Bobo leaned back in his chair for a second, then stood up and started pacing, running a hand through his beard.
"What do you think you know?"
Mikey looked at him, puzzled. "About what?"
Bobo stopped and turned. "The Council. How it started."
Mikey thought back to his history classes at the Academy.
"Uh… four hundred years ago, the Sun got too close. Radiation wiped out every country except one—the United States. They rose from the ashes, turned the president into the Chancellor of the Unified Sectors, and formed the Council. Y'know... unity, rebirth, all that crap."
Bobo glanced over at Luce, who met his look with a smirk. Then he turned back to Mikey and let out a dry laugh.
"Kid... you couldn't be more wrong."
Mikey blinked, caught off guard.
"Wait, seriously? Then what's the truth?"
Bobo stopped pacing.
"First off, it wasn't four hundred years ago. It was two hundred. And that 'Sun got too close' bullshit? Well it's bullshit. Yeah, radiation wrecked the world, but not from that."
Mikey frowned.
"Then from what?"
Bobo raised an eyebrow.
"Ever heard of a hydrogen bomb?"
Mikey nodded slowly.
"Yeah… I think so."
"Well, the United States dropped a whole lot of 'em. All over the planet. Started a war they couldn't finish. And when the world struck back? They didn't walk away clean."
Mikey leaned forward, confused.
"Why? Why would they start something like that?"
Bobo crossed his arms and gestured toward Luce.
"You take this part."
Luce pointed at herself.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you're better with the technical stuff."
Luce groaned and rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, yeah…"
She stepped in, arms crossed.
"Listen up. Way back then, scientists discovered a new element. Synthetic. They called it Linnium. Think of it like plasma, but on a microscopic level. What made it special is that it could bond with human stem cells."
"Stem cells?" Mikey echoed.
She nodded.
"Yeah. They're what make new cells in your body. You've got a full tank when you're born, but once they're gone, you get old, get sick, and die. That's just how it works. But with Linnium… they found a way to regenerate those cells. Theoretically... stop death in its tracks."
Mikey's eyes narrowed. "So… what did they make with it?"
Luce met his gaze.
"Euphirom."
Mikey tilted his head.
"And what's so special about that?"
Luce leaned against the table now, arms still crossed, voice steady.
"Like I said—Euphirom could theoretically stop death. Not permanently, but close enough. They couldn't make people immortal, but they pushed the life expectancy from seventy to two hundred, easy. No sickness, delayed aging, you could go nearly a year without eating and still maintain body weight. It could've ended world hunger, cured disease. It was basically liquid gold."
Mikey's brows raised. He was hanging onto every word—he'd be scribbling notes if he had a pen.
"But the thing is," Luce went on, "they didn't share it. The U.S. kept it locked away, only selling it to the elite. If you couldn't afford the absurd price tag, you didn't even know it existed. They kept it secret—until someone leaked it. The public found out. And once they knew? They wanted it."
Mikey leaned in a little.
"Let me guess—they said no."
She nodded.
"Damn right they did. People protested. Said Euphirom should be a basic right. A human right. But the elites—those living in glass towers—they weren't about to give up their monopoly. Things escalated."
Bobo chimed in now, arms crossed.
"And then some country—I forget which one—got sick of asking."
Luce picked it back up.
"Yeah. That country fired the first hydrogen bomb. Hit U.S. soil. The government knew what that meant—if one nation was willing to fight for Euphirom, the rest would follow. They panicked. Retaliated with everything they had. Launched every bomb in the arsenal."
Mikey's eyes widened.
"So they… wiped everyone out?"
"Half the planet," she said grimly. "Gone. The rest? Turned to ash and silence. It was Mutually Assured Destruction—but the U.S. fired first, fired the most, and emptied the clip. No ammo left, no allies, no second chances. The world was burning, and they knew it was only a matter of time before what was left came to finish the job."
Mikey exhaled. "So what then?"
Luce's eyes darkened.
"Then came the next phase. One of their top scientists discovered something else. Euphirom wasn't just compatible with human stem cells—it worked with animal cells, too. You combine all three—Euphirom, human DNA, and animal biology—and you get something new."
"New how?"
She stared at him. "People with the strength of a bear. Reflexes of a cheetah. Vision of an eagle. Super soldiers. Living weapons."
Mikey sat back, absorbing all of it. The world he thought he knew was crumbling by the second.
Slowly, Mikey was piecing it all together. His voice came out quiet.
"The Directors…"
Bobo snapped his fingers.
"Bingo."
Luce picked up from there.
"For some reason, they could only make a limited number. Maybe it was the cost, maybe the complexity. Either way, they settled on creating just four."
