ACT II (3)
"G.A."
I turned to her at once and spoke.
"That vehicle. Don't destroy it — stop it."
Great America's gaze followed the direction of mine.
Behind the venue, among the broadcast vans crowded with PAX logos and contractor markings, one black van sat unusually still — until its taillights flared red.
The engine growled to life.
Which meant it was trying to run.
"Napalm — more drones are about to come out."
I snapped the order at her and sprinted forward.
"I know."
Napalm clenched her jaw, flames coiling around her fingertips.
"Just cut the thrusters, right?"
"Right."
In that same instant, four compact drones burst from either side of the black van.
They skimmed low into the air, sliding into formation to screen the vehicle's front. At the same time, camouflaged panels along the chassis peeled open, revealing small gun muzzles.
"You cowardly son of a bitch…!"
I fired the grappling hook again.
The line shot out and wrapped around a parking-lot streetlamp beside the black van. I sucked in a breath and went skimming low across the lot, body cutting through the air.
And being airborne meant my movement wasn't free.
The drones locked onto me in unison — but Napalm's fire cut across the empty space and burned out nothing but their tiny rotor axles with surgical precision.
Two drones lost balance and slammed into the ground. There was no explosion. Of course there wasn't — she had torched the circuits before they could do anything at all.
The remaining two wheeled toward the civilians — and then Great America dropped out of the sky.
The drones never made it. They detonated midair under the force of her descent.
She accelerated even harder and planted herself directly in front of the black van.
The van didn't stop. If anything, someone in the driver's seat floored the accelerator all the way down. The engine screamed an ugly note and the vehicle surged forward, tires shrieking as they clawed for traction.
Great America watched it come.
Then she drew a sharp breath — and took the front of the chassis with her entire body.
The impact cracked like a bomb. The van's nose crumpled against her on contact. Black smoke leaked through the seams of the hood, and the vehicle went nowhere.
"Is this sufficient?"
She asked it while looking at me as I closed on the van.
"Well done."
I nodded. She held my gaze a moment longer, then walked straight around to the rear of the vehicle.
The back doors of the black van were locked. Locked didn't even cover it. Reinforced plating and locking mechanisms had been layered inside the steel, and a faint current hummed from the seam of the doors.
An ordinary person would never get them open. Even I probably couldn't. You'd need a door-breaching charge just to crack something that solid.
Unfortunately for the man inside, the person standing here was Great America.
"I will open it."
She hooked her fingers into the seam.
The steel shrieked as it deformed. She applied force, and the rear doors tore free of their locks entirely — like paper.
The panel crumpled with absurd ease and hit the ground. And when it did, the interior came into view.
Dozens of monitors. Cables knotted through every gap. Control interfaces identical to the venue's display boards. Live feeds from the cameras built into the drones.
"…Director."
And seated at the center of it all was a man.
At first I wasn't even sure he was human. His body was wasted to skin and bone, cheeks hollowed out, neck so thin it looked ready to snap under the slightest pressure. His fingers were long and skeletal, nothing left but joints. Auxiliary devices and connecting lines clung to him in layers.
The self-proclaimed stage director who had orchestrated a grand production. The origin point of a vicious cycle that had killed countless people and broken heroes.
And the reality of him was… grotesque beyond measure.
So small.
So utterly insignificant.
"…Because of this bastard."
Looking at him, the words came out on their own.
Because of this bastard, countless civilians had died. Because of this worm, countless heroes had retired. Napalm had died smiling in front of the cameras. Great America had grown more violent. People had stopped trusting heroes and the chaos had only deepened, until even the heroes themselves could no longer tell whether they were saving lives or ending them.
And the one who had built that cycle had been hiding in a van like this, wearing that face, smiling.
"…Ah."
The Director lifted his head and looked at me. A smile still leaked through his cracked lips.
"Neither of us wanted things to come to this, did we, Ryu Hajun?"
In that instant, a red light began to gather in the depths of Great America's eyes. The air trembled. Heat condensed. The pressure of it felt ready to incinerate the man where he sat.
"G.A."
I caught her by the shoulder.
"May I not kill him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because if you kill him, it's over."
I said it and took another step forward, staring into the van at the Director. He was still smiling, and the smile was revolting. The urge to snap his neck right then and there surged through me — but I didn't.
"That bastard doesn't get to be finished."
I kept my voice level.
"He has to live and pay for what he's done."
"…Haha."
The Director laughed.
"Excellent. You truly are a magnificent actor. Raging, yet still refusing to cross the line. That very contradiction—"
I drove my fist into his jaw.
The laughter cut off. His head snapped sideways and one of the monitors shuddered.
"Shut your mouth."
I dragged him up by the collar. His body was far too light. But that light body had, in my previous life, brought down far too much.
"Kh— good. Very good. This rage, too, will ultimately—"
I didn't stop. The second punch landed.
His words broke off, but I had no intention of stopping. Screams, collapsed streets, burning screens — the corpses of my previous life rose behind my eyes.
"You."
My fist crashed into his face.
"You made the choices."
Again.
