The wolves didn't wait to be invited.
As Enzo descended the concrete steps of the stadium entrance, the world before him exploded into a chaotic strobe light of white flashes and distorted shouting.
It wasn't an interview; it was an ambush. The barrier of journalists formed an impenetrable wall, with microphones thrust forward like medieval pikes ready to skewer him. The atmosphere wasn't one of celebration for a record-breaking victory; it was a media lynching.
They didn't ask questions. They threw verdicts.
"Mr. Vance! Mr. Vance!" screamed a reporter with bleached hair, shoving her recorder dangerously close to his chest. "Aren't you ashamed of brutalizing your opponents like that? Your Houndoom sent three Pokémon to intensive care!"
"Do you think this gratuitous violence represents the values of Kanto?" bellowed another, holding a microphone with the logo of a conservative TV station. "Trainer Julian left the arena in a state of shock!"
"How does it feel to sully the image of the sport?" accused a third. "Do you consider fear a legitimate tactic?"
Enzo stopped on the final step. The camera flashes reflected off the silver chains on his jacket and his eyes, which remained cold and unreadable. He didn't flinch. He didn't step back.
He just waited.
He let the noise peak, let the collective hysteria grow until it became unbearable. And then, with the calm of someone who owns the building, he raised his right hand. Palm open. A simple "stop" gesture.
Silence fell. Not out of respect, but out of the ravenous expectation of his answer. They wanted him to explode. They wanted him to be the villain.
Enzo lowered his hand slowly, adjusted his jacket collar, and leaned into the nearest microphone.
"I won," he said. His voice was steady, without a hint of a tremor. "Just like the others won. My Pokémon was stronger. Period."
He paused, sweeping his gaze across the crowd, locking eyes with the reporter who had mentioned "brutality."
"And don't come at me with hypocrisy," Enzo continued, his tone sharpening. "If I had used a colorful Butterfree scattering Toxic powder to slowly poison an opponent, or Sleep Powder to render them defenseless, no one here would be questioning my morals. You would call it 'technical strategy.' You would call it 'elegant.'"
He took a step forward, invading the journalists' personal space.
"But because it was a Dark Type... because it was a black dog using fangs and fire, suddenly I'm a villain. The aesthetics bother you more than the defeat."
A cynical smile curved Enzo's lips.
"And as for Julian's 'state of shock'..." Enzo let out a short, dry laugh. "If the rich kids and their daddies are traumatized by the reality of physical combat, then they made a casting error. They should have bought their sons fluffy Eevees, covered them in ribbons, and signed them up for Beauty Contests."
The silence in the crowd was now absolute, heavy and stunned.
"These are Pokémon Battles," Enzo declared, his voice cold and sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade. "It is combat. Not a parade.
"When I ask one of my companions to step into that arena, their safety is my burden to carry. They trust me to lead them, not to sacrifice them. So, when I see 'trainers' like Julian—and the others I crushed today—knowingly sending their partners into a meat grinder when they have zero chance of winning... and for what?
"To save face? To pretend they are brave? Or is it just pure idiocy?
"I find that disgusting. It is the height of irresponsibility. Keeping a Pokémon in a fight it cannot win just for the applause isn't noble. It's abuse. I end battles quickly. They let them suffer. So, tell me... who is the real villain here?
"There are winners, and there are losers. If you don't have the stomach to watch a Pokémon hit the ground, because of choices you made then do yourselves a favor, and especially do your Pokémon a favor, and don't fight. Stay home and watch TV."
He pulled back, finishing the first part of his verbal assault, satisfied to see the pale faces of the reporters.
The tense silence following Enzo's verbal attack was broken by a shrill voice from the third row. A journalist, clearly irritated by the moral lecture, decided to attack the weak point.
"Pretty words, Mr. Vance!" he shouted, pointing an accusing finger. "But that doesn't explain the choice of creatures! Why Dark Types? Why insist on using monsters known for their cruel and unpredictable nature?"
Inside Enzo's mind, a switch flipped.
Bingo.
It was exactly the question he wanted. The trap had sprung.
Enzo didn't answer immediately. Instead, his body language changed radically. The steel posture melted away. His shoulders dropped slightly, his chin lowered, and the aggression in his eyes was replaced by a shadow of... sadness? Melancholy?
It was a performance worthy of an Oscar.
"Monsters..." Enzo repeated, his voice now soft, almost a whisper that forced the journalists to lean in to hear. "It's curious that you use that word."
He looked down at his own hands, as if recalling a distant past.
"I didn't grow up in mansions with ocean views. I didn't have parents to buy me my first Pokémon or enroll me in private schools." Enzo looked up, sweeping the crowd, creating a visual connection. "I was an orphan, right here on the streets of Cerulean."
The whir of cameras continued, but the journalists had lowered their microphones slightly. The "rags to riches" narrative was irresistible.
