"Sorry, Mateo." Switch's voice echoed in the hallway as they walked out of the briefing room, their footsteps hollow against cracked linoleum.
Mateo raised an eyebrow, though exhaustion weighed down even that small gesture. "What for?"
"You tried to warn me, but I didn't listen." Switch scratched behind his ear, blond hair catching the flickering overhead light. His usual confidence had cracked somewhere between the mission debrief and this moment. "Maybe if I had—"
"Don't." Mateo's voice cut through the air like a blade. He'd taken Henrik's advice to heart, but the repetition still clawed at him. There was no point in replaying scenarios when you did your best. Except Mateo wasn't sure he had done his best. "I didn't even believe myself when I first saw it. If my flashlight wasn't turned on, we wouldn't have seen him coming at all."
Switch nodded, but the gesture looked mechanical. "Still wish we could do something more than just... this. How do we even find Amara now? She could be anywhere within a hundred-kilometer radius."
The question hung between them like a loaded gun. Mateo felt the familiar tightness in his chest.
"We hunt down every single one of them." Mateo's hands clenched into fists, the fabric of his tactical gloves creaking. "Every villain, every safe house, every lead. That's our best shot at getting her back."
Even now, you lost again.
The voice whispered through his mind like smoke through a broken window, persistent and poisonous. Even now that he was supposedly a real hero—part of an elite team tasked with saving what remained of civilization—he'd failed at the one thing that mattered most. The whole reason he'd walked this path in the first place.
He'd been paralyzed by Eschart's electricity, helpless as a child while the man in the white coat spoke above his paralyzed form. And when the shadow operative struck yesterday, Mateo had been exactly one second too slow. Always one second too slow.
As dawn broke over the skeletal remains of the city, Mateo performed his morning routine in mechanical silence. Inventory check. Suit maintenance. Perimeter scan. But the thoughts came anyway, unbidden and relentless.
Is this how you're going to be a hero, Mateo? When you keep losing every fight?
Then—and Mateo was certain, for just a heartbeat, that he saw him—the silhouette of his dead brother materialized in the corner of his vision. Black horns gleaming in the gray morning light, that cocky grin that had gotten Alec into trouble more times than Mateo could count.
Is this how you're going to avenge me, little brother?
Mateo's breath caught. The phantom smelled like french fries and cheap cologne, exactly like those late nights when Alec would stumble home from his shift at the burger joint, complaining about customers and showing off the wispy mustache he claimed made him look like a man.
God, he missed him. Missed the way Alec would ruffle his hair and call him "hero" like it was both a joke and a prophecy. But that was exactly why Mateo was here, wasn't it? For him. For all of them.
Mateo blinked hard, and the vision dissolved like morning mist. Just another hallucination brought on by stress and sleep deprivation. He'd been having more of them lately.
He positioned himself by the window, taking first watch while the others cleaned up in the communal restrooms. The streets below stretched out like a graveyard of concrete and steel, silent except for the distant groan of settling debris. Yesterday had taught them that calm was just another word for "before the storm." Mateo would need to be vigilant every moment from now on.
He pulled out a disinfectant wipe and cleaned his face and hands—a poor substitute for a real shower, but water was rationed and time was precious. His hero suit hung on a makeshift rack, the familiar weight of it both comforting and accusatory. He'd put on everything except the gauntlets and helmet. Those could wait until they moved out.
Switch appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, hair damp and smelling faintly of industrial soap. "Yo, forgot to mention—we found some supplies during yesterday's patrol. Figured you might be hungry."
Mateo's stomach answered before he could, a low growl that made Switch grin for the first time since they'd returned. "Anything's better than those ration bars."
Switch rummaged through his pack and produced several packets of instant noodles, their colorful packaging a jarring reminder of the world that used to exist. The gas burner they'd salvaged from a destroyed apartment complex still worked, and soon the small room filled with the sound of boiling water and the artificial aroma of chicken flavoring.
Henrik and Maya joined them as the noodles finished cooking, their faces drawn with the same exhaustion that seemed to follow them everywhere now. Switch served the food in mismatched bowls they'd scavenged, and for a moment, they sat in something that almost resembled normalcy.
Mateo slurped the noodles and felt a strange déjà vu wash over him. Two weeks ago, he'd been alone in his apartment, counting coins to afford meals exactly like this one. Back then, his biggest worry had been whether he'd qualify for the Academy, whether he was worthy of the title "hero." He'd avoided using his quirk, too afraid of the memories it carried, focusing instead on raw physical training.
