Starting With Batman

In fact, Batman didn't leave immediately after crushing the strange tentacle tree. When the agents of The Ninth Special Service Division arrived at the scene, he was crouching in a nearby bush, silently eavesdropping on a conversation through his communicator.

Charlie had instructed Batman to stay hidden and listen in on the ongoing conversation while he took the opportunity to catch his breath. Charlie himself leaned back in his gaming chair, the adrenaline from the battle still pumping through his veins. He got up, headed to the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of soda. The cool liquid felt refreshing as he downed half the bottle in one go, the familiar fizz providing a brief respite.

One of the things Charlie enjoyed about this game was the physical engagement it demanded. The rapid movements, intense focus, and high stakes made it feel like a full-body workout. The energy burned quickly, and Charlie relished the excuse to indulge in his favorite soda without worrying about the extra calories. After a few sessions, he even thought the fat around his waist might have decreased—though he wasn't entirely sure if it was real or just wishful thinking.

He sat back down, positioned himself comfortably in front of the screen, and slipped his headphones back on. As Batman continued to crouch in the background of the in-game screen, listening intently, Charlie took the opportunity to send a quick message to his friend, Walter.

"Hey, can you sign in for me tomorrow?" the message read.

Tomorrow was Monday, and Charlie had a class scheduled in the morning. However, Megan had booked a train ticket for the same time, and Charlie had promised to take her to the station. Skipping class was the only option, and he trusted Walter to cover for him by signing in on his behalf.

Charlie waited for a reply, but none came immediately. He figured Walter was probably engrossed in a first-person shooter game, possibly one of the more intense battle royales that demanded his full attention. Whether Walter was playing while standing, sitting, or even lying down, Charlie knew he'd eventually get back to him.

Suddenly, Raya's voice came through his headphones, pulling Charlie back into the game.

"He's wearing exactly the same clothes as you," she said, her tone laced with a knowing smile.

The words sent a ripple of tension through the group of agents present at the scene. Even Charlie, sitting miles away, felt a twinge of surprise. On the surface, it seemed to imply that the person who had provided the documents to Raya and helped spread the infection was someone within The Ninth Special Service Division—someone who was supposed to be on their side.

Of course, such an implication couldn't be taken at face value. The possibility that Raya was lying to manipulate the situation couldn't be ruled out. Even if she was telling the truth, it didn't directly prove anything.

The uniforms of The Ninth Special Service Division were highly secured and not something easily replicated. However, if someone was determined enough, it wasn't impossible to create a convincing copy. And no one had actually seen the documents Raya was referring to, leaving the possibility of forgery open.

But if her claim was genuine, it led to a classic scenario—

—There's a mole within the organization.

Strangely, Charlie wasn't shocked by the revelation. Instead of thinking, "Wow, there's a mole," his reaction was more along the lines of "Wow, the mole didn't show up sooner."

This almost nonchalant attitude was largely influenced by his exposure to the S.H.I.E.L.D. universe, where the presence of infiltrators like Hydra was almost expected. An organization riddled with spies from its inception, S.H.I.E.L.D. had always operated under the shadow of potential betrayal.

However, this wasn't to suggest that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director was incompetent. On the contrary, the fact that a straightforward agent could ascend to the position of leader in an organization teeming with spies—and manage to navigate the treacherous waters to achieve an eventual victory—was a testament to his skill. Charlie respected the director's ability to turn what could have been a complete disaster into a series of strategic moves that ultimately led to Hydra's downfall.

In Fact, Charlie mused, the one who probably caused the most damage to Hydra over the years wasn't Captain America or the Avengers, but the S.H.I.E.L.D. director himself. His strategic embezzlement of public funds and consistent outmaneuvering of Hydra agents likely left the organization in shambles.

But if The Ninth Special Service Division had a mole, even one of Hydra's caliber, it wasn't the end of the world. It would be more of an inconvenience than a crisis, and the organization had likely faced worse in the past. After all, it was a miracle that Hydra's infiltration hadn't led to the complete collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. sooner. If push came to shove, a simple test—like whispering "Hail Hydra" in the ear of every agent and seeing who responded—could flush out the traitor and stabilize the situation.

Coincidentally, just as Raya finished speaking and the agents began questioning her, everyone's phones buzzed with an incoming notification.

Charlie's phone lit up as well, displaying an alert from the Ninth Special Service Division's app.

It was a red raid alert, a notification that was reserved for only the most critical situations.

The aircraft carrier of The Ninth Special Service Division had been breached.

---

A few minutes earlier, aboard the Ninth Special Service Division's aircraft carrier…

Professor Miyazaki's fingers danced rapidly over the floating keyboard, making the final adjustments to the device in front of him.

The device was a head-mounted apparatus surrounded by an intricate network of cables, each one connected to a series of monitors that displayed a constant stream of data. The screens were filled with readings, graphs, and data curves, all essential to the successful operation of the machine.