"One day... I hadn't eaten anything for almost twenty-four hours. I went to the forest north of the city, looking for berries. Anything to trick my stomach." Enzo paused dramatically. "I found the berries. But I also found a swarm of 3 Beedrills."
Some murmurs of sympathy emerged from the crowd.
"They didn't see a 'trainer.' They saw food. They saw easy prey." Enzo's voice trembled, just enough. "I thought I was going to die there. I screamed for help. And do you know who saved me?"
He looked directly into the camera of the biggest TV station.
"It wasn't a noble, golden Arcanine. It wasn't a majestic Lapras rising from the lake to protect me." He shook his head. "It was a stray dog. Small. Starving. A Houndour who lived in the shadows, rejected by everyone in the city for being a 'monster.'"
Enzo touched the Poke Ball clipped to his belt.
"He jumped in front of me. Even though Bug-type attacks are dangerous for him, and he was vastly outnumbered... he didn't back down. He took a beating... he was stung, he was hurt... all to protect a child he didn't even know. Just because he hated seeing the strong abuse the weak."
The lynching atmosphere had vanished. Now, handkerchiefs were being pulled out.
"When the Beedrills finally left, he collapsed on the ground. I took the little money I had—money that was meant for my dinner, and bought my first Poké Ball and a Potion to save him." Enzo smiled, a sad and humble smile. "That Houndour is the Houndoom you saw today."
He straightened up again, regaining some of his strength, but maintaining the aura of nobility.
"Since that day, we have a mission. I promised him I would show Kanto that Dark Types have hearts. That they have loyalty. And that the prejudice that they are 'monsters' is wrong." His voice gained firmness. "That is why I choose this type. Because they don't deserve to be treated the way they are, just because they look scary."
Enzo looked at the journalist who had asked the question. The man looked ashamed, staring at his shoes.
"Tomorrow I will be back here. And once again, I will show the true value of my partners."
Without saying another word, Enzo turned his back.
The moved silence Enzo had created lasted exactly three seconds.
Then, it exploded.
The narrative of the "orphan boy and his faithful dog" didn't appease the journalists; it made them lose their minds. The story was too good. It was TV gold.
"Mr. Vance! Where was this orphanage located?" "Can you show us Houndoom again?" "Who paid for your tournament registration?"
The barrier of microphones broke. The crowd surged forward like a wave, pushing, shouting, trying to touch him as if he were a sacred relic. Enzo took a step back, feeling the space vanish. He had manipulated the mob, but now the mob threatened to crush him.
"BACK OFF! NOW!"
The voice cut through the air, amplified by a megaphone, authoritative and shrill.
A police motorcycle jumped the curb, stopping inches from the reporters, followed by a patrol car with sirens blaring.
A female figure in a blue uniform and turquoise hair jumped out of the car. It wasn't just any Jenny. It was Officer Lilian Jenny.
She carved a path through the journalists with the subtlety of a Tauros, shoving cameras aside and distributing glares that could freeze water.
"This is League private property! Disperse or I start issuing fines for disturbing the public peace!"
She reached Enzo, grabbed his arm with surprising strength, and pulled him.
"Get in the car. Now. Before this turns into a riot and I have to use tear gas."
Enzo didn't argue. He let himself be led, sliding into the back seat of the patrol car. Lilian jumped into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and peeled out with tires screeching, leaving behind a cloud of smoke and dozens of frustrated journalists.
The interior of the car was quiet, smelling of pine air freshener and cold coffee. The lights of Cerulean City streaked past the tinted windows like neon scratches.
Enzo stretched out in the back seat, clasping his hands behind his head, as if he were in a limousine and not a police cruiser.
"Lilian, it's so good to see you again," he said with an amused smile. "Did you watch the tournament? I took down eighteen Pokémon with just one."
Lilian's eyes met his in the rearview mirror. If looks could kill, Enzo would be dead.
"You have some incredible nerve, you know that?" Her voice was tense. "Acting like we're old friends after what you did to me yesterday."
Enzo laughed, relaxed. "What? Yesterday? Are you mad because I left early?"
"I'm mad because you stuck me with a 3,000 Pokédollar bill!" she exploded, slamming her hand on the steering wheel as she stopped at a red light. "You tricked me! You made me believe you were a good person, and then you just walked away and left me with that bill!"
"Why are you so upset?" Enzo teased. "Do you want to arrest me again? I thought that for someone belonging to the Jenny Clan, three thousand was nothing."
Lilian took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "Don't push me, Enzo. You have no idea. Do you know how long it takes me to earn that?" She looked at him in the mirror, and this time there was no anger, just genuine fatigue. "I'm a Cadet, Enzo. I'm still the 'rookie' at the station. I don't get a commissioner's or Chief Inspector's salary. That bill was half my budget for the month."
Enzo's smile faltered slightly. He looked at the back of her neck. He was used to robbing corporations, but screwing over a cadet... that wasn't part of the code.
