The Cryogonal isn’t even moving—just floating there behind its trainer, thin blue light pulsing from its core like a warning siren with all the volume stripped out. The dude in the Plasma coat has a posture that’s pure chess game: arms folded, one thumb up against his jaw, just waiting for me to try and run. For a second, I size him up: older than the thugs from the bridge, careful about his shoes, not too much muscle. If he’s packing backup, it’s not obvious. Maybe he thinks he won already.

  Beldum bobs beside my head, static so sharp it’s practically slicing my thoughts into chunks. Luna hugs the edge of my boot, trembling but still staring down the corridor of frozen air stretching in front of us. Lotad, weirdly, hugs closer to her than to me; maybe he senses what’s coming. Or maybe he’s just smart.

  I do the only thing that makes sense: I start talking. “Let me guess,” I yell, voice bouncing off metal and water. “You’re here for the big dramatic catch?” My breath comes out white, turning the next step into a dare.

  Plasma Guy doesn’t answer right away, which makes it worse. Instead, he thumbs some tiny device clipped to his collar, then says, “You’re not in much position to negotiate.” He motions at the Cryogonal, which starts to slide forward—no hurry, it’s got all day. “We’re not here to hurt you. Just need the Beldum.”

  The laugh slips out before I can kill it. “Yeah? Nobody ever wants to hurt me, just my friends.”

  He ignores that, voice gone monotone: “It’s not personal. It’s only protocol.”

  Beldum stabs the thought at me: Do not comply.

  “If you want it,” I call, “you’re going to have to do better than a snowflake and a speech.”

  He smiles for the first time—a small, almost apologetic flicker. “You have no chance,” he says, softer than any threat ought to be. “But if you give up the Beldum, I’ll tell Colress you died in the struggle. That way, you’re free. All of you. No bounty, no chase.” He studies my face like he means it, maybe even thinks it’s a kindness. “Just walk away. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

  Beldum blasts a pulse in my skull: He lies. But I’m already moving, doing my best to look like I’m thinking it over. I lean out over the river rail, like I’m going to stall for time and try to talk him down. “That’s a real generous deal,” I shout back, “but see, I’m not great with authority.”

  He gives another tiny smile, as if I’m a particularly dumb Lillipup trying to outsmart its leash. “Last chance,” he calls. Cryogonal glides forward, a blade of cold running ahead of it, freezing every drop of river mist to the chain-link with a sound like a million crystal glasses cracking at once.

  Here’s the thing: if I run, I’m boxed in—the Plasma guy’s betting on it. So I don’t. I dig in, let the cold numb my hands, and think as loud as I can: Beldum, up.

  Beldum slams its magnetic field outward. The entire catwalk lurches sideways, ice crackling along the walkway seams. Luna yelps but clamps down harder, teeth buried in my pants. Lotad—bless his slimy heart—suctions tight to the mesh.

  I use the momentum to spring up. Not away from the Plasma grunt, but straight over the rail, aiming for the narrow concrete ledge four feet above—nothing but air between it and the bridge's underbelly.

  Time stretches thin. Cryogonal's eye flares. Ice Beam slices past my boots, the catwalk's tilt sending it wide. I hit rough concrete chest-first, ribs screaming protest. My fingers scrabble for purchase as Beldum rockets up, magnetizing to exposed rebar. They yank me by my jacket just as another blast of cold hisses through empty space.

  Luna dangles from my leg, jaw locked on fabric. Lotad clings to my shoe with one stubby arm, eyes wide.

  I haul us over the ledge and flatten against the wall. Three hearts drum a frantic rhythm—four if you count Beldum's electromagnetic pulse.

  Silence. Then from below: "Impressive." The Plasma guy's voice carries that same infuriating calm. "Still no future."

  I risk a glance over the edge. He touches his collar. "Colress." The name drops like lead in my gut. "The asset is making for the street." His jaw tightens despite the bored tone. "Initiate secondary pursuit."

