On the same afternoon, the WHA received an urgent call from the Police Headquarters of N City — a developing nation located on the second continent, at its northernmost region.
The line connected directly to Chief Marschall.
Caller: Is Chief Marshall there?
Marshall: Speaking.
Caller: The situation is critical, Chief.
Marshall: I'm listening.
Caller: You know Volkov, right?
Marshall: Leader of the infamous terrorist organization, the man who survived five assassination attempts, responsible for the deaths of thousands — including several political leaders? Yes. What about him?
Caller: I've got good news and bad news.
Marshall: Start with the good.
Caller: We've got him cornered here in N City. We've forwarded his location. He's hiding inside a warehouse. SWAT has the perimeter locked down.
Marshall: And the bad news?
Caller: He has five families held hostage. Approximately thirty civilians. His men are inside with him. And worst-case scenario… we have intel suggesting he may possess a bomb.... Possibly an atomic device capable of leveling the entire city.
Marschall's voice dropped.
Marshall: And what exactly are you implying?
Caller: I'm implying… if you could help us.(Sigh) We're desperate.
Marshall: …Help is on the way.
The call ends.
He turned to his operations desk.
Marshall: Is Blue Void available?
Agent: Negative, sir.
Marshall: Lunar Valkyrie?
Agent: Unavailable.
Marschall exhaled lightly.
Marshall: How about Jaded Angel?
Agent: Which one, sir?
Marshall's eyes didn't leave the tactical map.
Marshall: Which version do you think can neutralize a terrorist leader, rescue dozens of hostages simultaneously, and prevent a possible nuclear detonation?
Agent: …Paper?
Marschall allowed himself the faintest smirk.
Marshall: Bingo. Contact him.
On Y City — positioned on the opposite side of the second continent from N City's northernmost region — a call came through to Paper Nate.
Nathan: I'm listening.
Marshall: Emergency.
Nathan: Make it quick.
Marshall: Terrorist leader. Hostages. Possible nuclear detonation. Entire city at risk. Location: N City.
There was no panic in Nate's voice.
Only calculation.
Nathan: Tell Cypher to immediately open a wormhole above N City… and redirect it to deep space.
[2 Minutes Earlier]
Inside the warehouse, the hostages were bound together under the cold glare of hanging industrial lights. Armed terrorists stood watch, rifles trained steadily on them.
Their leader, Volkov, paced slowly before them.
A remote device rested in his hand.
Volkov: For twenty-five years… I waited for this moment, a nuclear power at my fingertips.
He studied the terrified faces in front of him.
Volkov: You may be wondering why this is happening to you. Let me tell you a story. There was once a boy. He lived quietly with his family. They were happy. They harmed no one. They asked for nothing. Then one day… your government sent men into his village. They slaughtered everyone.
A few hostages began to cry.
Volkov: They shot anything that moved. The boy's parents hid him inside a closet. They told him not to make a sound. He listened as they screamed. He survived, but the scars remained.
He looked up.
Volkov: That boy swore that no massacre would ever happen to his people again. So he built power. An empire. One the world would never ignore.
He stepped forward.
Vopkov: And now… here we are. That same little boy… standing in front of you.
A clock on the warehouse wall ticked loudly.
Volkov: When it strikes three… I will create a scar this city will never heal from.
The air vent suddenly tore open, and every terrorist in the warehouse snapped their weapons toward Paper Nate, who appears in front of them.
Nathan: I will say this once. Lower your guns and hand me the remote.
Volkov: And who the fuck are you?
Nathan:(smirked) I am what you might call… a shredder.
Volkov: Hmph. Kill him.
All twenty-five terrorists unleashed a volley of gunfire at once.
But to Nate, everything moved in agonizing slow motion—so slow it was as if time itself had been suspended. Paper Nate was the fastest among his versions, capable of moving at twice the speed of light.
He cracked his fist and strode through the warehouse, calmly redirecting every bullet's trajectory away from the SWAT team outside. In the same breath, he dismantled each firearm mid-volley, reducing them to scattered fragments.
The terrorists fell in rapid succession—some struck down by precise blows, some humiliated and disoriented, others forced into their comrades' attacks, and a few sent crashing to the floor.
Within seconds, the hostages were relocated safely outside.
When he reached Volkov, Nate attempted to seize the remote but quickly realized it was biometric—locked to Volkov's fingerprint. If separated improperly, the bomb would detonate.
Without hesitation, Nate generated a razor-thin blade of hardened paper and severed Volkov's hand in a single, clean motion—then immediately healed it, ensuring the remote never lost contact with Volkov's severed hand.
When Nate finished, time resumed its natural pace—and the terrorists finally suffered the consequences of his work.
Some were sent flipping across the warehouse. Others collapsed outright. A few staggered into one another, striking their own allies before dropping unconscious.
