Michael returned to the base with Flowers, the weight of their mission hanging heavy between them. Blood still clung beneath his fingernails despite his desperate attempts to scrub it away. He collected his payment—800 Alphas, more money than he'd ever seen—yet the coins felt tainted in his palm.
"First time's always rough," Flowers said quietly as they parted ways in the corridor. Her usual sharp tone had softened, just barely. "Gets easier. Not sure that's a good thing."
Michael didn't respond. He trudged to his room, stripped off his blood-stained clothes, and stood under the shower until the water ran clear. Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the cracked mirror on the wall. When he finally emerged and wiped the condensation away, a stranger stared back at him.
Gone was the thin, wide-eyed orphan who had stumbled into the Undercity. In his place stood someone harder—leaner muscles, a jagged scar across his collarbone from training, eyes that held something dark and unfamiliar. He traced the outline of his face with trembling fingers.
"Who are you becoming?" he whispered to his reflection.
Sleep came in fitful bursts, haunted by faces of men he'd helped kill. Just before dawn, the door to his room crashed open.
"Rise and shine, killer!" Jake boomed, tossing a protein bar onto Michael's chest. "Routine waits for no one, bro."
Michael groaned. "Can't I have one day off?"
Jake's eyebrows shot up. "After your first mission? That's when training matters most." He leaned against the doorframe, studying Michael with unexpected intensity. "Brain's processing what happened. Body's learning new patterns. Miss a day now, you'll hesitate next time. Hesitation—"
"—gets you killed," Michael finished, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I know."
"Smart boy," Jake grinned, but his eyes remained serious. "Meet you in five."
***
The workout was brutal as always. Jake pushed him harder than usual, as if testing whether the mission had weakened his resolve. By the end, Michael lay spread-eagle on the cold floor, sweat pooling beneath him, every muscle screaming.
Jake towered above him, barely winded. "Not bad. You're still soft in the middle, but we'll fix that." He tossed Michael a towel. "Alphonse says you're on independent training until the next mission. Find me if you want a sparring partner."
For two weeks, Michael fell into a new rhythm—morning workouts with Jake, then hours of self-directed training. He practiced with his daggers until they truly became extensions of his arms, developed new combinations of strikes, improved his endurance.
He was finishing a series of complex maneuvers when Alphonse entered the training room, his face more serious than usual.
"Team meeting. Five minutes," Alphonse announced, then paused. "Bring your weapons. Full kit."
Michael's pulse quickened. Another mission so soon?
***
The Black Feathers gathered around a makeshift table where Alphonse had spread a rough map of an unfamiliar district.
"This," Alphonse tapped the center of the map, "is our next target. And it's going to take all of us."
Junk whistled low. "Must be paying well."
"Six hundred thousand Alphas," Alphonse confirmed.
The room fell silent. Even Jake looked impressed.
"What's the catch?" Flowers asked, voicing what everyone was thinking.
Alphonse's expression darkened. "The target is an exploiter named Dragon. He controls this entire district through fear and violence. Red suit, white shirt, distinctive red hair. He's not your average thug—he's modified, military-grade enhancements. Super strength, speed, durability..." He paused. "And he breathes fire."
"You're shitting me," Junk muttered.
"I wish. His gang is thirty strong, all armed and dangerous. This isn't a stealth operation—we go in loud, hit hard, eliminate everyone." Alphonse looked each of them in the eye. "Any objections?"
Michael's stomach knotted, but he kept his face neutral. The memory of his last mission still haunted him, but something else stirred beneath his fear—a dark curiosity about what he was truly capable of.
"When do we move?" Jake asked, twirling one of his hammers with anticipation.
"Tonight. Full moon means better visibility." Alphonse pointed to different sections of the map. "Junk, Flowers—you'll cover the perimeter. No one escapes, no reinforcements get in. Michael, Jake—you're with me. We take Dragon directly."
"Why us?" Michael asked.
Alphonse fixed him with a calculating stare. "Because I've seen how you fight. You don't hold back anymore."
The words hit Michael like a physical blow. Was that who he was now?
***
Night fell over the Undercity. The Black Feathers moved like shadows through narrow alleys, their cloaks billowing behind them. Michael's mask felt snug against his face, his daggers a comforting weight at his sides.
Dragon's hideout came into view—a three-story concrete building with light and music spilling from its windows. The contrast between the celebration inside and the violence about to unfold made Michael's skin crawl.
"Remember the plan," Alphonse whispered as they took their positions. "Junk, Flowers—secure the perimeter. We'll breach from above."
Junk nodded, checking his modified assault rifle. "What if Dragon escapes?"
"He won't," Alphonse replied, adjusting his gauntlets. The metal glinted dangerously in the moonlight.
Flowers shouldered her sniper rifle. "If he does, I'll put one between his eyes."
"You ready for this?" Jake nudged Michael, hefting his massive hammers.
"No," Michael admitted. "But I'll do it anyway."
