The school day was dragging, and Hawk found himself stuck in a dull History lecture. He was trying to look attentive, but his mind was elsewhere, focused on the missing pieces of his brother's past. Beside him, **Sonic** was fiddling with a loose thread on his backpack, occasionally passing Hawk small, cryptic notes about security weaknesses in the school's archives. The quiet study session was abruptly interrupted by **Murg**, a known lackey for the Mosquito Group. Murg loomed over Hawk's desk, puffing out his chest, clearly trying to provoke a public scene. "Still hiding behind your books, Stroke?" Murg sneered, expecting Hawk to shrink away as most students did. Instead of reacting with anger, Hawk moved with surprising economy. He didn't stand up or shout. He simply shifted his weight and delivered a precise, short punch—a quick **jab**—directly into Murg's solar plexus. It wasn't a wild swing; it was calculated pressure. Murg gasped, his breath knocked out of him, and he stumbled backward, clutching his stomach. He didn't report Hawk; instead, Murg retreated, looking shaken but strangely intrigued. Hawk let him go, a silent signal that Murg had chosen a side, even if temporarily. *** Meanwhile, across the campus, **Golgo** was nursing a bruised ego and a sore ribcage. He was furious about his earlier public failure. **Rahale Afsani**, his superior in the Mosquito Group, observed him with cool detachment. Rahale was the strategist, her movements economical and sharp, a perfect contrast to Golgo's raw aggression. "Max is not pleased, Golgo," Rahale stated, her voice crisp. "You were made to look foolish by a ghost's shadow. That cannot stand." "He's quick," Golgo muttered, rubbing his side. "I'll catch him next time." "Next time will be on our terms," Rahale corrected him firmly. "We don't fight in the open. We remind them why the Stroke name is feared. We make an example." *** Later, Hawk, accompanied by the now-loyal Murg, slipped into a rarely used storage room near the gymnasium, searching for old administrative files. The room smelled of dust and forgotten sports equipment. The silence was broken by a calm voice. **Thor Belfrin**, No. 4 of the Black Centipede, stood blocking the exit. Thor was known for his unsettling stillness and his ability to lock down opponents without using obvious force. Murg immediately moved to stand in front of Hawk, ready to take the hit. Thor completely ignored Murg. His gaze was fixed solely on Hawk, a look of deep, unsettling familiarity in his eyes. "Looking for something you lost, Stroke?" Thor asked quietly, his tone suggesting he knew exactly what Hawk was searching for—the truth about his brother, Hank. Before Hawk could respond, Thor extended his hand and lightly placed his fingers on Murg's shoulder. Murg instantly froze. His muscles locked, his expression stuck in a grimace of surprise. This was Thor's signature technique: a localized nerve lock that rendered a target completely immobile without causing lasting damage—a chilling demonstration of control. Thor then looked back at Hawk, his expression unreadable. "Why are you even here?" he demanded, the question hanging heavy with unspoken threats from the Black Centipede organization.