Volkov stood frozen, disbelief hollowing his expression. He attempted to trigger the bomb—
Then he glanced at his right hand.
It had been severed.
Volkov: AAAAH! MY HAND! What happened to my hand?! It was still here—why?!
Nathan: Calm down. What you're experiencing is phantom limb pain.
———————————————————
Phantomlimbpain—the sensation of agony emanating from a limb that no longer exists. Though physically absent, the brain and nervous system continue transmitting signals as if the severed part remains attached. The result can manifest as burning, cramping, stabbing, or electric tingling—an echo of the body struggling to reconcile sudden loss. The precise mechanism remains debated, though it is widely attributed to residual neural activity within the spinal cord and brain.
———————————————————
Volkov writhed, clutching at air that no longer belonged to him, while the restored hand still held the remote—intact, functional, and useless.
The years of rage he had cultivated—the suffering he endured in pursuit of vengeance—collapsed in an instant under the weight of a single, effortless intervention.
Volkov:(thought) How can something this horrific happen to me? That man… I will kill him.
In a desperate lunge, he reached for the remote—
—but in the next instant, he was outside the warehouse, bound tightly in hardened paper. SWAT officers stormed forward and secured him along with the remaining terrorists.
Nathan: Who's in charge here?
Anderson: I am. Commander Anderson.
Nathan: Good. Commander, take this.
He hands over the remote.
Nathan: If the hand detaches, the bomb detonates. I'm going to locate it. Keep it intact until I return.
Anderson: Understood.
They had barely taken a few steps when a cyan hexagonal construct flickered into existence beside the remote. The severed hand slipped free.
Nathan saw it.
Anderson did not.
Beneath the warehouse, the bomb detonated.
The blast should have reduced everything to ash in a single merciless instant.
But it didn't.
The nuclear explosion was being contained.
Nathan sprinted back—one second too late to cast the device into the wormhole himself.
Nathan: Damn it. I was one second too late to extract it and throw it away. It's already detonated… but there's still a chance. If I run in a circular pattern, I can generate a vortex—contain the explosion, funnel the fire and radiation into the wormhole, and redirect it into outer space.
He moved instantly, circling at blinding speed. The vortex formed—tight, violent, spiraling—but his limited energy manipulation betrayed him. The fire and radiation bent inward, drawn toward the rift.
The heat did not.
It bled outward—searing, merciless—capable of vaporizing anyone within its radius.
Nathan: Not good. I can restrain the flames and radiation, but not the thermal surge. Anyone caught in it will die. That includes me… though I can regenerate. That's not the issue. Damn it… the only person who can handle this is—
???: Yo!
Nathan turned.
Running behind him was Blake.
Nathan: BlueVoid?! The hell are you doing here?
Blake: I felt the vibration through the ground. You handle the people. I'll handle this.
Nathan understood immediately—Blake was the only one capable of containing the heat, the explosion, and the radiation simultaneously. Without hesitation, he withdrew and shifted his focus to evacuating civilians beyond the blast radius.
Blake slid his headphones over his ears.
"Cowbell Warriors" by SXMPRA roared to life.
The beat dropped.
His speed surged—accelerating to light velocity. Unlike Nathan, Blake generated raw electrical output, forging a magnetic field that forced the radiation back toward the vortex. His movement at relativistic speed ionized the surrounding air, forming a plasma barrier that resisted the thermal surge. The air thundered with reverberating shockwaves as he ran—not lightning, but pressure and sound bending around him.
The catastrophe that should have erased the city was contained.
Blake drove the remaining force upward—into the waiting wormhole—sealing the devastation in seconds.
When it ended, half his body was scorched.
Nathan hurried to him.
The damage vanished in an instant under Nathan's healing.
Nathan: Thanks, Blake. I couldn't have done it without you.
Blake: Appreciate it. Guess even the best hero needs backup sometimes.
Both allowed themselves a quiet laugh.
Blake glanced down.
Blake: …Ah, crap. My Walkman's fried.
Nathan: Don't worry. I'll have the WHA commission a new one for you—an upgraded version.
Blake: Thanks. Let's check on the others.
As they moved through the aftermath, Commander Anderson approached, tension etched across his face.
Anderson: I apologize. I should've been more careful.
Nathan: This wasn't your fault, Commander. Someone interfered. I saw it.
Anderson: You did? Who was it?
Nathan: I don't know. But whoever it is… I'll find them. For now, evacuate the civilians and secure the criminals.
Anderson: Understood.
The commander relayed orders immediately. Officers mobilized—civilians escorted out, terrorists restrained and transported.
Nathan stood still amidst the fading smoke, his thoughts elsewhere.
Nathan: A cyan hexagonal symbol…(Sigh) Where are you, Lyra?