Enzo woke up on the old leather sofa in the warehouse. His first thought was that a Steelix had used Earthquake directly on his skull. His second thought was that the light coming through the high windows was way too bright.
He groaned, peeling his face off the cushion. The warehouse looked like a hurricane had hit a distillery. Broken bottles, colorful confetti, and half-eaten snacks covered the floor. But there was a suspicious silence. Proton, Ronnie, and Leni were nowhere to be seen.
HFF. HFF. HFF.
A rhythmic, heavy breathing sound cut through the silence.
Enzo rubbed his eyes and looked over the edge of the sofa. His heart skipped a beat.
Right there, on the dirty concrete floor, Lt. Surge, the Vermilion Gym Leader and a secret Team Rocket Executive, was doing one-armed pushups. He was sweating intensely, moving with the precision of a machine.
Enzo froze in shock. Before he could process why a high-ranking executive was doing calisthenics in his hideout, Surge pushed himself up, landing on his feet with a grin.
"Catch!"
Surge tossed a bottle of ice-cold water. It hit Enzo square in the face.
SPLASH.
"Waking up early is the first step of discipline, well done recruit!" Surge bellowed, his voice echoing in the empty warehouse. "Morning exercise flushes out the toxins! Builds character!"
Enzo sat up, dripping wet, blinking rapidly. "Thanks...?" he mumbled, his brain still buffering.
Surge checked his military watch. "But you don't have time for pushups today, son. The tournament restarts in exactly fifteen minutes."
Enzo's eyes widened. "Fifteen minutes?!"
He looked at his wrist, his watch was completely smashed, the glass shattered. He fumbled for his TR Device. 08:45 AM.
Panic. Absolute, cold panic.
He jumped off the sofa, stumbling over empty bottles. "My belt! Where is my belt?!" He looked around frantically. "Haunter! Help me!"
He expected the purple ghost to float through the wall. Instead, a shadow detached itself from the floor in front of him. A pair of red eyes glowed in the darkness, and a wide, sinister grin materialized, revealing rows of white teeth.
A Gengar.
The ghost was holding Enzo's belt in its stubby hands, its tongue lolling out.
"GENGAR?!" Enzo screamed, jumping back and tripping over a crate. He hit the floor hard. "WTF?!"
The Gengar laughed, a deep, rasping sound. < Gengaaar! > Telepathy: "I did it! I finally scared the Master!"
Enzo stared at the Pokémon, confused. Haunter evolve during the party?
"There is no time for this!" Enzo scrambled to his feet, snatching the belt from the grinning ghost.
He quickly recalled everyone. The warehouse was empty, but he had no time to think about Proton, Ronnie, and Leni. He couldn't afford to be late.
He sprinted toward the bathroom. "I need a shower!"
Enzo materialized in a damp alley in downtown Cerulean. The teleportation churned his stomach, which was already protesting against the mix of alcohol and adrenaline.
He sprinted out of the alley, ignoring the stares of passersby. At the main intersection, the traffic light was red. A police patrol car was sitting in the line.
Enzo didn't hesitate. He ran to the car, yanked the passenger door open, and jumped inside, slamming it shut.
"Drive!" he gasped, breathless.
Lilian, who was holding a travel mug, jumped in her seat. "Enzo?!" She stared at him, wide-eyed. "What the hell are you doing here? This is an official vehicle!"
Enzo pointed frantically at the windshield. "Take me to the stadium, Lilian! Please! I'm out of time! If I don't get there in ten minutes, I'm disqualified!"
Lilian looked at him, then at the clock, and then at the rearview mirror. In the back seat, separated by the wire mesh, sat a handcuffed man who looked like he had spent the night partying, staring at Enzo with wide eyes.
"You are unbelievable..." Lilian huffed, flipping the siren switch. "Okay, hold on. But you owe me a huge one."
The car peeled out, tires screeching as she weaved through the morning traffic.
As the city blurred past the windows, Lilian sighed, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. "Don't talk to me about criminals today. I'm having the stupidest morning of my career."
Enzo, trying to catch his breath and fix his hair in the vanity mirror, asked out of politeness. "What happened?"
Lilian gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Madness at the Sweet Scent bakery. It started yesterday afternoon. Someone went there and stole 17 birthday cakes. I went to the scene, took the report, filed the occurrence..."
Enzo's blood ran cold. The number "17" echoed in his hungover skull.
"And then?" he asked, his voice slightly higher than usual.
"Then? Then it turned into chaos," Lilian continued, indignant. "Last night, four vandals broke into the bakery again. They smashed the door, got inside, and didn't take a single cent from the register. They smashed everything and stole all the remaining cakes!"
Enzo shrank into his seat. Four vandals... Proton, Ronnie, Leni... and me.
"But the worst part wasn't that," Lilian said, a look of disgust on her face. "They cornered the owner's Pokémon. An Alcremie. You know they produce cream, right?"
Enzo swallowed hard. "Yeah..."
"Those sickos tried to eat the Alcremie!" Lilian exclaimed. "The poor Pokémon is traumatized! It's at the Pokémon Center shaking like jelly! Who does something like that?!"
