Sol sat in his hidden base, idly stroking Peach's fur as he listened to the distant ship-wide announcement: "Final departure in ten minutes. All passengers must board immediately."
He exhaled slowly. It was finally almost over. The long, exhausting game he had played with DreamCorp was reaching its conclusion. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out one last detonator—the final trick up his sleeve. Unlike the others, this bomb had no destructive power. No flames, no shrapnel, no casualties. Just a spectacle.
A smirk played across his lips as he leaned back, thumb hovering over the button. Before leaving, he had carefully hidden this device right in front of DreamCorp's main operations office. This wasn't about destruction—it was about making a statement.
The second he pressed the button, the night sky over Zenith-5 exploded with an enormous projection. A colossal image of Peach, his tiny bear companion, now blown up to impossible proportions, floated above the cityscape. His furry arms were crossed, and a smug expression adorned his chubby face. But the real insult lay in the exaggerated middle finger he was giving, clear for all to see. Next to him, scrawled in bright, blinking letters, was the message:
**"Next time, I won't be so nice."**
Sol chuckled to himself as he imagined the sky light up in vibrant colors. The sheer absurdity of it contrasted sharply with the damage he had already done. This was the final nail, a declaration of both victory and mockery. It would infuriate DreamCorp, confuse their higher-ups, and send a message to anyone else thinking of trying their luck against him.
He laid down, his head resting against the cool metal of the floor. Exhaustion crept in, his limbs heavy, his mind fogged with fatigue. A week of deception, combat, and destruction had finally taken its toll. As the ship's engines roared to life, preparing for departure, Sol let his eyes close.
---
**DreamCorp War Room**
The moment the projection appeared, the war room fell into stunned silence. Officers, strategists, and enforcers alike stared in absolute disbelief at the ridiculous—yet ominous—display hovering over their base.
"What... the actual hell is that?" one executive muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It's—it's that damn bear!" another choked out, horror and outrage blending together. "That little—"
The lead strategist's hands curled into fists, his jaw clenching as he read the message. "He's mocking us. Again."
A quiet, shaky voice broke the silence. "He was so close to us… If he had wanted to do real damage instead, we wouldn't have even known."
The room fell still. The implications gnawed at them, sinking into their bones. For all their security, for all their forces, they had been played with like puppets. Not only had he escaped, but he had left them a warning—and the terrifying realization that he had been in complete control the entire time.
One of the higher-ups slammed a fist against the console, the sound cracking through the tense room. "This isn't just an insult. He's telling us he's not done. That he'll be back."
Someone else muttered, "Or worse—he's daring us to come after him."
Every screen in the room reflected the same image—the massive, defiant projection of Peach with his obscene gesture, flickering above the shattered remnants of their operation. It was a joke. A humiliation. And yet, beneath the absurdity, there was an undeniable promise.
The DreamCorp executives shared uneasy glances, the anger in the room giving way to something far more dangerous.
Fear.
---
**Underworld Reactions**
Zenith-5 was still smoldering, both figuratively and literally. The war between DreamCorp and the underworld factions had raged on for days, bleeding into the heart of the central city. Bodies piled up in alleyways, businesses boarded up their doors, and entire sectors had been cordoned off by heavily armed enforcers trying to reclaim some sense of control.
In the heart of the underworld, gang leaders, mercenaries, and criminal masterminds gathered in dimly lit backrooms, discussing the same thing: Sol.
"The kid's a ghost. No, worse—he's a storm that comes and goes without a trace," one gang lord grumbled, swirling a drink in his hand. "And now we're stuck cleaning up the mess."
"Some of us should be thanking him," another chimed in. "DreamCorp's been trying to strong-arm us for years, and he just cracked them wide open. This is an opportunity."
"An opportunity?" a scarred mercenary scoffed. "More like a death sentence. That corporation doesn't forgive or forget. They're going to burn this place down just to prove a point."
