Extraction

That night.

A no-name bar, with a battered exterior, stood like any other bar you'd find in the poorer parts of Riverton City. The neon sign, reading simply "Bar," flickered intermittently, its light sputtering and dimming from years of neglect. Its faded letters hung lopsided, with large patches of darkness where the neon tubes had burned out long ago. No one had bothered to fix it, and judging by the state of things, no one ever would.

The door creaked open. From the hazy, cigarette-saturated interior, Agent Larry Wade stumbled out. Clutching a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey, he looked like a man who had spent the night steeped in bad decisions. His steps were uneven, his gait unsteady, but there was a sliver of satisfaction etched onto his flushed face.

Tonight had been different from the usual monotony. The bartender was new— a young woman with fishnet stockings and a sultry, honeyed accent that had made Larry's otherwise dreary evening a little more tolerable. Perhaps it was her smile, or maybe her effortless charm, but she had enticed him into more drinks than usual. And Larry, never one to resist temptation, had indulged.

As he emerged from the bar, a group of rough-looking men sporting blue dragon and white tiger tattoos slipped past him, vanishing into the night. Larry barely noticed them. Instead, he focused on his own drunken swagger, humming a soft tune as he swigged from the bottle, the liquor sloshing against the glass in rhythm with his steps.

At that moment, he didn't resemble the well-trained operative he truly was. His disheveled appearance and drunken demeanor made him seem like just another reveler from the city's seedy underbelly, staggering home after too much to drink. His usual sharpness dulled, hidden beneath the haze of alcohol and sleepless nights.

Maybe that was why they thought he was an easy target.

Larry's steps slowed as he crossed the street, glancing sideways at a flicker of movement in the shadows. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but to Larry, it was like a blaring alarm. He had seen something, or rather, someone. His fingers tightened around the bottle.

Without breaking stride, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took one last, long gulp. Then, in one swift motion, he turned on his heel and smashed the bottle into the darkness beside him.

Crash!

The bottle exploded against something solid, sending glass shards flying in all directions. Larry's hand shot forward, grabbing a figure hiding in the shadows. With a powerful yank, he pulled the man into the dim glow of the streetlight and slammed him into the ground. The man groaned, writhing in pain as he hit the cold pavement.

Larry smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still swaying slightly on his feet. "If you think I'm that easy to—" he stopped, blinking in surprise.

The man he'd pulled from the shadows wasn't a street thug or a hired gun. He was wearing the unmistakable uniform of the Ninth Special Service Division.

Larry's frown deepened. "You're one of ours?" he growled, his drunken haze momentarily lifting. "Then why the hell were you…"

His words trailed off as a sharp pricking sensation hit his back. Larry's body tensed. He spun around, his senses flaring with a sudden realization—there wasn't just one.

Around him, more figures emerged from the shadows, their movements silent and precise. Soldiers. They were perched on rooftops and hidden in alleyways, all armed with tranquilizer guns. Larry's eyes narrowed as a volley of darts peppered his back, injecting a potent anesthetic into his bloodstream.

But Larry didn't fall.

With a guttural snarl, he kicked the agent at his feet aside, sending him sprawling. He staggered forward, his body heavy, his movements slow, but he fought through the growing numbness. He managed to slip into the narrow alley beside the bar, using the buildings for cover, but more soldiers descended from above, blocking his path with zip lines.

Larry bared his teeth. They weren't going to stop him that easily.

He charged forward, slamming into one of the soldiers, driving his shoulder into the man's chest and sending him crashing into the opposite wall. The second soldier tried to dodge, but Larry's reflexes were too fast. His hand shot out, grabbing the man by the collar and yanking him forward into a brutal knee strike. The impact knocked the soldier's head back, blood splattering onto the brick wall as he crumpled to the ground.

But more darts struck Larry in the back, piercing through his shirt and injecting more of the tranquilizer into his system. The numbing sensation spread faster, his muscles tightening as the drug took hold.

More soldiers surrounded him, dropping down from above and closing in from all sides.

"The target's still mobile! He's not down yet!" one of the soldiers yelled, his voice laced with panic.

"This can't be possible—this dose should've taken down an elephant!"

"There's a change in protocol! The target hasn't fallen!" The leader barked into his headset. "We need a reassessment. If he releases the phantom, we're screwed—"

"There's no need for concern. Continue as planned."

The voice on the other end was calm, almost soothing.

"Relax, Captain. The phantom won't be released. After all..."