Jake's eyes crinkled above his mask—he was smiling. "That's what makes you one of us, bro."
They scaled the building silently, positioning themselves above what intelligence suggested was Dragon's personal quarters on the top floor. Music thumped below them, punctuated by drunken laughter.
Alphonse gave the signal. Jake raised his hammer high, then brought it down with devastating force. The roof collapsed beneath them in a shower of concrete and dust.
They dropped into chaos. The room was opulent by Undercity standards—plush furniture, bottles of rare liquor, piles of currency. About a dozen gang members reached for weapons as the Black Feathers descended.
In the center stood Dragon himself—tall and imposing in his crimson suit, his spiky red hair seeming to glow in the dim light. His eyes widened momentarily before narrowing with recognition.
"Well, well," he drawled, seemingly unperturbed by their dramatic entrance. "The famous Black Feathers. I was wondering when someone would pay you enough to come after me." He cracked his knuckles, a smile spreading across his face. "Kill them. Now!"
The room erupted into violence. Gang members surged forward while others shouted alerts throughout the building.
"Jake! Michael! Keep them busy!" Alphonse shouted, launching himself directly at Dragon.
Michael's training took over. He moved with fluid precision, his daggers finding vulnerable points with surgical accuracy. A slash across a forearm severed tendons. A quick thrust to a thigh hit the femoral artery. He ducked, rolled, slashed again.
Across the room, Jake was a force of nature. His hammers whistled through the air, each impact accompanied by the sickening crunch of broken bones. He caught Michael's eye briefly.
"Eight for me so far!" he called out, almost cheerfully. "Try to keep up, newbie!"
Before Michael could respond, a deafening crash drew their attention. Alphonse had connected a powerful punch to Dragon's chest, sending the gang leader crashing through the floor to the level below.
"Come on!" Alphonse yelled, diving through the hole after him.
Michael and Jake dispatched the remaining goons and followed. They landed in what appeared to be a large common area, now in disarray. Gang members scattered as they descended.
Dragon was already on his feet, dusting off his suit with casual disdain. "You hit hard for someone so small," he said to Alphonse. "But you've made a terrible mistake coming here."
Alphonse didn't respond with words. He charged forward, gauntleted fists blurring with speed. Dragon matched him blow for blow, his movements inhumanly fast. The clash of their strikes sent shockwaves through the room.
A particularly devastating punch from Alphonse sent Dragon hurtling through the exterior wall, creating a massive hole in the side of the building.
"Jake! Michael! Take care of the rest inside!" Alphonse commanded, leaping through the hole after Dragon.
Outside, the battle escalated. Dragon finally seemed to be taking Alphonse seriously, his casual demeanor replaced by focused rage.
"You know what they call me 'Dragon,' right?" he snarled at Alphonse. "Let me show you why."
He disappeared from view, moving faster than the eye could track, reappearing behind Alphonse.
"Too slow," he whispered before delivering a brutal kick to Alphonse's ribs that sent the Black Feathers' leader flying into a pile of debris.
Before Alphonse could recover, Dragon inhaled deeply, his chest expanding unnaturally. When he exhaled, a torrent of flames erupted from his mouth, engulfing Alphonse's position.
Inside the building, Michael heard Alphonse's pained shout. He finished incapacitating a gang member with a swift strike to the temple and ran to the hole in the wall, Jake close behind him.
The scene outside was apocalyptic. Flames licked at the surrounding buildings as Dragon continued his assault on Alphonse, who was desperately trying to shield himself with his gauntlets.
A sharp crack split the air. Dragon's head snapped to the side as a high-caliber bullet struck his neck—only to ricochet off, leaving barely a mark.
"What the fuck was that?" Dragon snarled, looking around wildly. "Is it another one of those shitty children?"
Two more shots rang out in quick succession, hitting Dragon squarely in the chest. Flowers emerged from her position, switching to her sidearm as she advanced.
"Your skin's tough," she called out, "but everyone has weak points."
Dragon growled, his attention momentarily diverted—which gave Jake the opening he needed. He leapt from the building, hammers raised high above his head, and brought them down with earth-shattering force on Dragon's left temple.
The impact drove Dragon face-first into the ground, creating a small crater in the concrete. But to everyone's shock, he rose almost immediately, his eyes blazing with fury.
"ENOUGH!" he roared.
What followed was a blur of violence. Dragon moved like lightning, striking Jake, Junk, and Flowers in rapid succession. Each blow sent them flying, their bodies crumpling as they landed.
Alphonse intercepted the next attack aimed at him, his gauntlets absorbing the impact of Dragon's punch. He countered with a devastating blow to Dragon's stomach—only for Dragon to remain standing, seemingly unfazed.
"Is that all?" Dragon taunted.
The next moment, Alphonse was airborne, blood streaming from his head where Dragon's uppercut had connected. He landed with a sickening thud, momentarily stunned.