Others remained silent, listening. Some viewed Sol as a hero—a legend in the making. Others saw him as a problem, a wildcard who threatened the fragile balance of power.
And then there were the ambitious ones, those who saw Sol's actions and thought: If he could do it, why can't I?
A new wave of chaos was brewing, and Sol's name was the spark.
---
**Lover's Bar – The Old Man's Reaction**
The Old Man cleaned a glass absently, watching the news feed of Zenith-5's aftermath with an unreadable expression. His partners sat around the bar, their usual chatter replaced with intense focus.
"You see that?" one of them finally muttered, eyes locked on the display. "That kid played them like a fiddle. DreamCorp never saw it coming."
Another leaned back, rubbing his chin. "It's not just DreamCorp. The whole damn underworld's talking about him. No one's pulled off something like this in years. He's either insane or a genius. Maybe both."
The Old Man finally set his glass down and exhaled. "He's not just some reckless kid. He planned this. Every step. Every explosion. Every move."
His partner nodded. "And that's exactly why we need to get him on our side."
The group exchanged glances before looking at the Old Man. He smirked slightly, shaking his head. "Not so simple. You don't recruit someone like Sol. You make it worth his time to work with you. Plus, you guys didn't exactly leave a good impression on him last time." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. "If you think he's going to just walk in here and shake hands like nothing happened, you're dead wrong. We burned that bridge before we even knew what we were dealing with."
One of his partners sighed, rubbing his temple. "Yeah, well, that was before we knew he could turn an entire city upside down. What do we do now?"
The Old Man chuckled dryly. "Now? Now, we sit tight. We don't chase him. We keep an open door. A guy like that? He'll make waves wherever he goes. And when he does? We'll be waiting. But this time, we play it smart."
One of the men frowned. "So what do we do? Wait? See if he comes back?"
The Old Man leaned on the counter, watching the footage of the giant Peach projection once again. "We don't chase him. We keep an open door. A guy like that? He'll make waves wherever he goes. And when he does? We reach out. Maybe even clear up that little misunderstanding from before—show him that our doors are open for him."
His partners exchanged glances, mulling over the idea. One of them scoffed, "You think he's the type to care about a goodwill gesture?"
The Old Man smirked. "Yeah. From what I've seen, Sol doesn't start fights—he just ends them. He's not some loose cannon looking for trouble; trouble finds him, and he makes sure it regrets it."
One of his partners raised a brow. "That so? Cause from where I'm sitting, he sure as hell made a mess back there."
The Old Man exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You don't get it. That kid told me himself—he just wanted to be a bartender. A damn bartender. But what happened? He got caught up in other people's shit, and he had to claw his way out. People keep thinking he's some monster lurking under their bed, but he's not. He's just a kid trying to survive, trying to live, and every time someone tries to put him in a cage, he tears it down."
A silence settled over the table as the words sank in. One of the men drummed his fingers on the counter. "So what do we do about it? Just sit back and hope he doesn't see us as another cage?"
The Old Man smirked again, but there was no amusement in it. "We don't chase him. We don't try to buy him. What we do is reach out. Maybe clear up the misunderstanding from before, let him know that our doors are open. Not as a business deal. Not as a power play. Just a gesture. A reminder that not everyone's looking to screw him over."
Another partner tapped a finger against the counter, considering. "And how do we do that? Send a message? Offer him a deal?"
The Old Man shook his head. "Too formal. Too pushy. No, we send a gift—something small, something useful. A show of friendship, not a bribe. Just enough to remind him that he's got more than just enemies out there."
A slow nod moved through the group, the idea settling in. One of them grinned. "Alright. Let's put something together. Might as well take the first step before someone else does."
His partners nodded in agreement, watching as the news feed replayed the havoc Sol had left in his wake.
Outside, the stars stretched into infinity as the ship carrying Sol disappeared into the void, leaving only chaos—and possibility—in its wake.