Sunway Mall was in full swing on a Saturday afternoon, alive with movement and noise. Wide corridors gleamed beneath polished lights, marble floors reflecting the blur of passing shoes and swinging shopping bags. Digital billboards flashed cheerful promotions in looping colors. Music drifted from storefront speakers—upbeat, forgettable, and oddly comforting in its predictability.
Families filled the walkways in loose currents. Teenagers clustered outside fashion outlets, comparing sneakers and gossiping loudly. Elderly couples moved at a slower, deliberate pace, content to watch the swirl of activity around them. Children tugged eagerly at their parents' hands, laughter rising above the steady hum like bright notes in a crowded symphony. The scent of grilled skewers from the food court mingled with buttered popcorn and sweet pastries, settling into something warm and unmistakably familiar.
In a world altered by Gates and monsters, malls had become quiet declarations of resilience.
Three years ago, such places had been among the first to fall—glass shattered, ceilings torn open, escalators twisted into metal wreckage. Now they stood rebuilt and reinforced, fitted with discreet evacuation routes and emergency shielding systems most shoppers barely noticed. Security cameras tracked more than shoplifters. Panic buttons linked directly to regional superhuman task units. Life had resumed—but not carelessly.
Among the crowd walked Isey.
He held the hand of his wife, Pika, while their five-year-old daughter, Aufa, skipped happily between them, swinging their arms in exaggerated arcs. Her shoes squeaked faintly with each hop, drawing a few amused glances from passing strangers. Neither parent had the heart to scold her.
"Look, Daddy!" Aufa exclaimed, pointing ahead with wide-eyed excitement. "Can we go to the toy store?"
Isey laughed softly, the sound easing something in his chest that had been tight for days. "Of course, sweetheart. Let's find you something nice."
Pika smiled at him—gentle, knowing. The simple act of walking together, blending into a crowd without urgency or danger, felt almost luxurious. No armor. No weapons. No radio chatter in his ear. Just warmth and noise and normalcy.
For a few precious minutes, Isey allowed himself to be only a husband and father.
They passed a bookstore where a small reading event was underway, a cosmetics kiosk where a sales assistant demonstrated glowing serums, and a gadget stall where teenagers argued over the latest gaming console. Everything felt safely mundane.
They had barely taken a few more steps when the pleasant cadence of the mall fractured.
It began subtly—a raised voice sharp enough to cut through music. Then another. The tone was wrong. Too aggressive. Too deliberate. The laughter nearby faltered.
Voices rose ahead—ugly and entirely out of place in a corridor meant for leisure.
A small knot of men in black suits stood clustered in front of a modest electronics shop tucked between a phone repair kiosk and a souvenir outlet. Their posture was rigid, predatory—shoulders squared too tightly, feet planted like barriers instead of customers.
At their center stood the shop owner, a thin, grey-haired man whose hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the glass display counter. His store was small—neatly arranged headphones, refurbished tablets, secondhand cameras. The kind of shop that survived on careful margins and loyal customers.
"Listen carefully, old man," one of the suited men snarled, leaning across the counter. "Pay up—or we trash the place."
The shop owner swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "Please… I don't have the money this month. My son—he was in an accident. I—I just need time."
The plea was quiet. Desperate. Painfully human.
Something tightened in Isey's chest.
He had seen this pattern before.
Since the Apocalypse, scenes like this had multiplied in the cracks between larger battles. While powerful guilds fought monsters and monitored dormant Gates, lesser evils flourished in the shadows. Organized thugs preyed on the unprotected, careful to avoid attention from major organizations. They exploited fear, bureaucracy, and the simple exhaustion of a world still rebuilding.
Evil had not disappeared when dragons were slain.
It had adapted.
"Stay here," Isey murmured to Pika.
She immediately drew Aufa closer, one arm wrapping protectively around their daughter. Her expression clouded with worry—but she did not argue. She trusted him. That trust carried weight heavier than any ranked insignia.
Isey stepped forward, posture relaxed but purposeful.
"Hey," he called, voice calm but firm. "That's enough. Leave him alone."
The man who appeared to be their leader turned slowly. His gaze raked over Isey with open contempt, lingering not on his face but at his waist.
"And who are you supposed to be?"
His eyes dropped to the white card clipped neatly to Isey's belt.
"An E-Ranked?" he scoffed loudly. "You trying to play hero?"
