The arcade stood like a dying neon beacon in what had once been a thriving shopping district. Now, half the storefronts were boarded up with plywood that had been tagged, re-tagged, and tagged again by anyone with a can of spray paint and something to say. "FUNZONE" flickered in electric blue above the entrance, though the burnt-out bulbs made it read "FU_ZO_E" instead—a fitting epitaph for a world that was only half-working on its best days.
Mateo's reflection in the cracked glass door looked like a stranger. His face was swollen on one side, a purple bruise blooming across his cheekbone. Dried blood caked the corner of his mouth. His right arm hung stiffly at his side, the sleeve of his hoodie sticky with residual slime that had dried to an unpleasant film. Every step sent jolts of pain through his ribs where Brett had landed those kicks.
He should have gone home. Should have crawled into bed and stayed there for a week. But home was just four walls and the kind of silence that let his mind wander to places he couldn't afford to go. Work was better. Work was routine, predictable. Work was a reason to keep moving forward when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
The bell above the door announced his arrival with a cheerful chime that felt obscene given his condition. Inside, Shinji was already busy with the morning routine—restocking the prize counter with cheap plastic toys and running diagnostics on the temperamental game cabinets that broke down more often than they worked.
"You're late," Shinji called without looking up, his weathered hands moving efficiently among the machines. "Usually beat me here by—" He turned, and his casual greeting died in his throat. His eyes traveled over Mateo's injuries with the practiced assessment of someone who'd seen too much violence. "Jesus Christ, kid. What the hell happened to you?"
He'd spent the walk here preparing for this moment, rehearsing casual explanations and dismissive jokes. Instead, he found himself fighting the urge to collapse right there on the sticky arcade carpet.
"It's nothing," he managed, though his voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "Just need to sit down for a minute."
Shinji's bullshit detector was finely calibrated after decades of dealing with kids who thought they were tougher than they were. He set down the plastic dinosaur he'd been holding and moved closer, his expression shifting from surprise to something that looked dangerously close to paternal concern.
"Son, you look like you got hit by a truck. Twice." He gestured toward the burns on Mateo's knuckles, the way his right arm hung wrong. "What kind of 'nothing' leaves marks like that?"
Mateo lowered himself into one of the gaming chairs, trying not to wince as the movement pulled at his injured ribs. The chair protested with a symphony of creaks and groans, but it held his weight. Around them, the arcade hummed with the white noise of cooling fans and electronic beeps—familiar sounds that usually brought him comfort. Today, they just made his head pound.
"Some guys thought I looked like an easy target," he said finally, sticking as close to the truth as he could manage. "Turned out they were wrong."
Shinji's eyes narrowed. In the harsh fluorescent lighting, every line on his face stood out in sharp relief. The old man had been running this place for over a decade, had seen kids come and go, had watched the neighborhood slowly decay around him. He knew the difference between a schoolyard scuffle and something serious.
"If that's true," he said slowly, "then I'm damn glad you're still breathing. Most gang fights around here don't leave survivors." He paused, studying Mateo's face. "You need a doctor, kid. Some of those burns look deep."
"I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter on Mateo's tongue. He wasn't fine. He was exhausted and in pain and still shaking from the adrenaline crash that had hit him halfway through the walk here. But fine was all he had right now. Fine was the only way to keep moving forward.
Shinji disappeared into the back room and returned with a battered green first-aid kit that looked like it had seen action in at least three different wars. He knelt beside Mateo's chair and began examining his injuries with surprising gentleness.
"This is going to sting," he warned, uncapping a bottle of antiseptic.
The first touch of the disinfectant on his knuckles made Mateo bite back a curse. His left hand was worse than he'd realized—the skin torn and charred where he'd punched through Brett's metal armor. Blood had dried in the cracks, creating a grotesque pattern that reminded him too much of the aftermath of the explosion two years ago.
"How'd you do this much damage to your hands?" Shinji asked, cleaning the wounds with careful precision. "Looks like you were punching concrete. Or metal."
"Something like that." Mateo closed his eyes and tried to focus on anything other than the pain. The smell of antiseptic brought back flashes of hospital waiting rooms, of sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs while doctors explained why his family wasn't coming home. He pushed the memories away, but they lingered at the edges of his consciousness like smoke.
Shinji worked in silence for a few minutes, applying bandages and cooling gel to the worst of the burns. His hands were steady, experienced. Mateo found himself wondering about the old man's past, about whatever had taught him to treat injuries with such practiced efficiency.
"You know," Shinji said finally, his voice softer than usual, "you remind me of someone I used to know. Stubborn as hell, thought he could take on the world with nothing but his fists and his pride." He finished with the bandages and sat back on his heels. "My son was like that. Always getting into fights he couldn't win, always coming home looking like he'd been run over by a freight train."
Mateo opened his eyes. Shinji rarely talked about his family, but the pain in his voice was unmistakable. Everyone in this neighborhood had lost someone. It was the price of living in a war zone.
"What happened to him?" Mateo asked, though he already suspected the answer.