Since the unexpected attack by the mysterious infected person who had the ability to manipulate dreams, the headquarters of The Ninth Special Service Division had been working tirelessly to develop countermeasures. As the leading expert on infected cases, Professor Miyazaki had been appointed to spearhead the project, a task he accepted with both pride and determination.

The device in front of him—the helmet—was the result of their efforts. Though Professor Miyazaki wasn't the sole creator, it was his research on similar psychic abilities that laid the foundation for the design. The equipment department had collaborated closely with him to bring the concept to life.

Fortunately, Professor Miyazaki had previously conducted extensive research on dream-related spiritual abilities, which had allowed him to propose the prototype's design early on. However, the lack of concrete data had stalled its completion—until now. The recent encounter between the Ninth Special Service Division agents and the dream-wielding enemy had provided the necessary data, enabling Professor Miyazaki to complete the previously unfinished project.

The result was a prototype device designed to shield the wearer's brain from external psychic influences, particularly those that manipulated dreams. In theory, it could prevent outside forces from altering the wearer's perception while in a dream state.

As it stood, the prototype was functional but still unstable. There were concerns about potential side effects on the wearer's brain, which required ongoing adjustments to ensure safety.

At that moment, Melanie stepped into the laboratory, her presence barely acknowledged by the professor, who was deeply engrossed in his work.

"Is it done, professor?" she inquired, her voice cutting through the low hum of machinery.

"Almost," Professor Miyazaki replied without looking up. His focus remained on the task at hand, his mind wholly occupied with the final stages of debugging.

"The dream-shielding function should be operational," he continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "The next step is to minimize the impact of side effects. However, I believe it's ready for field deployment. Although there may be some risks, a special person should be able to handle them."

This was one of the advantages of being a special person. These individuals were not only physically superior to ordinary humans but also possessed extraordinary self-healing abilities. The side effects that might pose a threat to a regular person were unlikely to be an issue for them.

Professor Miyazaki had advocated for this approach early on, suggesting that the unique qualities of special agents—such as their enhanced self-healing factors—should be factored into the design and testing of new equipment. Unfortunately, his proposal had been met with resistance and ultimately rejected.

"That would be ideal," Melanie said, moving closer to the workstation. "I fell into a dream once. Whoever that person was, their dream manipulation was nearly perfect.

The environment felt completely real—the touch, the smells, even the pain. Everything was so convincing that it was as if your own brain was working against you, making you believe the dream was reality."

She paused, rubbing her temples as if the memory itself was enough to cause a headache.

"You know, after experiencing something like that, you're left with this overwhelming sense of helplessness. It's as if the entire world is beyond your control, like you're trapped in the center of an endless vortex, constantly being pulled down…"

"I'm sure that must have been quite uncomfortable," Professor Miyazaki replied absentmindedly, his attention still fixed on the equipment.

"But don't worry," he added, his tone almost reassuring. "The data we collected from your last encounter was invaluable. Once I finish the final adjustments, the helmet will be ready for mass production. We won't have to worry about being caught off guard again…"

"Is that so?" Melanie murmured, her voice laced with a hint of something unspoken.

Professor Miyazaki finally glanced up, noticing the subtle shift in her tone. He saw her reflection in the glass of one of the monitors, her expression slightly off, her smile faint but unsettling.

"Then tell me, professor," Melanie said softly, her voice carrying an almost eerie calmness. "How do you know that the work you're doing right now, what you're experiencing, and even this equipment you're about to complete… how do you know it's not all just a dream?"

The question hung in the air, its implications sending a chill down Professor Miyazaki's spine. For a moment, he froze, the gears in his mind turning as he processed her words.

He turned around slowly, his eyes narrowing as he faced her directly.

"What exactly are you trying to say, Melanie?" he asked, his voice tense with suspicion.

"Nothing," she replied, her smile widening just a fraction.

Before Professor Miyazaki could react, Melanie reached into her coat and drew out a sleek, silver-white pistol. The gun's streamlined design gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, its metal casing reflecting a cold, unyielding brilliance. The black muzzle, pointed directly at the professor, seemed to stare into the depths of his soul.

"Good night, Professor," Melanie whispered.

She pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the lab, a sharp, deafening crack that shattered the stillness of the room.

In the brief flash of the muzzle flare, Professor Miyazaki's world went dark. The pain was sharp but fleeting, a searing agony that disappeared as quickly as it came. The light in the room dimmed, the colors fading until there was nothing left but a deep, impenetrable black.

He felt himself falling, his body collapsing to the floor with a dull thud. But it was as if he had lost all sense of weight, his consciousness drifting away into the void. The world around him vanished, consumed by the darkness that swallowed everything in its path.

And in the final moments, as the last remnants of awareness slipped away, two words echoed in the silence, lingering in the shadows like a haunting refrain.

"Good night."

---

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