Observation Room -- Rei vs. Kage

  While blood was already spilled on the battlefield, Rei had his own immediate problem.

  Kage's shadow moved like a living entity, each attack precise, deliberate, and far too powerful for just being a mere projection. It was fast, and it hit like a truck, leaving disruptions in the air wherever it moved. The darkness seemed to absorb the ambient light, creating pockets of complete void that distorted Rei's perception as they surged toward him.

  BAM!

  Rei barely dodged a strike aimed for his ribs, but the air displacement alone made his gut twist. The rush of wind carried the faint scent of something ancient and cold, like a tomb opened after centuries. Another shadow limb lashed out from the floor, aiming straight for his jaw, the darkness elongating at impossible speeds, the sound of its movement like silk tearing through still air.

  BLOCK!

  Rei caught the shadow's fist with his forearm—but the moment he did, he felt the weight of it. Heavy. Too heavy. The impact reverberated through his bones, sending shivers of pain up his arm. His teeth rattled with the force, a metallic taste spreading in his mouth where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek.

  He was fast, but these strikes were designed to wear him down. Each impact left a lingering numbness, like frostbite spreading through his limbs. His skin prickled where the shadow had touched him, small hairs standing on end as if electricity had passed through them.

  The most unsettling part?

  Kage hadn't moved an inch.

  The assassin simply stood there, hands buried in his pockets, watching Rei like an experiment in motion. The observation room's lights reflected off his sunglasses, making it impossible to read his eyes, but his posture radiated cold amusement. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly upward with each successful hit, the only indication that he was exerting any effort at all.

  His amusement slowly faded to mild curiosity as Rei continued to withstand the assault, replaced by an analytical intensity that was somehow more unnerving than his previous detachment.

  "You're good at blocking," Kage mused, tilting his head. The movement was deliberate, predatory, like a wolf sizing up its prey. "But what's your plan? You can't beat my shadow." His voice carried no strain despite the complex movements of his shadow, as if controlling it was as natural as breathing.

  Rei didn't answer. His lungs burned with exertion, each breath coming shorter than the last. He just kept moving, dodging, and defending, testing if there was a weak spot in this strange, intangible enemy. The sweat beaded on his forehead, rolling down his face and stinging his eyes. His muscles screamed in protest with each movement, his reflexes dulling as fatigue set in.

  But every time his fist connected with the shadow, his attacks felt empty—as if he was punching solid air. The sensation was disorienting, like hitting a wall that shouldn't exist. The shadow absorbed his strikes without flinching, the darkness rippling around his fist before reforming, the disturbance passing through it like a stone thrown into water.

  No damage. No effect.

  So it's not an extension of his body... it's something separate.

  The realization didn't help him find a way to fight back, but understanding the nature of what he faced gave him a momentary clarity through the exhaustion clouding his mind.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Kage sighed dramatically, the sound exaggerated in the tense silence, echoing off the walls of the observation room. "Man, you really don't have a concept, huh?" He smirked lazily, eyes still calculating behind his designer shades. "That's disappointing. I was hoping for at least a little excitement."

  But he wasn't done observing yet.

  So he kept his hands in his pockets, his expensive suit still immaculate despite the intense battle, not a wrinkle or speck of dust marring the perfect fabric.

  And his shadow kept attacking, relentless as the tide.

  Hinata sat frozen on the couch, eyes locked onto the screen, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The harsh glow of the television painted her face in shifting blues and whites, highlighting the fear etched into her features.

  The camera panned over the battlefield—to Josuke, who was standing motionless before Mya, his eyes glazed and vacant. His usual vibrant energy had been replaced by an unsettling stillness, his body rigid as if he'd been turned to stone. Mya's hand rested lightly on his wrist, her smile predatory and satisfied.

  This is bad... Her thoughts raced, her heart pounding against her ribs. The room seemed to shrink around her, the walls pressing in as panic threatened to overwhelm her.

  Josuke had never seen real combat. The fight against Penguin was one thing, but this? This was psychological warfare, mind control that stripped away everything that made Josuke himself. She could see the emptiness in his eyes, the way his body moved to obey commands that weren't his own.

  He was in over his head. They all were.

  Her father laughed loudly, the deep, cruel chuckle making her flinch. The sound of his bottle hitting the table made her jump, the glass clinking against wood like a gavel pronouncing judgment. "Ahaha! Now this is what I'm talking about." His words were slightly slurred, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure as he leaned forward in his armchair.

  The scent of stale beer hung in the air between them, mingling with the faint odor of sweat and unwashed clothes that clung to him constantly these days. The lamplight caught on his unshaven face, highlighting the premature lines of bitterness etched around his mouth, the bloodshot veins in his eyes that spoke of too many nights drowning in alcohol.

  She turned, confused and disturbed. "What...?"

  Her father grinned, eyes locked onto the screen like a bloodthirsty spectator at a gladiatorial match. "This is exactly what they should be doing—kill the weak. If they're pathetic enough to die here, then they didn't deserve to live in the first place." Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke, his scarred knuckles white around his beer bottle. The scars—souvenirs from countless bar fights, always started by him, never ending well.

  "That's your friend, right?" he continued, jabbing a finger at the screen where Josuke stood entranced. "Look at him. Pathetic. Mind-controlled like a puppet." He laughed again, the sound devoid of humor. "That's what happens when you're weak—someone stronger comes along and turns you into their toy."

  Hinata felt her blood go cold, then hot with sudden anger.

  A slow, seething rage bubbled up inside her, warming her cheeks and steadying her previously trembling hands. The sensation was unfamiliar—she'd spent so long being afraid, being cautious, that this white-hot fury felt almost like a physical transformation.

  She had always known her father was a bitter man—a drunk, a failure, a disgrace to his former title as a hero. She'd heard the stories of his fall from grace, of the missions gone wrong, the teammates abandoned, the reputation destroyed through his own poor choices. But right now, looking at him revel in the suffering of others, she saw him for what he truly was.

  Pathetic.

  And it hit her like a lightning strike, illuminating everything with sudden clarity.

  She never wanted to be like him.

  No.

  She wanted to be better.

  Her hand curled into a tight fist as she looked back at the screen, her nails digging into her palm hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indentations. Her gaze found Josuke again, still trapped in Mya's control, and then shifted to the corner of the screen where Rei was likely fighting his own battles.

  And for the first time since this all began—her fear was completely gone, burned away by the fire of her newfound resolve.

  Because she knew, in that moment, that she had to become stronger. Not just for herself, but for Josuke, for Rei, for everyone who might one day need her.

  No more hesitation.

  No more running.

  A sense of purpose filled her, straightening her spine and hardening her gaze. Her father continued his drunken commentary beside her, but his words no longer reached her. She was already somewhere else, planning, preparing.

  This was the beginning of a different Hinata—one who wouldn't stand by and watch while others fought. One who would train until her hands bled and her muscles gave out. One who would never be controlled or manipulated by anyone, ever again.

  "Please survive, Josuke," she whispered to the silent television, her voice barely audible even to herself. "Don't let her take you away."