The signal was faint. Just a flicker.
Phantom's energy trail—if you could call it that—was never consistent. But this time, it left something behind: a fracture in the air. Like a tear between silence and static.
You followed it to the old tram tunnels under Midtown. Long abandoned. Echo Division had no record of this place, which made it all the more suspicious.
"Are you sure about this?" Pulse's voice crackled through your comm. "This is a long way off-grid."
You crouched by a rusted gate, palms brushing against stone still warm from friction. "He left a signature. Not energy—but movement."
"Copybreaker's still out there," Pulse reminded you. "You're not fully recovered."
"I won't be. Not if I keep waiting to feel ready."
Silence.
Then: "I've got your six, from a distance. But if this goes sideways, don't play hero."
You didn't answer.
You descended deeper, into the dark.
⸻
It didn't take long to realize something was wrong.
The air smelled like bleach and ozone. The walls—too clean. You stepped onto metal panels that clicked softly under your boots.
Then you noticed it.
No echo.
No reverb.
The space wasn't just underground—it was engineered.
You were in a trap.
And you'd just triggered it.
Shkunk.
The walls hissed—releasing vaporized coolant into the air. Immediately your skin tingled, powers stuttering.
"Gas—suppressant," you muttered.
You tried activating Current Stride. The arc sparked—then died.
[ENERGY FLOW: INHIBITED]
[ADAPTIVE MODE: FORCED DORMANCY]
Too late.
A door slammed shut behind you.
Footsteps echoed ahead.
Not Phantom's.
He was heavier.
Calmer.
Then he appeared.
Tall. Broad. No mask. Military-cut hair, green tactical armor, and an expression as cold as the steel underfoot.
"Subject Echo-17," he said. "Name: [REDACTED]. Ability: Copy and Adapt."
You raised your fists.
He smiled slightly. "Name's Copybreaker. Built to break exactly one person."
He moved—fast.
You dodged. Barely. His strike dented the wall behind you, punching straight through reinforced steel.
Too strong.
You lunged, tried grabbing his wrist to analyze anything.
Nothing.
Your body didn't register any data.
No energy. No form. No response.
He grabbed your throat and slammed you into the wall.
"I'm not like Phantom," he growled. "You don't copy what I don't have."
You kicked free, landing a strike into his ribs.
He didn't flinch.
"I don't need powers," he continued. "You're not a god. You're a mirror. And I shatter mirrors."
You went low—used his momentum to flip him.
It worked. Sort of.
He rolled with it, came up instantly, elbowing you in the ribs—same spot still bruised from Samson.
You fell hard.
He didn't let up.
He was methodical. Calculated.
No wasted motion. No readable pattern.
You realized it too late—he wasn't just fighting you. He was analyzing you.
Like a living algorithm built to dismantle your every move.
You needed an edge.
So you stopped trying to copy.
And started to predict.
You feinted high. He blocked.
Then you pivoted—not for damage, but to test his recovery time.
Three seconds. Slight hesitation on his left foot.
Weakness.
You spun, using the wall to launch off—kicking his knee from the side.
He dropped for just a moment.
That was all you needed.
You dropped with him—slid under, wrapped your legs around his torso, and squeezed, using body leverage to compress his lung space.
Not power.
Technique.
He smashed you into the ground. But this time—you absorbed it.
Rolled with it. Let the pain anchor you.
He backed off, panting slightly.
"You adapt faster than they said," he muttered.
You stood, cracked your neck. "Yeah. But you don't."
This time, you struck first.