  SHRIEK.

  The catwalk tears free. Metal twists and groans as the whole structure pivots downward, dangling from its far anchor like a broken wing. The Plasma guy shouts something the wind swallows.

  This maintenance strip spans barely two feet—a ribbon of concrete between the catwalk housing and the bridge proper. Traffic rumbles overhead, close enough that diesel fumes burn my throat. Eighteen-wheelers thunder past, shaking dust loose.

  "Beldum! We need up!"

  My partner surges past, electromagnetic field crackling blue-white. They slam into the bridge's underside. Metal warps with a distinctive screech. A maintenance panel pops free, clattering into the void.

  Perfect.

  "Luna, Lotad—hold tight!"

  I boost Luna through first. Then Lotad. I'm halfway up when—

  Pure automotive chaos.

  We've emerged between active traffic lanes. Cars swerve. Horns blare. Drivers' faces contort in horror as three figures materialize through what should be solid road.

  A pickup's mirror clips my shoulder, spinning me like a top. Headlights blind from both directions.

  Beldum chirps—two short warnings.

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  An orange sedan screams toward us, tires smoking. I dive sideways, getting a face-full of Lotad's underbelly and scorched rubber. The car's bumper grazes my skull as I roll clear.

  Behind us, brakes lock. A delivery truck's grille fills my vision. I ricochet off its fender into the gutter, backpack shredding against asphalt. The driver's expression—mouth forming a perfect O—flashes past.

  Luna remains clamped to my hip. Lotad somehow stays glued to my now-laceless shoe. Above, Beldum circles frantically, red eye whirring as they calculate trajectories, trying to solve the equation of how I'm still breathing.

  Traffic continues its deadly ballet around us, metal death missing by inches, by seconds, by pure dumb luck.

  I get my feet under me just in time to dodge another car, this one a battered delivery van that almost fuses me and Lotad into the pavement. The bridge is a mess of screeching tires and idiots leaning on their horns like that’s going to solve anything. I grab for Luna, trying to haul her up, but she’s digging in with all four paws, fur spiked and eyes locked behind us.

  I don’t want to look, but I do. The answer comes flipping down the line of cars in a blur of black and red—Sneasel, but not like the ones I’ve seen before. This thing is bigger, meaner, and has a head crest like a fan made of razorblades. Weavile. It leaps from roof to roof, barely touching down before launching again, light and fast and hungry. The Plasma barely moves—he’s just stepping onto the bridge like he’s out for a stroll, Cryogonal trailing behind and fanning out this frost staircase that expands with every step.

  I don’t waste time on clever. I snatch Luna’s Poké Ball from my belt and recall her in one motion, the red beam sucking her in right as she lunges for my arm. I almost lose my grip on her but the ball snaps shut, humming once in my fist. Lotad I just stuff inside my coat, where he latches onto my ribs like a wet heating pack.

  Beldum’s already two car lengths ahead, firing up a psychic nudge that bullies a row of parked compacts out of my path. The Weavile lands hard enough on the hood of a hatchback to set off every alarm on the bridge. I go over the roof of a sedan—windshield wipers raking my leg—and come down with a skid on the icy, salt-scarred asphalt. My boots lose the plot and so do I, for a second, arms windmilling as I try to keep from eating curb. The world is nothing but noise and motion and the crackling cold behind me.

  Up ahead, traffic is gridlocked, cars bumping and fishtailing as their drivers try to decide if they’re in more danger from Weavile or the psycho running across their hoods. I use the confusion, hop onto the trunk of a stopped taxi, and glance over my shoulder. Weavile’s closing fast—too fast—but the Plasma guy is still hanging back, letting his monster do the dirty work. Cryogonal’s ice is creeping over the bridge railing now, locking the whole mess into a glassy, deathtrap cage.

  Beldum pings me: Primary threat behind, secondary in front.