"Poor thing..." Enzo murmured, feigning shock while looking out the window to avoid eye contact. "People are crazy..."
Enzo seized the moment to check if he had everything. He reached into his right trouser pocket to search for his phone.
His hand didn't find metal or plastic. It found something soft. Wet. And sticky.
Enzo froze. Slowly, very discreetly, he pulled his hand out just enough to peek. His fingers were covered in white cream and smashed pieces of sponge cake.
Crap. He must have shoved a piece of cake in his pocket.
"And this guy in the back..." Lilian jerked her thumb toward the handcuffed man, "...says he didn't do it, but he was on the street at that hour."
The handcuffed man pressed his face against the mesh. "I told you, Officer! I saw them! I saw four men running away with boxes!"
Enzo sank deep into the seat, keeping his dirty hand firmly shoved inside his pocket to ensure not a single crumb fell onto the police car upholstery. If Lilian saw the cream on his hand, he was going straight to the cell next to the drunk guy.
"Yeah, yeah, four men..." Lilian replied, rolling her eyes. "When I catch the people who did this, they are paying for the cakes and the Alcremie's therapy."
"Right... I hope you catch them," Enzo said, sweating cold.
The patrol car screeched to a violent halt right in front of the VIP entrance, the siren dying with a low growl.
"Thanks, Lilian!" Enzo shouted, kicking the door open.
He scrambled out of the car, but as his feet hit the pavement, he realized the world outside had changed overnight.
A massive crowd was waiting for him. But it wasn't the hostile mob from yesterday.
It was a cult.
Dozens of teenagers and young adults were pressed against the barriers. They weren't wearing the colorful jerseys of the League or the expensive brands of Silph Co. They were wearing black. Leather jackets, ripped jeans, and an excessive amount of silver chains draped around their necks. Some had even drawn fake scars on their faces.
They were cosplaying him.
As Enzo power-walked toward the glass doors, his right hand remained buried deep in his pocket, clutching the sticky, shameful mess of smashed birthday cake to keep it from dripping down his leg.
To the crowd, however, he looked like the epitome of nonchalance.
"Whoa! Look at him!" a teenager with a spiked collar screamed, grabbing his friend's arm. "Look at that walk! He doesn't even take his hand out of his pocket!"
"He's so edgy!" a girl squealed, snapping photos. "He doesn't care about anything! That pose screams pure disdain for the establishment!"
The press, sensing the new trend, surged forward.
"Mr. Vance! Mr. Vance!" a reporter yelled, thrusting a microphone over the barrier. "How does it feel to be the new icon of the rebel youth? #JusticeForDarkTypes is the number one trend in Kanto!"
"Do you have a message for your followers?"
"Is the hand-in-pocket walk a statement against the League's formalities?"
Enzo didn't answer. He didn't wave. He didn't even look at them. He kept his eyes locked on the automatic doors, his expression one of intense focus.
He pushed through the entrance, ignoring the flashbulbs blinding him. He didn't care about being an icon. He didn't care about the hashtags.
He just needed a sink. Immediately.
Enzo burst into the exclusive waiting room like a man possessed.
The atmosphere was heavy with concentration. Brock was polishing a Poké Ball. Misty was stretching. Nessa and Bea were reviewing battle footage on a tablet. Steven Stone was standing by the window, examining a rare stone.
They all looked up as the door slammed open.
Enzo didn't make eye contact. He didn't say hello. He marched straight past the confused Elites and kicked open the door to the men's restroom.
Inside, he wasted no time. He unbuckled his belt, kicked off his shoes, and yanked his pants off, standing there in his black boxers. He threw the trousers into the sink and turned the faucet on full blast, scrubbing the sticky pocket furiously to dissolve the evidence of the "Alcremie crime."
The water turned milky white with cream and dissolved sponge cake.
Click.
The main door opened.
Enzo froze, his hands deep in the wet sink, standing in his underwear.
Steven Stone walked in, impeccable in his grey suit, checking his reflection in the mirror. He stopped. He looked at Enzo. He looked at the pants in the sink. Then he looked back at Enzo's face.
Most people would have asked questions. Most people would have backed away slowly.
Steven Stone just walked to the adjacent sink, turned on the tap, and began washing his hands calmly.
"Rough night?" Steven asked, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather.
Enzo let out a breath, resuming his frantic scrubbing. "You have no idea."
Satisfied that the cream was gone, Enzo pulled the soaking wet pants out of the sink. He grabbed a Poké Ball from his belt.
"Houndoom, come out."
The hellhound materialized in the small bathroom, filling the space with heat. Houndoom looked at Enzo in his boxers, then at Steven, and tilted his head.
"Flamethrower," Enzo commanded. "Low setting. Dry this."
Houndoom opened his jaws. A controlled stream of fire, hot but not destructive, blasted the wet fabric. Steam filled the room immediately. In ten seconds, the pants were dry and warm.
Steven watched the process with genuine appreciation, drying his hands on a paper towel. "Practical. Houndoom is very useful."
"The best there is," Enzo replied, stepping back into his pants and buckling his belt.
Steven leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Are you planning to use him against Bea?"
