Wembley Stadium was mostly empty, but it wasn't silent.

Not truly.

Even without a crowd, the arena hummed with motion - a metallic heartbeat under construction. Floodlights blink-tested in rows. Temporary barricades were being welded into place. Staff moved like worker ants, hauling equipment cases larger than themselves.

The scent of industrial coffee and lubricated hinges drifted through the air. A distant PA system crackled with static, someone testing mic levels far too early in the day. Cable lines coiled like snakes across concrete, gaffer tape sealing them down in uneven black scars.

But compared to the sky? This place was peaceful.

Up above London, lightning and wind collided again and again, each strike punctuated by thunder loud enough to echo through boroughs. Takeshi and Ryuunosuke were engaged in an intense deathmatch, each of their attacks powerful enough to cut down most mutants. The kind of fight that would make A-Rank operatives sweat just hearing about it.

And yet, down at the stadium's outer gate, two men were arguing about their weapon choice.

-

Isaac stood within the stadium gates, boots planted, the long metal pole resting over his shoulder like a travelling stick for an unusually violent pilgrimage. It was the old weapon he'd chosen from everything in the Fletcher armoury.

The metal was cold to the touch, slightly nicked near the centre where his grip always landed. It wasn't enchanted, not vibrating, not singing - it was just steel. Simple. Honest. Brutal if swung right.

He twirled it once, grinning.

The motion made a low whistle in the air, a blur of rotation that was far smoother than the weapon deserved.

'Classic. Reliable. Ugly. Like me,' he thought, smirk widening as the pole settled back into place

Sven stood beside him, stretching lazily as he pulled his daggers free. Each blade was short enough to hide under a sleeve, sharp enough to end arguments permanently. More tool than treasure, but that was Sven's whole vibe: efficient chaos in leather.

Throwing knives lined his thighs like dark metal feathers. A suppressor dart gun was strapped snug against his ribs - the final punctuation mark of a plan that was going to be anything but quiet.

'At least I'm stylish,' Sven thought privately, jacket fluttering slightly in the wind. 'A leather masterpiece. A fashion statement with benefits.'

Isaac glanced at him and snorted, as if hearing the thought without psychic powers. "You look like a rejected action figure, mate."

Sven gasped dramatically. "And you look like a man who fights with scaffolding!"

"It's a pole."

"It's a scaffolding pole!"

"It's a pole, Sven."

They glared at each other for half a beat before bursting into laughter, the tension evaporating like steam off hot asphalt. They were idiots. Lethal idiots. But idiots.

One had jumped over the giant gates with ease, the other had phased into the ground beneath them and emerged on the other side. Different entrances, same energy: "rules optional, results mandatory."

They exchanged a glance.

"The dynamic duo," Sven said, flipping a dagger once in his hand. The blade spun perfectly end-over-end, settling back into his palm like it respected him more than most people did.

Isaac cracked his neck. A satisfying pop-pop-pop echoed as his spine realigned, shoulders loosening. "Let's do this."

-

Their tickets still tucked inside their coats - now useless considering how quickly things had got out of hand. Laminated VIP passes that could get them backstage, dressing rooms, security lounges, even into Seraphina's personal suite if they just smiled and lied confidently.

Did they need them? No. Would they keep them anyway? Absolutely.

Despite their phones, they hadn't contacted the other group once, so they clearly weren't the best at using tools, not unless they were to kill.

The goal was simple.

Grab the target and go.

No speeches. No monologues. No dramatic rescue arcs.

Just kidnapping a world-famous singer from one of the most fortified stadiums in Europe before breakfast digested.

Totally normal Tuesday behaviour.

-

Sven and Isaac were calm. Too calm. Criminally calm. But that was expected - as companions who had survived Kai and Nadya's reckless and botched plans, they had enough trauma XP to stay composed in a collapsing city. They'd levelled up in surviving nonsense, if nothing else.

There was no point worrying about Takeshi. That fight was beyond them, and they would only be a hindrance. They weren't delusional about that. They knew their roles, their ranks, their ceilings.

That was the difference between an A Rank Mutant and a B Rank Mutant.

Thankfully, no monsters or beasts of such ranks had emerged - that would be an even bigger disaster. Nyx had created an A Rank Monster in Nadya's town like it was a prank delivered by courier.

Such beings were beyond Isaac and Sven, whose abilities didn't allow them to reach such scales.

But right now, Takeshi was closer to a Cataclysm Threat of a monster than an S Rank Mutant from how wildly he was fighting.

It even raised the question: was he a mutant or monster?

He fought without regard for his surroundings, his team's objective, or even himself.

He had only one goal in mind.

To kill his enemy.

Seraphina's headline show, set to take place later that day, definitely wasn't happening after this chaos.

Down below, the Association began evacuating the area, and the Fletcher Family sent out its people to also support, to keep up appearances and their tacit agreement with the Association.

Fletcher Sr. and Irwin, Isaac's father and twin brother, were watching the sky through feeds and field reports, and were shocked out of their minds. To think the man now carving the sky like a transcendent swordsman had eaten scrambled eggs in their dining hall not long earlier.

"What the hell are they doing?" Irwin muttered.

Fletcher Sr. just sighed and raised his cup again, the steam rising off it.

They weren't sure what was going on and how Isaac fit into it, but they didn't dwell on it.

Amidst destruction was opportunity, and Fletcher Sr. was already planning how to benefit from rebuilding the city. He was a man who always sought his own gain and could smell profit from a mile away.

Meanwhile, Irwin, Elizabeth, and their mother were worried for Isaac's safety. Elizabeth wasn't allowed to leave the manor. Irwin, despite his condition, left anyway with subordinates because duty ran thicker than fear.

"Isaac is one crazy plonker," he said aloud as he stepped into a black armoured car prepared by the Fletchers.

But deep down, he couldn't help but feel weirdly proud that his brother was doing such big things, as wild as they were.

-

Anyway, ignoring the battle in the sky, the duo acted swiftly. Hesitating or overthinking would only get them killed.

They rushed straight for the stadium.

Sven dived through one of the ground-floor service windows, glass shattering in a violent sparkle as he landed, brushing off his signature leather jacket like the shards were confetti.

Isaac phased through the wall instead - far less flashy, far more eerie. The ripple of his body dissolving into mist-like transparency left a faint distortion in the concrete, like a heatwave had briefly licked the surface.

Inside the stadium, footsteps, voices, prep work, and the smell of security tightening into place awaited them.

All that mattered now was speed. Blitzing past every obstacle. Stick together. Cover each other. Grab the target. Then vanish again.

'Let's hope the dart works,' Sven thought.

'Let's hope she can't use her ability while phased,' Isaac calculated.

'Let's hope Takeshi doesn't level the stadium before we even reach her,' Sven added internally, eyes narrowing toward the deeper corridors.

Team Sexy Kidnappers were not about to fail.

Not today.

Not in this city.

With daggers, a pole, and blind faith in the man fighting in the sky, they ran toward destiny.

-

Meanwhile, Nyx crunched another popcorn kernel and smiled.

"This," he whispered, "is going to be fun."

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