Their boots clambered against the concrete floor as they entered Training Bay Alpha—same place as yesterday's trial by fire, but it looked completely different now.
The rubble was gone. In its place, mock buildings towered across the stadium-sized arena. Windows, staircases, balconies—fake, but unnervingly realistic. Mateo blinked at the change. Last night, it had looked like a disaster zone. Now it resembled a functioning city block mid-evacuation.
Someone had to have a quirk for this, he thought. There was no other way to rebuild the entire room so fast. Still, it felt eerie, like walking into a memory that had been repainted.
Reeves marched in front of them, boots sharp against the floor. The twelve cadets—six girls, six guys—fell into line with the snap of discipline, though a few were still digesting lunch.
"Good afternoon, cadets." Her gaze scanned them like a scanner looking for flaws. "I trust you enjoyed your break."
Ben cleared his throat. "The rice could've used more, honestly."
No one laughed.
Reeves didn't break stride. "Yesterday was speed and combat. Vital skills. But knowing how to throw a punch or run a mile doesn't make you a hero."
She paused.
"What makes you one," she said, "is knowing how to run with someone else on your back."
Alex scoffed—audibly. "Why would we run? We're not gonna lose. We're here to win, right?"
Mateo didn't even glance at her. He knew that tone too well—cocky, confident, reckless. He also knew what she didn't say: "I'm here to win. You all are just extras."
"Winning isn't the goal," Reeves said flatly. "Surviving long enough to protect someone else is. There will be battles you can't win. And if you think that makes you weak," her eyes flicked to Alex, "you haven't seen a real battlefield yet."
Alex's jaw flexed. Her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white. She said nothing. But her nostrils flared like she wanted to fight something—anyone.
"Today's focus is rescue. Not fighting."
Some cadets visibly relaxed. Mateo, too, let his shoulders drop a fraction. No duels, no power showcases. Just… saving.
But the word carried weight. Saving. It sounded noble. Final. And not at all easy.
"In the field, you'll work in teams of four. One of you shields. One extracts. One manages crowd flow. One calls the shots. Teamwork, always."
Names were called.
"Anon, Ken, Zeke, Maya—Team B1."
Mateo scanned them: a tactical genius, a human wrecking ball, a teleporter, and a brawler. Strange mix. Probably intentional.
"For Team B2: Henrik, Akira, Alex, and Mateo."
Seriously? Mateo tried not to show it. He glanced sideways. Alex didn't look at him. Or anyone. Just stared ahead, jaw clenched.
Henrik gave a barely perceptible nod. Akira pressed her lips tight. Nobody looked thrilled.
Then, Team B3.
Reeves gestured forward. "Step into your groups."
They did. Reeves gave a small, sly smile.
"Your rescue mission starts now."
Before anyone could ask what that meant, a thunderous BOOM shattered through the air. The top floors of the model buildings erupted—windows blowing out, walls cracking. Something spilled from them—falling fast.
Mateo shielded his eyes. His first thought: debris. His second: bodies?
No. Mannequins.
Dozens—no, hundreds—tumbling through the air from different buildings. Some plummeting straight down, others ricocheting off fire escapes or loose rubble. They caught the light like falling stars.
Then one hit the ground.
CRACK.
It shattered—not like plastic. Not even wood.
Glass.
Mateo flinched as shards sprayed outward. These weren't just dummies. These were fragile.
Reeves' voice echoed through the speakers from somewhere above. "Your job: save the mannequins. Keep them intact. Cracks reduce points. Shattered ones? Zero."
And then she was gone, rising on a platform into the ceiling like yesterday. Leaving them in the chaos.
Alex didn't wait. "This will be easy," she muttered, more to herself than anyone.
She raised her hand—fist clenched—and activated her quirk.
Seven mannequins veered toward her at once, pulled by invisible force. They screamed through the air like missiles, glass limbs flailing.
Alex's grin faltered.
One hit her arms with a meaty thud, cracking down its spine. The others? She couldn't control them. They slammed into the concrete like grenades—exploding on impact.
The sound was deafening. Glass shards flew everywhere, stinging arms and slicing open cheeks. Mateo ducked instinctively, arm raised.
"Easy, huh," he muttered.
Akira turned, livid. "Damn it, Alex! That's six mannequins gone in ten seconds!"
Alex staggered, one arm bleeding, lip curled. "They came in too fast—my pull overreacted," she hissed, not quite an apology.
"Then don't pull everything like you're flipping a car!" Henrik snapped. "This isn't a power contest!"
Alex didn't reply. She wiped blood from her face with her sleeve and clenched her jaw harder, trying to look unfazed.
Mateo backed away from them, eyes scanning the sky. Dozens more mannequins were falling—most too far or too fast to reach by hand. His heart drummed in his ears.
How are we supposed to catch them all?
Then one fell straight toward him. He didn't think. Just moved.
A tendril burst from his forearm—green and wet, snapping through the air like a whip. It wrapped around the mannequin midair and yanked it toward him.
It was heavier than he expected.
He braced. Slime thickened across his left side as he peeled off part of his uniform shirt, exposing his arm. The slime bloated, cushioning like a gel armor.
The mannequin slammed into him with the force of a small child falling from a tree.
Thud.
He staggered back, feet sliding on the glass-dusted floor. The slime rippled, absorbed the blow.
No cracks. Not even a scratch.
Mateo exhaled sharply, chest tight. He looked down at the glass figure in his arms—light glinting off its curved, expressionless face.
It wasn't a person.
But something about holding it—rescuing it—hit him deeper than he expected.
Maybe it wasn't about the mannequin.
Maybe it was about what it meant.
Akira's voice tore him out of the moment.
"Mateo, behind you!"
He twisted around.
Three more mannequins—falling fast.
Too close. No time for another whip.
His breath caught in his throat.
And he moved.