Laughter rippled through the group, loud enough to draw uneasy glances from nearby shoppers who pretended not to stare. Some edged away subtly. Others paused, phones half-raised but uncertain.
Superhuman identification tags were common now—small, government-issued cards, color-coded by rank. Red for S-Ranked. Green for A. Blue for B. Yellow for C. Grey for D.
White for E.
Isey's tag was plain. Unremarkable. Intentionally so.
He didn't move.
"You don't need to do this," he said evenly. "Walk away. No one gets hurt."
The leader stepped closer, unbuttoning his jacket just enough to reveal a green tag pinned inside.
"You're out of your depth," he said quietly.
Another thug laughed and flashed his own white tag—same as Isey's. The rest appeared to be ordinary men, emboldened by numbers and intimidation rather than ability.
Around them, the mall's energy shifted. Conversations dimmed. A mother guided her child behind a pillar. A store employee reached discreetly for a counter alarm but hesitated, unsure whether escalation would make things worse.
Isey felt the eyes on him.
He did not let it show.
"You're making a mistake," he said calmly. "Do you know who I work with?"
The leader raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. "Oh? Enlighten me."
"I'm a member of Stopgap Mercenary," Isey replied. "Our leader is Sanjay—one of only two S-Ranked superhumans in Malaysia."
The effect was immediate.
The laughter died as though cut cleanly from the air. Uneasy glances passed between the men.
Sanjay's name carried weight.
Not because he sought publicity—but because of what he could do. His battles were documented. His victories undeniable. An S-Ranked's attention was not something criminals courted lightly.
"Sanjay?" the leader muttered, doubt threading his voice. "You expect us to believe that?"
"You don't have to," Isey said. "But think carefully about what happens if you're wrong."
Silence stretched thin.
In that silence lived calculation. Risk assessment. The invisible arithmetic of survival.
Even criminals understood probability.
The leader's jaw tightened. His gaze flicked once more to Isey's white tag, then to the crowd, then back again.
At last, he stepped back.
"This isn't over," he growled, motioning sharply to his men.
As they turned away, Isey added evenly, "By the way—my codename's Strong Right. Feel free to verify it."
They didn't look back.
The corridor seemed to exhale.
Conversations resumed in cautious fragments. A store employee pretended to rearrange display items while stealing relieved glances at Isey. A security guard appeared from farther down the hall, too late to matter but eager to look involved.
The shop owner sagged visibly, gripping the counter to steady himself.
"Thank you," he said shakily. "I don't know what—"
"Report it," Isey said gently. "Tell them Stopgap Mercenary is watching."
Despite the chaos of the new world, there were still specialists under the United Front who handled superhuman crime. They weren't as visible as frontline guilds—but they were effective. And the mention of an S-Ranked was often enough to shift the cost-benefit equation.
The old man nodded repeatedly, gratitude shining in tired eyes. "I will. I promise."
Isey returned to his family.
Pika released a breath she had been holding. "That was brave," she said softly. "But was it wise to use Sanjay's name?"
She had seen what escalation looked like.
Isey gave a small shrug. "It was a gamble. But sometimes a bluff is all it takes."
He didn't add that if it hadn't worked, things would have escalated quickly.
Aufa wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. "Daddy, you were amazing!"
He crouched to hug her properly, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Thanks, sweetheart. Now—about that toy store?"
Her earlier excitement returned instantly, as if darkness had never brushed the corridor. Children adapted faster than adults ever could.
As they walked on, the mall's rhythm gradually reasserted itself. Music drifted back into focus. Laughter rose again. The crisis became a story already shrinking into rumor.
Yet not everyone had looked away.
Near one of the broad marble pillars stood a blonde woman in sunglasses and a black beanie, posture relaxed against cool stone. She had watched everything without moving once.
Her lips curved faintly—not in amusement, but in irritation.
She touched a finger to her earpiece, voice low and edged with fury.
"Hunt them down," she said. "Bring me one alive. The rest are expendable."
A voice crackled back through the device.
"Order received, boss."
Her gaze shifted toward the direction the suited men had fled, calculating and cold.
The mall lights reflected briefly in her dark lenses, masking whatever lay behind them.
Below, children laughed. Registers chimed. A promotional jingle began looping again.
Above the cheerful corridors and harmless shop windows, something colder had already begun to move.
And just like that, beneath the polished floors and bright displays of normal life, the shadows stirred once more.