Onboard the Ninth's aircraft carrier, Professor Miyazaki leaned forward, his expression confident as he spoke into the microphone.

"No one understands the agents of the Ninth better than I do. Their peculiarities, their limitations… They are my creation."

Back on the streets, Miyazaki's prediction was proving true. Despite being pushed to the brink, Larry never summoned the phantom that everyone feared.

But that didn't make him any less dangerous.

His body was riddled with tranquilizer darts, yet he fought on, taking down soldier after soldier with sheer brute strength. His fists flew in rapid succession, breaking bones, shattering jaws, and leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. His endurance was nothing short of monstrous.

It took four soldiers to finally subdue him. They wrapped ropes around his limbs, pulling them tight until his arms and legs were stretched into a cruciform. His muscles bulged, veins popping as he strained against the restraints, but even then, he refused to fall.

He let out a roar, a primal, guttural sound that sent shivers down the spines of the soldiers surrounding him. For a brief moment, they feared that his phantom might still appear, bringing with it destruction and chaos.

But then, like a candle snuffed out, Larry collapsed.

"Target secured. Preparing for extraction."

The team leader wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands trembling as he stared down at Larry's unconscious form. Larry could've summoned the phantom at any moment and wiped them all out. So why didn't he?

---

"Good work. Bring him in," Professor Miyazaki said calmly, cutting the communication. Almost immediately, another line came through.

It was from a second strike team. Their target: Fana, the young girl whose phantom was tied to her emotional fragility. Everyone in the Ninth knew about Fana's delicate mental state and her attachment to her phantom, which she imagined as her late mother. Up until now, her mental evaluations had been classified as "controllable."

Apparently, that assessment had changed.

"Report: No trace of the target."

"No trace?" Miyazaki's voice sharpened.

"She's not in her room," the team leader replied. "We believe she was tipped off or sensed our presence. The scene suggests she escaped through the window."

"Hmph… The Red Phantom does have heightened senses, independent of her. It's no surprise you were detected." Miyazaki sighed. "Withdraw for now. We'll deal with her later."

As Miyazaki leaned back, deep in thought, another agent burst into the room, his face pale.

"Sir!"

"What now?" Miyazaki snapped, his patience wearing thin.

"It's Agent Ivan Petrov… He's escaped from the interrogation room."

Miyazaki's expression darkened.

---

In a derelict, abandoned factory on the outskirts of Riverton City, the dim lighting barely illuminated the cracked walls and rusting metal beams. The sound of heavy breathing echoed through the hollow structure, followed by the faint clink of metal.

Kats!

The electronic shackles fell to the ground, released by a universal breaker. Ivan Petrov flexed his wrists, glancing at the imposing figure beside him.

"You really do come and go as you please, don't you?" Ivan muttered, rubbing the soreness from his wrists. His eyes flicked to Batman, the corner of his mouth twisting into a half-smile. "I thought for sure you'd drag me to some hidden Batcave or something. I was actually curious to see what your lair would look like... Do you live in an actual cave?"

Batman didn't respond, his expression unreadable behind the mask.

Ivan chuckled, but his tone quickly became more serious. "I didn't do it, you know."

He was, of course, referring to the video that showed him attacking his comrades.

Ivan didn't care much for the opinions of others, but for some reason, he needed Batman to believe him. He didn't care if the rest of the world thought he was guilty—only Batman's opinion mattered.

"I know," Batman rasped quietly. "That's why I'm here."

"You… know?" Ivan blinked, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over him.

But at the same time, confusion clouded his mind. "How could you know? The evidence is overwhelming. I've only got my word, but they've got video, live surveillance. They're saying I've lost my mind—"

"Almost overwhelming," Batman interrupted, his gravelly voice cold. "The video was recorded in advance. They manually replaced the footage from the surveillance system."

Ivan's eyes widened. "You mean…?"

"It's a pre-recorded video. They used AI to replace the real footage with an altered version of you. The lighting was dim, and the tech was advanced enough to make it look convincing."

Ivan's mind raced as he processed the information.

"So, someone within the Ninth, with high enough clearance, tampered with the system…"

"Exactly," Batman replied, his tone steely. "This isn't an isolated incident. You're being targeted."

Ivan sighed, rubbing his temples. "I didn't want to believe it, but… maybe those warnings from the pharmaceutical group weren't so far off."

Batman's voice dropped lower, more ominous. "And I think I already know who's behind it."

Ivan's eyes snapped up.