Chapter 15: Viper Meets Elap

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"There are two kinds of people who ask questions they already know the answer to: detectives, and people who want you to say it out loud."

The Northern Quarter studio was on the second floor of a converted Victorian warehouse on Tib Street—exposed brick, low ceiling, and the smell of old carpet and amplifier heat. The room had opinions. It fit five people and their equipment with the negotiated efficiency of people who had long since stopped arguing about where the keyboard stand went.

Kyle had his bass plugged in, running a warm-up progression that had nothing to do with warming up.

"Jay. Record from the bridge. Just the bass. Don't touch anything else."

Against the snare drum, Jay propped his slim, metallic phone and started recording.

With controlled aggression, a sharp slap-bass progression tore through the small space, radiating far too much energy. Watching from the corner, Stuart offered only a silent nod of approval, keeping his thoughts entirely to himself.

Once a minute had ticked by, the performer extended his hand. Without a word, the device was handed back.

On the screen, the WeGram app was already open. The follower count—tracked with the fierce precision of a ratio enthusiast—now showed a brand-new number.

777 following. 777 followers.

He stared at the number.

"Jay."

"The original number looked unstable," Jay replied, hidden behind the drum kit. "It was curated—"

"691 to 777 isn't a ratio—"

"It's aesthetic—"

"Lads," Stuart said, with the patience of a man who had been saying this for years.

Kyle opened his following list. Scrolled.

An amateur photographer in Leeds. A botanical garden in Exeter. Three accounts dedicated to pictures of the same corgi. @TheBrickLayer_MCR—a motivational quote over a stock photo of cement.

And buried in the middle: one private account. Zero posts. Zero followers. A single pink orchid against a dark background. The username read @tess_rose9.

He looked at the orchid for a moment.

"Who's this?"

"No idea," Jay said cheerfully. "They accepted fast though. Whoever they are—very keen."

Filing the orchid under anomaly pending review, Kyle closed the app.

"I'm running the unfollower app tonight."

"You say that every time," Kendl said, already into a chord progression.

"Because you do this every time," Kyle said, pointing at Jay, who had picked up his drumsticks and was tapping an idle pattern on the hi-hat with the spiritual peace of someone fully at ease with his decisions.

"It gave your feed character."

"Can we," Stuart said, "please just play something."

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They played for two hours.

Not polished. Not meant to be.

Three originals and one cover requested by Jay echoed through the room. Stuart handled the lead guitar and vocals with the pure reluctance of an accidental frontman. He didn't want the spotlight; he was just the only one qualified.

Behind that melody, the rhythm guitar stayed perfectly steady. Kendl’s style was invisible but essential, lifting the entire sound without demanding a single glance.

Meanwhile, the keyboard filled the empty spaces with fluid, unhurried notes. Hiroto’s blank expression suggested his mind was somewhere else entirely. Depending on your mood, it was either impressive or annoying.

Then came the bass, heavy and driven by pure impulse. Kyle poured more force into the strings than necessary, yet with a precision that defied his sloppy posture. The restless energy from the Honor Roll board had finally found its frequency. Not gone. Just contained.

By the time they packed up, the number on the board sat further away than it had that afternoon.

They spilled out onto Tib Street at half past nine—cases, jackets, overlapping conversation. The Northern Quarter was doing its usual evening thing: restaurant spillover, a bar sound system somewhere down the block, delivery drones humming past overhead with takeaway orders. A pair of them banked between the old warehouse rooftops, their running lights blinking in the dark.

"Chicken place on Thomas Street?" Kendl said.

"Obviously," Jay said.

"Hiroto?" Stuart looked back.

Hiroto was a few paces behind, hands in his jacket pockets, silver-white hair catching the streetlight. He wasn't looking toward Thomas Street.

"Go ahead," he said. "I'll catch up."

Kendl and Jay moved without further discussion. Stuart looked between Hiroto and Kyle with the quiet, measured attention of someone filing an observation, then followed.

Instead of moving, Kyle stayed where he was.

