"We got something!"

Agent Suarez burst through the conference room door, clutching a folder against his chest. The other agents looked up from their scattered files and coffee cups.

"I said we got something!" Suarez announced, striding to the evidence board. "Our friends at Russia just finished questioning the Echo Smith."

He pulled out two glossy photographs and pinned them to the board with sharp jabs. The images showed two elegant women, one blonde, one slightly brunette, standing outside what looked like a French estate.

"The Rousseau sisters. Clementine and Sylvie."

Agent Williams leaned back in his chair. "The Duelist of Rose? Miguel, we can't touch them. They're French nationals, and one of them is an S-tier Hero. The diplomatic nightmare alone—"

"We don't need to touch them." Suarez cut him off, pulling out another photograph. This one showed a young man with dark hair and pale skin, taken from a very recent public interview. He slammed it onto the board, connecting it to the sword evidence with all the red strings there.

"It's him. Adam Smith. The newest kid in the block." Suarez tapped the photo.

"He owns the sword. Could be no one but him."

***

"Why did no one tell me?!"

A few yards away from where Adam was, the volunteer coordinator gripped the steering wheel of his golf car, almost taking it off from how hard he was holding it. His radio crackled with some urgent reports.

Well, apparently not as urgent since he was just told—someone was causing problems with the Hero at the cleanup site.

"Can you tell all these people blocking the way to move?!!" he shouted at his team squeezed into the cart behind him. "We need to get there before this turns into a disaster."

The coordinator had seen enough Heroes to know how quickly situations could escalate. Some were reasonable, others... well, others had short fuses when civilians got mouthy. The last thing they needed was bad press about a Hero losing control at a memorial site.

Their budget was already getting tight.

"Sir, the cart can only go so fast," his assistant wheezed, gripping the side rail as they bounced over debris.

"Then we better pray we're not too late."

The coordinator's mind raced through damage control scenarios. If the Hero had hurt someone, if there were injuries, if the media caught wind of it... His career would be over before lunch… if it was a career in the first place.

They reached the corner of a building, and the coordinator braced for chaos—screaming, scattered volunteers, maybe even bodies. But instead… he found the most organized cleanup operation he'd seen in months.

"What… the hell?" He pulled the cart to a stop, blinking at the scene.

Volunteers actually moved with purpose, forming chains to clear debris. No one was running. No one was screaming. If anything, they looked... focused.

The coordinator grabbed the nearest volunteer by the shoulder. "Hey, what's going on here? We got reports of trouble with the Hero."

The volunteer, a middle-aged woman with dirt-stained gloves, pointed toward a section where concrete slabs were being moved. "You mean Mr. Adam? He's over there. Been working harder than any of us."

The coordinator followed her gesture and spotted him immediately—a young man in simple clothes, effortlessly lifting chunks of concrete. Around him, dozens of people worked on smaller debris.

…And some were even asking him questions about where to place the debris.

"Stack those over there," Adam said, gesturing with his chin while balancing a massive piece of rebar. "The truck can reach that spot easier."

Adam… didn't seem to notice that everyone was gravitating toward him, however. He just… worked. When he moved to a new section, they followed. When he paused to wipe sweat from his brow, they paused too.

The coordinator watched this, slightly weirded out with what was going on. But… at the very least, no one was hurt. They did, however… looked incredibly tired.

"Alright, everyone!" he called through his megaphone. "Time for a break! Hot soup's ready at the station!"

The volunteers stopped their work immediately, but none of them moved to follow the coordinator. They stood there, tools in hand, waiting.

It wasn't until Adam dropped his concrete slab and started walking that the entire group began moving as one to head to the soup station. The coordinator shook his head in amazement—he'd never seen anything like it.

Adam, meanwhile, remained completely oblivious to the fact that he was being followed. His attention was focused on the glowing text that kept appearing in his vision.

[The Administrator, Mikhail, is impressed by your leadership qualities.]

[The Administrator, Laphael, still wonders if you have met each other before.]

[The other Administrators are getting bored.]

Adam blinked the messages away, irritated. He just wanted to help clean up, not deal with these… gods.

"Ah, Mr. Adam! You can go ahead!"

At the soup kitchen, people gestured for him to go to the front of the line.

"Oh… no." Adam slightly raised his hand, falling in line behind an elderly man.

As he moved through the line, volunteers kept greeting him, offering thanks, asking if he needed anything.

He… wasn't used to the attention. And so, he grabbed his soup and bread, and scanned for somewhere quiet to eat.

He found a spot against a half-collapsed wall, away from the crowd and tables. The soup was thin but warm, and the bread was stale but filling. Better than some meals he'd had as a scavenger.

But then again…

You could do with some steak right about now, Adam. Shut up.

Looking around the site, Adam tried to gauge their progress. An hour of work, and it still looked like a war zone. Or maybe it was cleaner, and his memories of the Game were just making everything seem worse than it was.

"Holy shit, man. It's really you."

"Hm…?" Adam looked up, only to see a familiar face approaching—lean, scruffy, with that same crooked grin he remembered from the scavenger team. His hair was buzzed now, be Adam was sure.

"...Derek?"

It was one of his colleagues from the scavenger team.

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