  Beldum is already calculating a path—forward, always forward—but we’re running out of bridge, and the traffic’s bottlenecked into a wall of bumpers and panic. Up ahead, drivers are bailing out of their cars en-masse, scrambling over hoods and sliding on the ice, all of them stampeding toward a cluster of flashing blue and red lights. There’s a barricade—real one, not garden-variety traffic cones—and behind it, a wedge of cops in winter jackets, riot shields, the whole nine yards.

  At the tip of the wedge—hair like burning signal flares, posture like she’s waiting to punch the weather in the teeth—is the woman from every League poster in the region: Skyla, the so-called ace pilot of Mistralton, who looks even taller and meaner in person. She's out of uniform, all denim and a scarf that’s seen better days, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. She’s talking to someone on her earpiece, gesturing at the pile-up, maybe giving the order to tackle the situation with maximum drama.

  She spots me the second I clear the last taxi, Beldum at my shoulder and a Lotad bulge wriggling in my jacket. Her eyes flick once to the Plasma goon and his ice monster, then laser back to me. She doesn’t even blink—just rakes a signal with two fingers, and the nearest half-dozen officers angle out, forming a net.

  “Wow,” she says. “You look like a disaster.” Her voice is sharper than the air, but not unfriendly. I can’t tell if I’m impressed or terrified.

  I try to find my words, but my lungs are busy. “Is this… about the parking violation?”

  Skyla actually laughs—a quick bark, half amusement, half exasperation. “You know, I don’t usually get involved with local PD, but I had to see the fella who made half of Mistralton’s police force call in sick for the afternoon shift.” She looks past me, where Weavile is now perched up on the roof of a cruiser and Cryogonal’s ice is lacing the guardrail. “You brought guests?”

  Skyla’s still talking when the Plasma guy strolls up, hands in his pockets like he’s out for a casual latte. She spots him, and the whole mood shifts: every cop in her orbit snaps to high alert. I sidestep behind a squad car, just far enough to catch the exchange but not so close as to get friendly.

  “Well, well,” Skyla says, voice going syrupy with sarcasm, “if it isn’t Zinzolin himself. Did you forget your mittens, or are we all supposed to be impressed by the weather?” She cocks her head, scarf fluttering in the wind. “You here to turn yourself in, or just gloat about your fashion sense?”

  Zinzolin gives her a nod—more respect than I’d expect from someone who just tried to ice-murder me. “Ms. Skyla,” he says. “Always a pleasure. I regret the circumstances, but there’s no need for drama. I’m here strictly as a recovery agent, not to escalate.”

  Skyla flicks a two-fingered salute. “Then you can explain to my officers why you just sealed a public bridge in two inches of ice. That’s not recovery, that’s terrorism. And I’m not in the mood.”

  He shrugs like it’s out of his hands. “There are proprietary assets in the wild,” he says, and I realize he’s talking about us—me and Beldum, maybe even Luna if they’re really petty. “I’m authorized to retrieve them. That’s all.”

  “Yeah?” Skyla’s eyes glint. “Funny how the paperwork never lands until after the fact. Out here, police code trumps your party politics, so you can keep your ‘proprietary assets’ where the sun doesn’t shine. If you want to file a complaint, do it from the back of a squad car.”

  Zinzolin’s face does a weird thing—like he’s both offended and delighted. “I’d rather not get in the way of local law enforcement. But if you insist, I’ll wait for your supervisor to sign off my requisition.”

  Skyla barks a laugh that could sand paint. “You’re looking at the supervisor, sweetheart,” she says. “And as of now, your ‘requisition’ is evidence in an attempted kidnapping. You can follow my officers back to the station, or we can do it the messy way.” She gestures to the nearest cop, who starts inching forward, hand on Poké Ball.

  Behind her, the officers tense up, forming a human barricade as more units arrive from the feeder streets. The bridge is now a pressure cooker, and every eye is on Zinzolin—except mine, because I’m watching the Weavile stalk down the roofline.