He had been about to follow. He hadn't, because something in the air had shifted in the last thirty seconds in a way that had nothing to do with October temperature—a specific frequency his nervous system had learned, over the past several weeks, to pay attention to. Low. Directional. Coming from the direction of Oldham Street.

Stopping right beside him, Hiroto cut into his space.

The street noise continued. Ambient. Irrelevant.

"You feel that," Hiroto said. Still not a question.

"What?"

"I know you hate being betrayed, but don't worry—I'm on your side. At least."

Gulp. 

"How did you—!"

Cough.

"Oldham Street," Kyle said, pulling himself together. "About twenty minutes." 

Hiroto simply hummed in response. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled a mask from his inner pocket.

To that singular object, Kyle’s awareness was instantly tethered.

It was clearly, unmistakably homemade. The mask featured a hard polymer shell in matte grey-black, with sharp lines sweeping back from the nose to narrow, reflective lenses. Simple. No budget.

Still, everything changed once it was on. Hidden beneath Hiroto’s pulled-up hood, with only strands of silver-white hair visible at the edges, the mask caught the overhead streetlight. The effect was immediate. It registered instinctively as a silent, unannounced threat.

Quiet. Present. Like a cobra that had already decided it didn't need to rear up.

That same internal frequency in his nervous system just spiked.

Viper? Is this the real Hiroto?

“I don't know, he looks more like a parade kid.”

Sigh.

Then he set his bass case down against the studio wall, unzipped his varsity jacket, shrugged it off, pulled off his beanie, and folded both neatly on top of the case. Because they would compress against his skin when the suit came and he wanted them back exactly as they were.

Hiroto watched this process with mild curiosity.

"I assumed you just wore a mask," he said.

"Different setup," Kyle said. Then, because he was Kyle: "Watch."

He rolled his neck once.

A sharp rattle cut through the air. Hiroto watched in fascination as geometric scales rippled out from Kyle’s spine, flooding his skin like a living shadow. Within seconds, a striking contrast of monochrome divided him down the middle.

The mask sealed upward with a heavy vacuum hiss, locking the emblem of dual balance dead center on his forehead. Blank white lenses snapped over his eyes, erasing any trace of human appearance.

Done in seconds. Clean as ever.

He turned to face Hiroto.

Hiroto looked at him. His own reflective lenses caught the streetlight. His expression, what was visible of it, was that of someone updating a projection.

"Hm," Hiroto said. "That's actually impressive."

Kyle's posture acquired approximately twenty percent more presence than it had contained a moment before. 

The jagged grin on his faceplate, technically fixed, somehow communicated this precisely.

"Fufufu," Kyle said, with the specific satisfaction of someone who has been waiting for exactly that reaction and received it on schedule.

"Please tell me you're not going to do that every time we deploy," Hiroto said.

"I make no guarantees," Kyle said.

"If you're done, can we head straight to the scene?" Viper said, dry and precise against Kyle's auditory nerve, "there are people on Oldham Street who have been waiting considerably longer than this conversation has taken. Move."

Kyle pointed finger-guns at Hiroto. "Right. Let's go."

"Finger guns," Hiroto said, already walking. "Really."

"It's a brand thing."

"It's really not."

˚⊱✿—✦✦✦—✿⊰˚

The cut between buildings on Oldham Street was exactly where Kyle's senses had placed it.

Hiroto didn't wait. He dropped headfirst on pure whim. Mid-descent, a compact baton in his grip clicked and extended into a full staff. He jammed it against a rusty pipe, swinging his body into a weightless, acrobatic flip that cleared the drop.

Retracting the weapon instantly, he hit the opposite brickwork. His boots struck with technical precision, launching a rapid sequence of wall-to-wall ricochets. The lazy momentum turned into a lethal pinball blur, slicing through the gap before Kyle could even blink.

Instead of following him down, Kyle went up.

Thwip-clack.

Anchored to the roofline, he swung clean over the building's edge, dropping into a silent crouch on the ledge.