He sat up straighter. "Okay," he said, his tone different. More serious. "You're right. That was a low blow."
Lilian looked up, surprised by the shift in tone.
"The next meal is on me," Enzo promised. "With interest. You have my word."
Lilian huffed, but the atmosphere in the car became less heavy. "Now, where to? The Official Trainers' Hotel is two blocks away."
Enzo looked out the window. They were passing through a busy commercial zone. "No. Stop here. On this corner."
Lilian frowned, pulling the car over. "Here? This is the shopping district. I can drive you to the hotel door. It's safer. Where are you staying, anyway?"
Enzo opened the car door and stepped out onto the busy sidewalk. The night air hit his face. He leaned into the open passenger window and winked.
"Officer Jenny..." he said, using the formal title with irony. "We can be friends, and I will pay for that dinner. But let's keep it professional."
He didn't want the police knowing where he slept. And certainly not that he wasn't in a hotel, but in an abandoned warehouse with a lab.
"You are impossible," Lilian grumbled.
"Goodnight, Cadet."
Enzo closed the door with a soft click. Before Lilian could say anything else, he blended into the crowd of pedestrians, disappearing amidst the shadows and the storefront lights.
Lilian stayed in the car watching the spot where he had been, huffing in frustration.
She murmured, something before shifting into gear and driving off.
As soon as the silhouette of Lilian's patrol car disappeared around the corner, Enzo's relaxed posture evaporated.
He didn't go immediately to the warehouse. Paranoia was a hard habit to break. He walked casually for three blocks, checking reflections in windows, stopping to tie his shoes, ensuring that no persistent journalist or International Police agent was tailing him.
Clean.
Satisfied, he entered a night market. He headed to the liquor section and pointed to a wooden crate behind the counter.
"I want that crate of aged whiskey," he said, tossing cash onto the counter without counting it. "The whole crate."
With the heavy crate balanced on his shoulder, Enzo headed to a dark, dirty alley where the smell of garbage kept any passersby away. He leaned against the wall, checked his surroundings one last time, and tapped his phone.
"Porygon2," he whispered. "Get me out of here. Take me home."
The phone screen glowed with Porygon2's digital face. < Teleport initiated. >
The world distorted in a flash of data and blue light.
ZWOOP.
The smell of garbage vanished, replaced by the musty, metallic air of the warehouse.
Enzo landed firmly in the center of the main room, ready to set down the crate and discuss strategy for the semifinals.
But he froze.
The crate of drinks almost slipped from his hands.
In front of him, amidst the boxes of high-tech equipment, stood Proton, Ronnie, and Professor Leni.
The three of them were wearing ridiculous, colorful paper party hats on their heads.
And, on a long table improvised from crates, there wasn't a map of Kanto. There were cakes. A lot of cakes. Seventeen cakes, to be exact. Of all sizes, colors, and flavors, with lit candles illuminating the dark warehouse.
"What..." Enzo blinked, confused. "Why so many cakes? Is this some kind of weird ritual?"
Proton, who looked visibly uncomfortable with the cone hat on his head, crossed his arms and nodded toward the giant beside him.
"Ronnie's idea," Proton grumbled. "He insisted."
Ronnie took a step forward, a huge grin stretching from ear to ear.
"Boss!" he thundered. "You said the other day that, since you were an orphan, you never knew the day you were born. You never had a party."
Ronnie spread his arms, encompassing the table full of sugar.
"So, I did the math. You're 17, right? If you never celebrated one, you had 17 parties overdue." He pointed to the cakes. "One for every year you missed. Happy belated birthday, Boss!"
Professor Leni adjusted his glasses, smiling shyly. "Ronnie... 'acquired' them in the city."
Enzo looked at the cakes, some had names of other people on them. Then he looked at his subordinates. That group of psychotic misfits had just made the most genuine gesture he had received in his entire life. The speech he gave on TV about being an orphan was a tool for manipulation, but the pain of having no history was real. And they knew that.
Enzo felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing the emotions down, but let a real smile, without irony, appear on his face.
"Thanks, guys," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Seriously."
He walked to the table and set the wooden crate down with a heavy thud.
"Well, since we're celebrating..." Enzo pried open the lid of the crate, revealing the elite bottles of whiskey.
Proton's eyes widened. He looked at the bottles and then at Enzo. "Are you sure, Enzo? After that time in the Island..."
Enzo grabbed a bottle and pulled the cork out with his teeth, spitting it onto the floor.
"Come on, Proton. We aren't on the Island anymore," Enzo said, pouring plastic cups for everyone. "Here in the warehouse, we are safe."
He extended a cup to Ronnie.
He laughed, grabbing the cup with his two hands.
"Good one, boss!" Ronnie exclaimed, raising the cup in a toast. "We're always in sync! You bring the booze, we bring the sugar."
"Let's start this party," Enzo declared, toasting with his only true friends. "Before I have to eat seventeen cakes by myself."
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