"You made people die."
The punch shattered whatever composure was left of his expression.
"You."
I hauled him up by the collar until our eyes were level.
"And you turned it into entertainment."
His lips moved as if he meant to speak, but there was no way he could form a proper sentence. His breathing had gone ragged; that arrogant voice was crushed somewhere between coughing and a groan.
"Kh… you… in the end… perhaps you and I are the same—"
"—No."
I cut him off.
"I'm nothing like you."
Because he still had far more to pay for. He had acted with malice. He had set out to harm people. Even today, he had tried to drive them toward death. Not a mistake — a deliberate will. And I had no intention of forgiving that.
"Jun!"
Napalm's voice cut through, and sirens were closing from a distance. Police. Other heroes arriving late. Helicopter rotors overhead. Camera flashes popping across the venue. Reporters were already swarming outside the van.
"Over there!"
"It's JUN!"
"They found the terrorist!"
"Has he been arrested? No — he's being subdued right now! JUN is personally subduing the terrorist!"
I drew a breath. There was blood on the back of my hand. I couldn't tell if it was mine or the Director's.
One last time, I seized his collar and slammed him down against the floor of the van.
"A bastard like you isn't even worth killing with my own hands."
The Director wasn't smiling anymore. Of course he wasn't. A little more pressure at my fingertips and I could have snapped his neck. But I didn't. This bastard didn't get to die comfortably here. He belonged in a superhuman containment facility, rotting for the rest of his life.
I twisted both of his arms back and bound them with cable. Moments later, New York police flooded in.
"Hands up!"
"Step back!"
"Target secured!"
I slowly let go. The officers dragged the Director out. That pathetic body scraped along the ground as they hauled him away, and one by one the drones either crashed or powered down.
What remained of the venue was sirens, screams, and the endless chatter of camera shutters.
And then a reporter's voice rode a live-broadcast mic across the scene.
"At this moment, here at the PAX venue — no fatalities have been confirmed."
The reporter's voice was shaking. But it was clear.
"Great America protected the civilians. Napalm kept her flames under control. And at the center of it all—"
The camera swung toward me. Torn coat. Scorched skin. Blood running down my thigh. And behind me, the Director being dragged away by the police.
"—was JUN."
The reporter swallowed.
"He successfully subdued the terrorist… and saved lives."
Hearing that, the strength seemed to drain out of my entire body.
"…Napalm."
"Wh-what? Why are you—hey, hey…!"
I called to the one closest to me and closed my eyes for a moment.
And yet, somehow… my heart felt lighter than it had any right to.
The situation room of Aegis Global — the third-ranked hero agency.
There, breaking coverage of the PAX venue was looping without end. The capture of the Director, a figure not yet widely known to the public but already whispered about within the industry. A handful of injuries, zero fatalities — an overwhelming result. And at the center of it, a Korean hero.
Ryu Hajun. JUN.
"…So he caught the Director."
A middle-aged man watching the feed murmured it under his breath. No one else in the situation room was quick to speak.
The Director. Not quite a major player — but a potential one in all but name. A terrorist who stole intelligence from company after company and surfaced now and then to commit something foul. And today, that man had been dragged out of an official PAX event.
"Do you consider it luck, sir?"
Someone asked. The man answered by pressing the remote. The footage rewound.
JUN throwing himself in front of Napalm's flames. JUN stepping into the path of Great America's fist. JUN reading the control architecture of the display boards, the drones, the audio systems — and pinpointing the Director's location.
The man paused the video there.
"You don't pull that off with luck."
His voice dropped.
"That man already knew the Director's methods. At the very least, you cannot treat that as the movement of someone facing an opponent for the first time."
Another agent spoke carefully.
"The Director's identity isn't fully confirmed, but… there have been reports recently of villains making contact with one another. I recall circumstantial evidence that the Director may be connected to them as well."
"I'm aware."
The man looked at Hajun on the screen. Covered in blood, yet never collapsing. Behind him, the Director being hauled away by police.
"We should assume the news of the Director's capture has already reached them."
"Then the villains may consolidate even faster."
"No."
The man slowly shook his head.
"It's more likely they were already consolidating."
He pointed at JUN on the screen.
"The problem is him."
"JUN, sir?"
"Yes."
The man's eyes narrowed.
"If the villains form an alliance, the hero side will not be able to respond with existing methods. Inter-company performance competition. Image management. Responsibility dodging. That old board loses."
On the screen, Napalm supported JUN.
"But look at who stands beside him. Two of the industry's most notorious problem heroes, aren't they? And yet he successfully controlled both of them and finished the Director."
The man was silent for a moment, then continued.
"Perhaps…"
Everyone in the situation room looked at him.
"…he may be the one who builds a new board."
A breaking-news ticker scrolled beneath the footage.
The man looked at the line and spoke quietly.
"Rookie of PAX, my ass… The way he moves, he's an old monster. An old monster. I've only seen one video, but it feels like he's carrying ten years of experience."
Hajun's image on the screen reflected in his eyes.
"That man may end up standing at the center of every board from here on out."