  Skyla must notice, because she shifts her weight. “Your muscle’s looking twitchy,” she says, never breaking eye contact with Zinzolin.

  He gives a little bow. “My Weavile obeys only me,” he says, then snaps his fingers.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then Weavile blurs off the roof and lands next to its master with the kind of grace that makes even the cops flinch. It’s already got an edge to it—eyes running the whole scene, claws flexing like it’s counting ribs. I make a mental note not to turn my back on it, ever.

  Skyla must read the shift too. She holds up a hand, palm open, and the cops freeze just behind her. “Enough games,” she says, voice gone flat as ice. “You’re coming with us, or I take you apart right here and now.”

  Zinzolin looks past her, right at me, then at Beldum—like he’s measuring the odds of a clean shot. I brace, waiting for the cry to attack, but instead he just smiles—real, this time, all teeth and certainty.

  “Cryogonal,” he says, and nothing else. The thing doesn’t move at first, but the air changes: the temperature dives, every surface frosting over in an instant. The sound is like static ramped up a thousandfold—then the world whitewashes as a wall of ice explodes out from the bridge, ramming up between the cops and Zinzolin, then fanning outward to block the entire lane. It’s so fast I barely clock the motion, just the aftermath: a glittering sheet as tall as a truck, blue with fractures and swirling frost, cutting the police force out of the fight like a guillotine.

  On the other side of the ice, Zinzolin barely even blinks. He’s already at the guardrail, Weavile pacing at his heel, and for a second I think he might just jump. But he’s not fleeing—he’s buying time. Cryogonal’s core burns bluer; it’s building something, casting a haze of snow and mist that starts spinning around Zinzolin and his Pokémon, warping the air like a blizzard in miniature.

  Skyla doesn’t miss a beat. She snaps her fingers and, in one motion, hurls a Poké Ball in a perfect upward arc. The red flash is drowned by the eruption of wings—massive, white-tipped, patriotic to the point of parody: Braviary. It comes out screaming, wind-shear in feather and muscle, and barrels straight through the first two feet of ice with a punch worthy of a demolition crew. The impact shatters the wall into a million shards, some big enough to impale a car, and Skyla’s already releasing a second and third ball behind it.

  The first is Jumpluff: a blue fuzzball with a powder-keg attitude, drifting in on air currents like it owns the place. The second is Woobat, which looks ridiculous—a heart-nosed mop of psychic anxiety—but the way it hovers, the way Skyla’s eyes flick to it, tells me this one’s the real weapon.

  The police line surges forward. Skyla barks orders; Braviary circles for altitude, then dives at Cryogonal, claws extended. A flash of light—Cryogonal’s core snaps to white-hot, and the whole bridge buckles under the cold. I hear the shriek of metal as the expansion joints contract; the railings snap like matchsticks. Jumpluff cuts right through the snow, releasing clouds of glittering spores that stick to everything like diamond dust. Weavile launches straight through the cloud, shredding it apart, and comes out covered in static fuzz—moving even faster, if that’s possible.

  I see the writing on the wall. There’s no way I’m outrunning this—no way I’m surviving the bridge collapsing, or a crossfire between superpowered birds and murder popsicles. I flick Beldum a single, desperate thought: break the water.

  Beldum gets it instantly. It veers from the fighting, arcs above the tangle of gridlocked cars, and slams itself at top speed down toward the river. I sprint for the edge, knees burning, lungs catching nothing but razor-edged cold, and at the last possible second, I vault the rail. I hear Skyla’s voice, shrill and furious, but it’s already too late—I’m airborne, Lotad clamped against my ribs, and the wind whistling past my ears.

  The water is black, moving like it’s in a hurry to get somewhere, and I have just enough time to hope Beldum did its job before I hit. The surface doesn’t so much break as disappear—a perfect, glassy snap, then instant numbness, cold so total it fries every nerve at once. The river grabs me, yanks down, and the current folds me under.