Instantly, his vision shifted. Night's gray palette dissolved as the cold Manchester skyline folded into deep blues and purples. Thermal optics highlighted three glowing figures against the dark—two white-hot signatures and one cooler. Restaurant supply depot, rear entrance. Two aggressors, one civilian. This layout looked professional rather than opportunistic.

By the time Kyle looked down, the alley below was already secured.

One aggressor was slumped against the wall, completely unconscious. The second remained standing, but only because Hiroto stood behind him, one hand anchoring the man's shoulder while the other locked his wrist, pinning him completely still.

The captive hadn't even had time to react.

Slipping from his vantage point, Kyle landed softly behind the unconscious attacker. He stepped forward and casually tapped the remaining guy on the shoulder.

Spinning around in a panic, the thug found Kyle pleasantly tilting his head.

"Evening. Quick question—is this a scheduled appointment, or more of a drop-in?"

A desperate swing came at his face. Kyle redirected the momentum, driving his opponent into the wall with perfectly calibrated force.

He dusted off his white sleeve and looked over at Hiroto.

"You didn't have to do anything."

"I know," Hiroto said, releasing the lock. The second lad slid helplessly to the ground, out cold. "But you were taking too long."

"My exit coverage was fine!"

"Your exit coverage was adequate," Hiroto said. "I improved it."

"Improved—?!"

"The second one was considering the left side. You weren't watching it."

Kyle crossed his arms, letting out a sharp scoff as he turned his face away.

"Please! I left that side open on purpose because I knew you were slacking off back there. You should be thanking me for giving you something to do!"

"I don't want to hear any excuses... yawn."

Accurate enough—Kyle opened his mouth only to snap it shut. Clicking his tongue, he forcefully switched targets to cover his red face.

"You're alright," he barked at the trembling restaurant owner. "Call the police when you're ready. Don't touch those two until they arrive or I'll hit you with his baton—!"

Out of nowhere, he pulled a VIPERWOLF VIGILANTE SERVICES flyer from his jacket's inner pocket and set it down on the nearest surface with the careful ceremony of a business card at a professional event.

"Tell your friends."

Without a second thought, the restaurant owner snatched the flyer, bowed deeply, and walked away in a total panic.

"Is that a flyer," Hiroto said, as they went back up to the rooftop.

"Marketing is important."

"You gave a flyer to a traumatised man... with your scary mask."

"He'll remember the name."

"He'll remember the terror, Kyle. The name is secondary. And that jagged jawline? Third."

"The name is everything," Kyle snapped. "It's the entire point. And that knightly look? Total urban legend. You're welcome."

Both of them kept chattering as they headed up to the rooftop.

Hiroto made a sound that was not quite a sigh and not quite a laugh and contained elements of both. He dropped onto the rooftop beside Kyle, the October air cold and clean around them, the Northern Quarter spread out below.

They stood there for a moment.

"Last summer," Hiroto said, without being asked. "Caelum ran a clinical trial. Participants who completed the full sequence received compensation. My family needed the compensation."

Kyle nodded slowly. Did not ask what full sequence meant, or how much of it was done, or what completion looked like from Caelum's side. Those were questions for later. There were always later questions.

"Does it hurt," he said instead.

A pause. Shorter than he expected.

"Sometimes," Hiroto said. "You?"

"Not really..."

"Honestly, it's bigger than just us," Hiroto said, dropping his tone. "Entire forbidden cities exist as ghosts on the satellite feeds. Built by the corporates to corral people like—"

"Hiroto... let's just go figure out what they're doing," playful but highly calculating intent resetting the air between them. "But I have to read the board first. Strategy beats worrying every time. Give me some time."

Before responding, Hiroto blinked and let out a soft sigh. 

"New Avalon."

"No spoiler."

"My, my. If you say so."

For a moment, Kyle let his gaze drift across the rooftops. Viper remained quiet in his skull—present, watching, the dormant frequency she had flagged in Hiroto's biology sitting exactly where she had described it. Engineered. Artificial. Not dangerous.