Enzo fixed his zipper and looked at the Champion. "Depends. With any luck, she'll get matched against you first."
Steven laughed, a rich, genuine sound. He appreciated the audacity. Most trainers treated him like a deity, Enzo treated him like a coworker. "I like your honesty, Enzo. We should stay in touch after this tournament." He pulled out a sleek smartphone. "What's your number?"
"Sure," Enzo said, patting his pockets instinctively.
Left pocket: empty. Right pocket: clean, warm, but empty.
Enzo's heart stopped for a second. The memory of the bakery... the panic... the hasty exit...
Shit. Did i dropped it at the Sweet Scent bakery!?
"I... uh... can't find it right now," Enzo lied, trying to keep his face neutral.
Steven didn't press. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a silver business card. "Here. Take my card. Call me when you find it."
Steven started to walk toward the door, but he stopped and turned back, pointing a finger at his own face. "Oh, and Enzo..."
"Yeah?"
"You have something on your face."
Enzo turned to the mirror. He leaned in close. There, right under his left eye, drawn in black permanent marker, was a small, crude jagged line.
A lightning bolt.
It was Lt. Surge's signature. Or maybe Ronnie's idea of a prank.
"Motherf..." Enzo muttered, starting to scrub the mark violently with his thumb. It didn't come off.
Steven chuckled as he opened the door. "It really shows that it was quite a night. Good luck out there, and on one more thing If you don't walk out that tunnel in thirty seconds, you lose by default. They are waiting for you."
Enzo swore, grabbing his jacket. He burst out of the bathroom, still fastening his belt, and sprinted down the corridor, ignoring the bewildered looks of the staff.
As he emerged from the dark tunnel into the sunlight, the stadium exploded. It wasn't the polite applause of the first day; it was a roar.
Enzo skidded to a halt in his trainer box, trying to look composed while covertly checking if his zipper was up.
Up in the booth, the commentators were already dissecting his arrival.
"There he is," Daisy Oak said, her voice dripping with acid. "Late. The lack of respect for the schedule is appalling."
"I call it a 'dramatic entrance'!" Professor Birch countered enthusiastically. "Look at that energy! He's running on pure adrenaline!"
"And look at his face," Erika added, leaning into her microphone. "That black mark under his left eye... Is that a lightning bolt? Is this a new makeup trend from Cerulean's underground scene? It gives him a very... electric look."
Enzo touched his cheek self-consciously. Damn marker.
The Battle
Across the field stood Preston. He was the spitting image of Julian, blonde, dressed in a tailored white suit, and radiating the arrogance of someone whose father owned half the city.
"You're late, peasant," Preston sneered. "My partner hates waiting."
He threw a Luxury Ball. "Go, Persian!"
The Classy Cat Pokémon materialized. It was beautiful, with sleek cream fur, but around its neck was a collar encrusted with diamonds that sparkled blindingly in the sun. It looked more like a jewelry display than a fighter.
Enzo smirked. "Let's play."
He grabbed a Poké Ball and tossed it casually. "Showtime."
The ball opened. White smoke swirled. When it cleared, the crowd gasped.
Standing on Enzo's side of the field wasn't a Houndoom, or a Murkrow, or a Sneasel. It was a Persian. Identical to Preston's. Down to the diamond collar.
The stadium went silent for a beat.
"Wait a minute," Professor Birch said, sounding confused as he flipped through his notes. "Enzo Vance stated clearly that he only trains Dark Types. A standard Persian is a Normal Type. Unless it's an Alolan Persian... which that is not. Did he lie to us?"
The fans in the stands murmured, confused. Had their edgy hero sold out?
Preston stomped his foot. "What?! Why do you have my Pokémon?! Why is it wearing my collar?!"
Enzo didn't answer. He just crossed his arms.
"Persian! Destroy that copycat!" Preston screamed. "Use Slash!"
Preston's Persian lunged, claws glowing white, aiming for the throat. It slashed furiously.
But Enzo's "Persian" didn't block. It didn't counter. It simply weaved to the left. Then to the right. It moved with a fluid, liquid grace that felt wrong. And as it dodged, it let out a sound. Not a growl. But a high-pitched, mischievous giggle. He he he!
"Now," Enzo commanded quietly. "Dark Pulse."
The "Persian" on Enzo's side opened its mouth. But instead of a normal roar, black energy began to crackle.
SHATTER.
The image of the cat broke like glass. The cream fur dissolved into black and red shadows. Revealed underneath was a small, fox-like Pokémon with a tuft of red fur on its head, grinning widely.
Zorua.
"A Zorua!" Birch shouted. "It was the Illusion ability! He tricked us all!"
The Zorua unleashed the condensed beam of dark energy at point-blank range.
BOOM.
The Dark Pulse hit Preston's Persian square in the chest. The cat was blasted backward, tumbling across the field until it landed at its trainer's feet, the diamond collar loose and the Pokémon unconscious.
One-shot.
The referee raised his flag. "Persian is unable to battle! The winner is Enzo Vance!"
Enzo looked at the stunned rich kid, who was gaping at his defeated pet.
"Next," Enzo said coldly.
The crowd went absolutely wild.
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