if I hear even once that you're being difficult… I'll make sure you die of hunger. Slowly."
Grimer went still.
It was starving—so hungry its body barely held shape—but it wasn't stupid. It understood hierarchy. It understood threats. And it understood something else too:
This was an opportunity.
A way out of the misery it had been sinking in for weeks.
Enzo tossed a small pouch of Pokéblocks to Proton without looking.
"Feed it," he said.
Proton approached cautiously, like Grimer might explode out of spite. He crouched, opened the pouch, and held one shimmering cube out.
Then Proton spoke—not with Enzo's cold authority, but with something simpler.
"Grimer," Proton said, voice a little awkward. "From today on… let's get stronger together."
He hesitated, then added the one promise that mattered most to something that had been abandoned by the world.
"I swear you won't feel hunger again."
Grimer stared at him.
For a second, it looked like it didn't believe in miracles.
Then the smell reached it.
Real food. Real nutrients. A taste that wasn't dirt and neglect.
Grimer lurched forward and swallowed the Pokéblock like it was sacred.
Its eyes widened.
And the look it gave Proton—still exhausted, still filthy—shifted into something almost frighteningly intense.
Like, Proton had just become an angel made of calories.
Then Enzo's vision flickered.
A System chime sounded—soft, clean, wrong in how helpful it felt.
[ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ]
Bond Transfer option detected.
Do you wish to transfer your Bond imprint to an ally?
— Requirement: Extend psychic energy to the target range to proceed.
YES / NO
Enzo's eyes narrowed.
That wasn't supposed to be possible.
Bond wasn't a currency. It wasn't a file you moved around.
His mind flashed one sharp thought:
This is completely broken.
But broken systems were still systems.
And Enzo didn't waste advantages.
He selected:
YES.
The air around him tightened, like invisible threads pulled taut between him, Proton, and the starving sludge Pokémon.
Enzo extended his psychic energy as instructed—controlled, precise—pushing it outward like a hand reaching through fog.
The System pulsed.
[ PROCESSING… ]
[ BOND IMPRINT: TRANSFER INITIATED ]
[ … 41% ]
[ … 73% ]
[ … 100% ]
[ TRANSFER COMPLETE ]
Bond Indicator updated.
Enzo exhaled once—quietly.
Then the System displayed the new readout.
[ POKÉMON PROFILE — UPDATED ]
Specimen: Grimer (VIRUS ACTIVE)
Level: 15
Potential: LIGHT BLUE
Ability: Stench
Moves:
— Pound (Normal)
— Poison Gas (Poison)
— Harden (Normal)
— Disable (Normal)
Bond Indicator: "Ally imprint established. Primary loyalty redirected."
Grimer kept eating.
And this time, when it looked at Proton…
…it didn't look like it wanted to rot the world out of spite.
It looked like it had decided:
This one feeds me. So this one matters.