Not currently.

"Right," Kyle said, breaking the silence. "Jay's probably ordering for the whole table by now."

"He already has."

"Did he get mine right?"

"No."

"Did he get anyone's right?"

Hiroto considered this with apparent seriousness. "He got his own right."

"That tracks," Kyle said, and pushed off the ledge.

Ding! 

A notification chimed from his pocket. It was from WeGram.

@splendorrr_9: Where are you guys? Come here quick.

"Stuart?" Hiroto asked.

"Yeah, let’s go."

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The chicken place on Thomas Street was loud and overlit and smelled like fryer oil and a good decision. Jay had, in fact, ordered for the table. He had ordered with the specific confidence of someone who was certain he knew what everyone wanted and the specific inaccuracy of someone who had not consulted anyone.

Kendl was already mid-complaint about the selection, detailing exactly what was wrong with it. Stuart, however, was eating without a word—a clear sign he had already made his peace with the menu.

Pushing through the door three minutes late, Kyle and Hiroto finally joined them.

Stuart looked up. He glanced at Kyle, then at Hiroto, before tracking right back down to his food. He said nothing. He just filed it away.

Across the table, Kyle’s hand shot out to swipe a fry from Jay’s basket the exact second he sat down, well before his own order could even land.

"Oi—"

"Tax," Kyle said. "For the WeGram damage."

"That's not how tax works—"

"It's exactly how tax works." 

"That's literally robbery. Even a set 8 knows that."

"Fufufu. Like I said, the sovereign does not rob," Kyle said, and ate the chip.

Beside him, Hiroto picked up a menu he clearly had no intention of using and studied it with his usual expression of mild, distant consideration—the one that people who didn't know him read as boredom, and people who did know him read as something else entirely.

Chatter drowned out the room as the rest of the food arrived. Outside the window, the Northern Quarter ran its evening program, indifferent and ongoing.

Suddenly, the chime near the entrance cut through the noise as the door swung open. 

From across the booth, Jay caught sight of them and waved mid-bite. 

"Oi—Uika! Bakugo! Over here!" 

Bakugo slouched into the light, yawning out loud without a care. 

"No way. You lot actually eat here?"

Half-heartedly, his hand shot out to tug Uika's sleeve, hauling him straight toward the table like dead weight. 

Every step of the boy being pulled practically screamed reluctance. Twin tails swayed with his movements, trailing over a loose white jacket. The hem brushed just above his knees like a modified tunic, hanging open enough to reveal a dark crop top underneath. Few heads turned as he passed, though he either didn't notice or simply didn't care. 

"Move over, Kendl. We're sitting," Bakugo mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. 

With a low grumble of complaint, Kendl shifted over to make space. Uika slid into the booth without a word, letting his grey eyes sweep the table—landing briefly on Kyle, then Hiroto, before looking away. 

In an instant, Kyle’s attention snapped to them, his eyebrow arching as he leaned back.

"Who are they?"

"Set 8," Jay said cheerfully. "Uika Touko and Bakugo Yaeno. They're cool. Mostly." 

"Mostly?" Bakugo muttered, letting out another tired sigh. "Don't group me with your high-energy nonsense. Just looking at you is tiring." 

"I literally just waved—" Jay argued. 

"Exactly. Too much movement," he countered, slumping his chin onto his palm. 

"You're biting my style, Bakucchi. Back me up here, Uicchi," Hiroto interjected, yawning heavily mid-sentence.

An annoyed nod from Uika and a faint, amused chuckle from Kendl followed the sluggish banter. Stuart said nothing, but his eyes flicked toward Uika with the quiet precision of someone calculating a new variable in the room. 

Instead of meeting anyone's gaze, Uika simply reached for a menu and held it up, blocking his face entirely. 

Kyle could only blink blankly in response, muttering to himself.

"…Right. This lad belongs in Slytherin."

He went back to picking at his fries.

Beyond the glass, the Northern Quarter's nightlife moved at its own relentless pace, busy and unbothered.

For now, everything was fine.