Now here he was, quirk fully embraced and honed to a deadly edge, sitting with people who'd become something between teammates and family. They were barely more than students themselves, yet they'd been handed the responsibility of helping save civilization. And still, it wasn't enough.
The others ate in contemplative silence, and Mateo realized they were all thinking the same thing. Amara's absence pressed down on them like a physical weight—her laugh, her terrible jokes, the way she'd somehow maintained optimism even in the darkest moments. What if they were next? What if the next patrol was their last, not as heroes but as people who simply vanished into the void?
"We ready to move out?" Henrik asked, breaking the silence. His voice carried the same cold efficiency Mateo remembered from yesterday, when Henrik had put a round into the temple of the man in the white coat without hesitation. Did he care about Amara's disappearance, or was he simply following orders?
Maybe Mateo needed to be more like that to survive. Maybe caring too much was the real weakness.
"Yeah," Maya said, standing and stretching. "Let's go."
As they descended the stairs toward the main hall, Mateo felt the temperature drop like a stone through water. His breath misted in the air, and even through his suit's insulation, he shivered. The cold had a quality to it—not natural, but something deeper. Something that reached into your bones and reminded you that warmth was a luxury you could lose.
He already knew the source.
Seraphine stood at the far end of the hall, motionless beside a boarded-up window. Her blue and purple parka hung around her like a shroud, and ice crystals had formed on the glass where her breath touched it. She'd been on watch duty hours ago, but she hadn't moved since.
"She's still there?" Maya whispered to Akira.
"Hasn't moved an inch," Akira confirmed, her voice tight with worry. Dong coiled around her shoulders in his white weasel form, equally still. "Not since Amara was taken,"
Mateo understood. Yesterday, Seraphine had watched Ben get reassigned to some classified mission outside the ruined cities, reducing her team to three. With Amara gone, she was down to two. Two people lost in less than twenty-four hours, with no guarantee either would come home.
The mathematics of war were brutal in their simplicity.
Before they could reach the exit, footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Commander Reeves descended carrying a large black case, her expression grim. She set it down with a heavy thud that seemed to reverberate through the frozen air.
"Given yesterday's encounter, I've decided to authorize additional equipment for field operations." Her voice carried the weight of command, but Mateo caught the uncertainty beneath it. How many more teams had she sent out under-equipped? How many hadn't come back?
She placed the case flat and pressed a series of buttons. The armored mechanism disengaged with a series of precise clicks, revealing an arsenal that would have made a military contractor weep with joy.
Stun grenades. Sidearms. Tactical batons. Flash-bangs. Combat knives. Everything was arranged with military precision, each weapon secured in custom foam that spoke of serious preparation.
"Choose carefully," Reeves said. "What you take could mean the difference between coming home and becoming another statistic."
Henrik's eyes widened, but this time his enthusiasm felt different—less like excitement and more like recognition. He selected an electric taser, pressing it against his palm until his quirk absorbed it completely. The weapon disappeared into his body, ready to be deployed when needed. Mateo had to suppress a shudder at the casual way Henrik weaponized himself.
Mateo chose an M17 pistol, checking the action and weight. Switch selected a tactical knife to complement his primary blade, testing the balance with practiced movements.
Akira and Marina chose batons and stun nets, practical tools for subduing rather than killing. But Marina surprised everyone by slinging an M320 grenade launcher over her shoulder, handling it with the same casual competence she showed with everything else.
Maya selected a set of throwing knives, each one perfectly balanced for her quirk-enhanced accuracy. Inferno picked up a Beretta M9, though given his powers, Mateo suspected it was more psychological comfort than practical necessity.
The last to choose was Alex. After some persuasion, because she believed she could really rely on her quirk solely to fight, they got Alex to pick a couple of knuckle dusters.
"What about Seraphine?" Marina asked quietly. "She can't stay here alone."
Reeves looked at the motionless girl, her breath now visible in the frigid air. "She'll hold the base. Someone needs to be here if..." She didn't finish the sentence. If they found Amara. If they needed emergency extraction. If they didn't come back at all.
"Time to move," Mateo said, checking his sidearm one final time. He looked around at his team. They were scared, even if they didn't show it. They were probably going to die.
But they were also heroes, whether they believed it or not.
"Stay sharp out there," Reeves called as they filed toward the exit. "And remember—your mission is reconnaissance, not engagement. We can't afford to lose anyone else."
Somewhere in that maze of concrete and steel, Amara was waiting. Along with every other nightmare that had been unleashed on the world.