Jake struggled to his feet, spitting blood. With a primal roar, he launched himself skyward, higher than seemed humanly possible, before plummeting toward Dragon with his remaining hammer.
Dragon sidestepped the attack effortlessly, then countered with a punch that shattered multiple ribs. As Jake collapsed, Dragon inhaled again, preparing another fire breath.
Jake raised his hammer in a feeble attempt to block the flames. The metal glowed red, then white, beginning to melt under the intense heat.
Just before the flames could reach Jake himself, a barrage of throwing knives sliced through the air toward Dragon. With irritating casualness, he deflected them with quick flicks of his fingers.
Michael stood atop the building, another set of knives already in hand.
"You must be the new recruit I've heard about," Dragon called up to him, his voice mockingly friendly. "Come to die with your friends?"
Instead of answering, Michael threw more knives—not to hit Dragon, but to keep his attention.
Dragon's patience ended. He inhaled deeply, then unleashed a massive fireball that engulfed the entire top floor where Michael stood. The structure collapsed in a roar of flames and falling debris.
Dragon smiled in satisfaction—until he felt cold steel pierce his ear from behind. He howled in pain and fury, swinging wildly as he turned.
Michael ducked the blow, using his smaller size and speed to his advantage. He slashed upward with his second dagger, catching Dragon across the eye.
"You little SHIT!" Dragon bellowed, blood streaming down his face. His next punch connected solidly with Michael's stomach, lifting him off his feet. A follow-up strike to the head sent Michael crashing to the ground, his vision swimming with black spots.
But Michael had accomplished his goal—buying time.
Behind Dragon, Alphonse had risen to his feet. Blood covered half his face, but his eyes burned with cold determination as he engaged a hidden mechanism in his gauntlets. The weapons began to hum with energy, glowing with an eerie blue light.
"Dragon!" Alphonse called out.
As the gang leader turned, Alphonse leapt forward, both gauntlets connecting squarely with Dragon's skull. The impact was catastrophic—a shockwave rippled outward, shattering nearby windows.
Dragon swayed on his feet, his enhanced body finally reaching its limit. He fell to his knees, blood pouring from his ears and remaining eye.
"How...?" he gurgled.
Michael pushed himself up, ignoring the screaming pain in his ribs. Some dark instinct took over as he approached the kneeling Dragon. This man had hurt his team—his family. Without hesitation, Michael began to strike.
Each punch landed with precision—not wild, but calculated. Methodical. Merciless. He targeted the weakened skull, feeling bone give way beneath his knuckles. Blood sprayed with each impact, covering Michael's mask, his clothes, his hands.
He didn't stop until there was nothing recognizable left of Dragon's head.
When it was over, Michael stood panting over the body, his hands slick with gore. The street had fallen silent except for the crackling of nearby fires.
"Michael," Alphonse's voice came softly from behind him. "It's done."
Michael turned slowly. The other Black Feathers had gathered, all standing despite their injuries. They were looking at him with something new in their eyes—respect, certainly, but also concern.
"Let's go home," Flowers said, limping forward to place a hand on his shoulder.
The journey back to their base passed in a haze. Alphonse administered the healing injections to everyone, the familiar burning sensation somehow distant and unimportant compared to the hollow feeling in Michael's chest.
Later, when everyone had been treated and settled into recovery, Alphonse gathered them in the common room.
"Six hundred thousand Alphas," he announced, emptying a bag of currency onto the table. "Our biggest payday yet."
He separated out a large portion—40%—for himself, then divided the remainder equally among the four younger members.
"Ninety thousand each," Junk whispered, eyes wide as he counted his share.
Jake laughed, wincing at the pain in his healing ribs. "We're practically rich!"
Flowers carefully tucked her payment away, her face unreadable as always.
Michael stared at his pile of money. Each coin and note was stained with blood in his mind's eye.
"What's wrong?" Jake asked, noticing his hesitation. "Not enough for you?"
Michael shook his head slowly. "It's not that. I just... Is this who we are now? Who I am?"
The room fell silent.
Finally, Alphonse spoke. "We are what the Undercity requires us to be. Nothing more, nothing less." He met Michael's gaze directly. "The question is—can you live with that?"
Michael looked around at the others—at Jake's eager enthusiasm, Flowers' composed acceptance, Junk's calculating pragmatism, and Alphonse's hardened resolve. Different responses to the same brutal reality.
He gathered his payment and stood. "I guess I'll have to," he said quietly, and left for his room.
In the privacy of his quarters, Michael counted out the money again. Ninety thousand Alphas. Enough to leave the Undercity, perhaps. Enough to start over somewhere else.
But as he caught his reflection in the small mirror on his wall, he knew there was no starting over. The person he had been was gone. In his place stood a Black Feather—forged in training, tempered by violence, defined by blood.
He carefully stored his payment under a loose floorboard and lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, he would train again. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until the next mission came.
This was his life now.