"Same thing that happened to everyone else's kids." Shinji's smile was bitter. "Villain attack in the early days, before the city got its act together. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He stood, his knees popping in protest. "Point is, I know what it looks like when someone's trying to prove something to a ghost. And kid, you're going to get yourself killed if you keep this up."
The observation hit too close to home. Mateo felt his defenses slam back into place, the familiar walls that had kept him functioning for the past three years.
"I'm not trying to prove anything," he said, standing and reaching for the broom in the corner. His body protested the movement, but he forced himself to ignore the pain. "I just have work to do."
Shinji watched him start sweeping, shaking his head in a mixture of admiration and exasperation. "You don't get paid enough for this kind of dedication, you know that?"
Mateo didn't answer. He couldn't explain that the work wasn't about the money—well, not entirely. It was about having a purpose, a routine, something that kept his hands busy and his mind occupied. It was about proving to himself that he was still capable of something, even if that something was as simple as keeping a run-down arcade clean.
The morning passed slowly. Mateo moved through his tasks with mechanical precision, ignoring the way his body protested every movement. He restocked the ancient refrigerator that seemed to warm drinks more than cool them, refilled the change machines that broke down twice a week, and wiped down game screens that had been sticky since before he'd started working here.
By late morning, the arcade had begun to fill with its usual collection of misfits and regulars. A group of older teens had claimed the corner by the fighting games, turning the area into an impromptu gambling den. Money changed hands with each match, accompanied by trash talk and the occasional heated argument when someone couldn't pay up.
Mateo kept his distance but stayed alert. He'd learned to read the mood of the room, to sense when the friendly competition was about to turn ugly. These guys knew him by sight but treated him like part of the furniture—useful for fetching drinks or making change, but not worth serious attention. It was a dynamic that suited him fine.
"They're broadcasting the Atlas Academy announcement today," Shinji mentioned casually, appearing at Mateo's elbow with a rag and a bottle of cleaner. "Figured we might put it on the big screen. Might draw a crowd."
Mateo's pulse quickened despite his exhaustion. He'd been tracking the news about Atlas Academy for months, following every rumor and leaked document he could find. The academy was his way out, his path to becoming the kind of hero who could have saved his family.
"What kind of announcement?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
"Word is they're changing the admission process." Shinji sprayed down a game cabinet and began wiping it clean. "Government's getting desperate. Last month's casualties hit them hard, and they need fresh blood. Question is whether they're going to make it easier to get in or harder."
Mateo's injured hands clenched involuntarily, sending fresh spikes of pain up his arms. He'd been working toward this for two years, saving every penny, training every night until his body gave out. If they changed the requirements now, if they made it impossible for someone like him to get in...
"When's it airing?" he asked.
"Noon. We'll put it on the big screen." Shinji gestured toward the massive display that dominated the back wall, usually reserved for tournament finals and the occasional sports broadcast. "Might give us some insight into what the hell's going on out there. Sometimes I think the whole world's gone crazy."
He forced a laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just the tired resignation of someone who'd seen too much and expected nothing good.
By eleven-thirty, word had spread through the arcade's informal network. A small crowd had gathered, mostly teenagers who looked as desperate and determined as Mateo felt. They played their games half-heartedly, constantly glancing at the blank screen that would soon determine their futures.
Mateo positioned himself near the back, close enough to hear but far enough away to avoid attention. His stomach churned with a mixture of anticipation and dread. This could be it—his chance to finally move forward, to start becoming the person Alec had believed he could be. Or it could be the moment when all his plans fell apart.
At precisely noon, the screen flickered to life. The Atlas Academy emblem appeared—a stylized 'A' superimposed over a globe—followed by the image of a woman in her forties with sharp silver-blonde hair and penetrating black eyes that seemed to look directly through the camera.
"Citizens of the Alliance," she began, her voice carrying the weight of authority earned through years of crisis management. "I am Headmistress Eliza Atlas. Today, I speak not just as the leader of Atlas Academy, but as someone who understands the fear and uncertainty that has become our daily reality."
Someone in the crowd snorted. "Right. She's gonna go back to her penthouse and eat caviar while the rest of us dodge explosions."
A few people murmured agreement, but as Eliza Atlas continued, the arcade fell silent. Even the gambling corner stopped their games to listen.
"For generations, Atlas Academy has trained the heroes who protect our society. But the conflict we face demands more from all of us. The attacks have intensified. Our defensive lines have been tested. Many brave heroes have fallen defending the innocent."
Images flashed across the screen—burning cities, rescue operations, memorial services for heroes who'd died in the line of duty. These were the people who were supposed to save everyone, and they were dying faster than they could be replaced.
"Therefore, effective immediately, Atlas Academy is implementing Emergency Protocol 17."
The arcade was so quiet that Mateo could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
"We are opening our doors to all citizens between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five who wish to serve. No entrance exam. No prohibitive fees. No background checks that exclude those who have fallen through society's cracks. If you have the will to fight, if you have the courage to stand between innocent people and those who would harm them, then Atlas Academy wants you."