(THO) CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Coil didn’t believe in luck: he believed in pressure; in weight applied precisely and in levers pulled at the right time; and in decisions made far in advance, executed through layers of cause and effect so subtle even the players didn’t know they were playing.

Coil didn’t believe in luck: he believed in pressure; in weight applied precisely and in levers pulled at the right time; and in decisions made far in advance, executed through layers of cause and effect so subtle even the players didn’t know they were playing.

The Undersiders were due for pressure. And Gojo Satoru—that untouchable anomaly, that walking impossibility of spatial exclusion and cool detachment—needed to crack.

He was no longer content with just surveillance and analysis. He wanted to apply stress. Because someone like Gojo didn’t break from the outside. He needed to be set off-axis, turned just enough that the mask slipped, and underneath it, Coil could find a pattern.

So he engineered a conflict, controlled and contained, but just messy enough to look real. 

A ‘random’ tip dropped into Lung’s orbit about Undersiders expanding territory. A PRT patrol conveniently routed too far north. And a particular building near the Dockside left unguarded, one with just enough value to spark interest, and just enough obscurity to avoid drawing attention too quickly.

And Lung, pride wounded and desperate to solidify his place in the Bay after his recent jailbreak, took the bait. Violently.

It was beautiful in its simplicity, but Coil didn’t expect a kill, even if that might happen. It wasn’t the goal: he needed leverage. 

Gojo Satoru had intervened in only three major incidents since arriving: Bakuda, Squealer, and Hookwolf. Every time, he had ended the conflict in minutes, but always as a reactor, and always as a result of their action towards him.

Coil needed to know what would happen when someone else was the target, when it was someone he knew. 

It started like a dozen other encounters, with insect scouts, Grue blanketing the street in darkness, and Tattletale whispering strategies through the comms with that edge of tension Taylor had learned to read as bad. Not unusual, not with how often it was now, but not good either.

Taylor moved quickly, navigating through alleyways and across broken concrete, her bugs sweeping out in all directions. The plan was simple: break-in, steal, scatter, and regroup. 

Then Lung arrived, and everything stopped being simple.

He came roaring out of the night, half-covered in scaled armor, and heat pouring off him in waves. His face was already changing, teeth lengthening, and eyes burning orange like molten orange. He wasn't fully transformed yet, but he was getting there fast.

Taylor barely had time to react as Regent went down first, slammed through a brick wall like a rag doll. He didn’t get back up. Tattletale cursed in her ear, then static. And even the darkness was dissipating quickly, so Grue was probably down too or worse. 

Bitch’s dogs—Brutus, Judas, and Angelica—were already mid-transformation, shifting into towering and grotesque masses of bone, muscle, and spike, and snarling with jaws that could bite through most metal. But even they hesitated when Lung’s fire rolled over the street hungrily.

Still, Brutus lunged, and Judas followed quickly, teeth snapping for Lung’s throat. They hit him full-force, but he wasn't one to just stand there and take an attack head-on. 

A roar built in his chest, and Lung twisted aside, grabbed Brutus by the throat, and hurled him into a nearby parked van. Metal folded and bones cracked audibly. Judas, on the other hand, bit deep, but with a backhanded swipe, he was sent slamming into the ground. To finish it, Lung raked his claws across the dog’s face, gouging deep into flesh and blinding him.

Angelica came last—loyal and furious—with her teeth bared, and got a mouthful of flame for her trouble, shrieking in pain as fire spilled inside her mutated body. Then, Lung lifted her off the ground, and squeezed. The shriek she let out was so haunting, until it stopped cold. 

Bitch’s ensuing scream was one of raw, furious desperation.

Taylor had seen fights before, had even faced Lung before, but not like this. This wasn’t a brawl. This was a one-sided massacre, and it showcased just how lucky she had been in their first fight.

And, to make it worse, she was standing far too close to the center of it.

Ducking into a blind corner behind a truck, Taylor gasped for breath. The heat was unbearable, thick and choking: her lungs burned; her mask clung wetly to her face; many of her bugs had burned to death before she could even direct them; focus was quickly slipping through her fingers; and worse of all, her team had either ran off or was already downed in the first brutal seconds of this fight.

There was no chance at regrouping, and no advantage she could muster in this situation. She was alone. 

Lung’s focus snapped to her. 

She didn’t see him move, but she felt it. The intensity of his gaze bore down on her like a physical force, suffocating in its focus. 

She looked up just in time to hear his roar split the air, and see the ground crack beneath his feet as he launched toward her, claws raised and jaws wide. But before the blow could land, Gojo was there, as if he had always been there. 

Lung stopped. No, everything stopped. Even Taylor’s breath had momentarily stilled. Because the very space in front of Gojo refused to move. Because Lung’s claws were frozen mid-swing, barely inches from where Taylor crouched.

Gojo didn’t even look at Lung. He was looking at her.

“And here I thought,” he said dryly, “you weren’t weak.”

She couldn’t respond because she could hardly breathe. 

Lung roared—his transformation accelerating—and Gojo turned his head, finally acknowledging him.

“You're the second loudest person I've met in this world,” he said. “Pretty sure you won’t be the last.”

Lung pushed harder, claws grinding futilely—

Behind him, space collapsed into a single impossible point, and the world around it was pulled inward.

Lung's footing shifted, and though he tried to fight it, he failed.

He was dragged backward, limbs jerking like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. His claws scraped at the ground, his fire lashed wildly, and his roars became distorted as his frame was slowly dragged in.

Then, Gojo raised his hand, and a brilliant red light coalesced in his front. It detonated away from him like a cannon blast from his palm, not just pushing Lung, but obliterating the space between them with an overwhelming, concussive force that tore through the street like it was paper. Armor plates snapped, fire dissipated, and Lung’s roar became a strangled, human scream of fear.

He tried to regenerate mid-air and escape his fate.

He couldn’t.

He was swallowed by the hole.

When the dust cleared, there was only a crater where a man had once stood.

And silence. 

From the comfort and safety of his lair, Coil watched through his mercenary’s direct lens: grainy, lagging, and occasionally dropping into static. It wasn't ideal, but it was able to prove something to him.

Gojo’s forcefield disrupted most tech, but not all, especially not high-end tinkertech. And what he had, though not tinkertech, was enough to glimpse the interaction.

Coil watched Gojo turn to Taylor and say something too quiet to catch. He watched her stand slowly, shaken but intact, and her body language showed she remained silent.

But she listened as Gojo continued talking. That was what mattered.

Coil leaned forward. Even with the grainy quality, he saw the expression Gojo wore when he looked at Taylor: interest. As if he understood something about her that no one else had seen yet.

“That one,” Coil murmured. “She’s the key.”

A beat passed. Then, to the silent room of monitors and lights, he continued:

“Begin contingency drafting. I want everything we have on Taylor Hebert, even dental records. I want to know what he sees in her, and what makes her so special.”