INTERLUDE: COIL’S DISAPPOINTMENT

Coil’s lips curled into the barest hint of a snarl. “So she’s chosen the illusion of safety. A government leash.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing behind the mask. “Pity.”

With a single press of his gloved finger, the screen cut to black.

He sat in silence for a moment longer, the whir of machinery and his soft breaths the only sound in the room. Then he reached for the secure line, fingers gliding over the encrypted interface before he brought it to his ear.

“Control to Alpha Lead,” he said, voice smooth, cold. “Is your unit in position?”

“Standing by,” came the voice on the other end. Calm, hardened.

“New target. Local gym, industrial fringe. Civilian-run. She trains there. She trusts the owner.”

A pause. “Understood. Confirming mission profile?”

Coil’s tone shifted, low and menacing.

“She thinks she can walk both sides. Let’s disabuse her of that notion. She needs to learn that the PRT cannot protect what matters—not from me.”

Another pause. “Rules of engagement?”

“No witnesses,” Coil said. “No survivors.”

“Copy that. We move within the hour.”

The line clicked off.

And Coil sat in the glow of dead screens, motionless, calculating.

Outside his office, the mercenaries were already moving.

. . . . .

In a private hangar beneath the city, a black transport van waited in silence—lights off, engine emitting a low purr. 

Within, a squad of six mercenaries checked weapons in disciplined quiet. No words wasted. No hesitation as silenced SMGs were loaded and checked, and smoke grenades clipped into place. A compact drone whirred once before falling silent in its operator’s hands.

One of them flipped open a tablet, its screen lighting up with a single blinking red dot—fixed to a modest gym on the industrial fringe of Brockton Bay.

“Target confirmed,” the team leader murmured, as if afraid to disrupt the quiet. “One civilian on-site. Former champion. Possible resistance. Use discretion, but exercise caution.”

“Copy that,” came the reply as another slid a mask over his face. “Fast in, fast out.”

The rear door rolled shut with a hiss. The van pulled out of the hangar and into the night, merging with city traffic like any other unremarkable late-night delivery.

But it wasn’t.

And they weren’t.

. . . . .

At the gym, Keith let out a long breath as he flipped the sign to Closed. The day had been long, the training intense, filled with focused drills and quick corrections. Taylor hadn’t been in, but he wasn’t worried. Not yet. They’d talked. She had her reasons, and he trusted her to come back when she was ready.

She’d told him everything, after all.

Not in a rush of words, but in quiet pieces. Enough that he’d stopped treating her like just another runaway in way over their head. Enough that the tension in her shoulders made sense now—the way she watched the doors, the way her fists trembled sometimes after sparring, like she was holding back more than muscle.

He locked the door, killed the lights, and crossed the empty floor. Silent now, save for the faint creak of old wood under his boots. 

He didn’t hear the van pull up.

Didn’t see the silhouettes moving outside the alley’s edge.

Didn’t know—yet—that he’d just flipped the sign for the last time tonight.

Outside, the engine purred low.

No headlights. No voices.

Just the slow churn of violence, waiting to be unleashed.

Watching.

Waiting.

Ready.