"But," she continued, her voice low, "the first subjects... died instantly. Their bodies couldn't take it."
Bobo chimed in, blunt and unfiltered, "They blew the fuck up."
Mikey winced, his face tightening at the mental image. "Seriously?"
Luce nodded.
"Seriously. Their cells just couldn't handle the fusion. Total system failure. They didn't have time or resources left to keep experimenting, and it looked like the whole thing was a bust."
"But I'm guessing it wasn't," Mikey said, his voice steady.
Luce gave him a small nod. "Nope. Someone figured it out. The key wasn't adults. It wasn't even children."
Bobo leaned in.
"A fetus."
Luce pointed at him.
"Exactly. You inject a fetus with a trace amount of Euphirom, just early enough in development… their body adapts to it in the womb. Builds a tolerance from the ground up. When they're born, they're different. Tougher. Stronger. Genetically capable of withstanding the serum when the time comes."
"And when they got it," Bobo added, "they could handle it. All of it. No man-meat explosion. No body bag. Just raw unadulterated power."
Luce nodded.
"With those soldiers, the Council won everything. Took the world in a landslide. Each one could tear through an entire battalion alone. Gods among men."
"And the worst part?" Bobo said, his voice going cold. "They're fucking lap dogs."
Luce clarifies.
"They were indoctrinated from birth. Loyal. Completely loyal. To the Council. To the cause. To the lie."
Mikey sat in stunned silence. Everything he'd ever been taught—everything drilled into him at the Academy—was a lie. His voice came out low, almost dazed.
"So… that wasn't a lie. The strength of the Directors. I thought it was propaganda, just exaggerated war stories. But it's real…"
He trailed off, his mind flashing back to the funeral. That hill. The Chancellor. The figure beside him.
"Bobo," Mikey said, looking up, "were you there for the whole funeral?"
Bobo nodded.
"Yeah. What about it?"
Mikey leaned forward, remembering the cold stare from a distance.
"Did you see the Director? The one standing next to Chancellor Eeron?"
Bobo's expression darkened.
"Yeah. That prick."
Mikey's voice dropped.
"Who was he?"
Bobo sighed, like the name itself was exhausting.
"That, kiddo, was Kael. Director of the East."
Luce, leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed, scoffed. "Jackass. Through and through."
Bobo nodded, pacing a little.
"Self-righteous prick. They call him the Sword of the Council. Chancellor's personal guard. Cold as ice, loyal to the end. Most obedient and polished of the four."
Luce smirked.
"Ryosuke hates that guy."
"Yeah," Bobo agreed with a low laugh. "Ryo hates that fuck."
Mikey hesitated, then raised a hand like he was back in class.
"Why?"
Bobo stopped pacing. His face shifted—no longer bitter, but solemn.
"That's… a question you ask him yourself. Not when you meet him. Way after."
Bobo looked down at his boots, eyes fixed but unfocused. He let out a slow, heavy sigh.
"No one hates a Director more than Ryo hates that one," he muttered. "And he's got damn good reason."
Mikey studied him. The shift in Bobo's voice—softer, more distant—set something uneasy in his gut.
After a beat, Mikey asked, "You ever see a Director? I mean… before the funeral?"
Bobo didn't answer right away. His eyes blinked, slow and deliberate—like his mind was leaving the room.
Then, in a quiet voice, "Yeah… I did."
Mikey leaned forward. "What… happened?"
Bobo didn't respond. Not in words.
His breath stilled, like his body forgot how to breathe. The memory rushed in—fast, violent.
A younger version of himself—still broad, still strong, but not yet broken—was lifted off the ground like a rag doll. A massive hand gripped his throat, squeezing until the world narrowed to the edges of his vision. His right arm dangled, shredded and barely attached, bone peeking through torn flesh like snapped timber. Blood poured down to the dirt like a faucet left running.
Around him—chaos. Screams, fire, the distant thunder of artillery. The sky glowed orange from the blaze of overturned tanks and burning bodies. Smoke choked the sun. The air reeked of scorched metal and meat.
And in the center of it all—him.
Those eyes. Unblinking. Uncaring. Not angry. Not pleased. Just empty.
Cold red glinting like the reflection of fire in still water.
A monster wearing a man's shape.
Not human.
Bobo's body jerked slightly as he blinked, snapping out of it. He realized Mikey was watching him, concern painted across his face.
"You okay, Bobo?" Mikey asked gently.
Bobo tried to laugh it off, but it came out weak, uneven.
"Yeah… yeah. Just, uh… didn't end well."
He lifted his metal arm slightly, gave it a soft shake. The dull clink of steel filled the silence.
"That day cost me more than an arm."