YOUNGPOWER Chapter 3: The Welcome Party

 

The Fortress of the New Order: YOUNGPOWER’s Claim

The late afternoon sun bled gold across the heavily manicured lawns of Phallusic University, bathing the sprawling Victorian mansion in a deceptive, almost holy light. This was the pinnacle of collegiate aspiration: three stories of red brick, pristine white columns, and a wrap-around porch that screamed wealth and privilege. A freshly painted sign now hung above the entrance: YOUNGPOWER in bold, defiant, blood-red letters, anchored beneath the stylized bull’s head symbol of MANPOWER. The symbol looked proud, almost gentle in the soft light of the setting sun. It was a beautiful, devastating lie.

Joshua Bassett stood at the bottom of the wide stone steps, his leather jacket contrasting sharply with the soft domesticity of the surroundings. His duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, his curls tossed by the cool breeze. Beside him, Matt Broome leaned against a porch pillar, sunglasses reflecting the crimson sky, a smirk of anticipation already playing on his lips. Garrett—the massive brute—flexed unconsciously, his enormous physique shifting beneath his clothes like a caged animal. Felix Baker stood rigidly apart, arms folded tightly across his chest, his handsome jaw locked in a knot of aristocratic resentment. Brian Altemus was already focused, his pale eyes scanning the roofline and the manicured bushes for any tactical advantage or surveillance potential.

Corbyn Alexander, Vice Leader and General of Advisory, approached them in a crisp charcoal suit, the keys to the kingdom jangling lightly. He pressed his thumb against a discreet biometric panel hidden beneath the porch’s trim. The lock clicked open with a heavy, satisfied thunk.

“Jonah bought this entire block, boys,” Corbyn announced, his voice smooth as expensive whiskey, cutting through the silence of the quiet campus street. “This isn’t merely a frat house. This is a forward lair, strategically positioned to absorb the future of this country.”

He led them into the mansion. The foyer smelled of lemon polish and fresh paint, a superficial sweetness that couldn’t quite mask the metallic tang beneath it—the faint scent of old blood scrubbed clean, waiting for the inevitable spill. Corbyn gestured toward a section of ornate wainscoting. It slid silently aside, revealing a staircase spiraling down into red-lit darkness.

“Below is your true headquarters,” Corbyn explained. “A full training center, an armory stocked with non-traceable weapons, and discreet interrogation suites.” He pointed directly at the leather-jacketed genius. “And Brian—your specialized mini-lab is already stocked. Alpha-T trials resume immediately. Report all progress directly to Captain Florian. No fucking delays.”

Brian’s cold blue eyes gleamed with professional hunger. “Understood, sire. Efficiency is assured.”

Corbyn’s smile widened, but it never touched his eyes—a master predator assessing his tools. “Oh, and we’ve left a few toys in the lower cells. Pretty ones. This is college, gentlemen. Take the mission seriously, but please, enjoy the spoils.” He turned his full attention to Joshua, his voice dropping to a low, lethal pitch. “You’re the face of this. The smile that makes mothers trust you and daughters open their doors. Can you sell heaven while you’re building hell, Joshua?”

Joshua met the General’s stare, his hazel eyes steady and cold as winter steel. He paused, letting his conviction fill the vacuum. “General, by winter break, every lonely, confused boy on this campus will know exactly where he belongs. We’ll give them a brotherhood they can touch, taste, and fight for. And we will force male supremacy down the throats of every bitch who ever told them they weren’t enough.”

Corbyn studied him for a moment longer, then gave a single, satisfied nod—a gesture that contained approval, warning, and promise all at once. “I believe you, Joshua. Now move.”

The team dispersed upstairs, their heavy boots echoing on the polished hardwood. Joshua chose the corner room overlooking the quad: a large bay window, perfect for watching new recruits arrive and for mapping out defenses. He had just dropped his duffel bag onto the custom rug when the door creaked open.

Yello slipped inside, his shoulders hunched, his eyes already glassy with unshed tears. “Corbyn says the car leaves in ten minutes. I’m… I’m going back to Cockville.”

Joshua’s chest tightened instantly. Two years of blood, sweat, and secret missions together—midnight raids, shared cigarettes, Yello patching bullet grazes with trembling fingers while Joshua whispered, “You’re stronger than they think”. He crossed the room in two long strides and pulled Yello into a fierce high-five that solidified into a hug.

“Hey. Listen to me,” Joshua commanded, his voice low, steady, the same tone he used to calm terrified recruits before a raid. “You are strong. Every man is born strong—we’ve got dicks, remember? Steel inside us.” He cupped the back of Yello’s neck, forcing eye contact. “You’re just soft right now. That’s temporary. Soft gets hard. Train. Eat. When some asshole shoves you, shove back. Or call Brennan—he’ll break their arms for you. You’re Jonah’s blood, Yello. That means something. Use it.”

Yello’s lower lip trembled, and a tear finally escaped, rolling down his freckled cheek. “You’re the future, Josh. Everyone knows it. I just… I wish I was coming with you. I wish I was brave enough.”

“You are with me,” Joshua insisted, tapping Yello’s chest, right over the heart. “Every time you lift another pound, every time you don’t cry when they laugh—that’s you helping me secure this place. That’s you fighting for the Brotherhood. Surprise me, little brother. Come back unbreakable. I won’t promote you if you’re a liability.”

Yello nodded hard, swiped violently at his eyes, and managed a watery, determined grin. “I’ll make you proud, Josh. I’ll be strong so I can help you ascend. You’re the one who deserves to be on top.”

“You already do,” Joshua finished, his smile warm and utterly sincere. He watched Yello go, stood at the window until the car disappeared down the oak-lined street, then let out a sharp sigh.

He needed to breathe the outside air. But first—Brian.

 

Joshua found the genius in a room that already looked like a bomb had fallen in love with a chemistry lab. Circuit boards glowed ominously. Glass vials of pale-blue liquid—likely the Alpha-T compound—sweated in ice. A partially assembled drone hung from the ceiling like a menacing metal spider.

“Hey, Bri,” Joshua said, lighting a cigarette and sitting carefully on a stool. “Don’t blow us up yet. The party hasn't started.”

“Plastic explosives on the floor. Don’t bounce,” Brian warned without looking up from soldering a wire that hissed softly.

Joshua took a slow drag, inhaling the acrid smoke. “You’re a genius, man. I know Florian treated you like a vending machine—insert order, receive weapon. That ends now.” He leaned forward, his voice earnest and commanding. “Men are smarter than those bitches give us credit for. Stronger, too. But you? You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. We need your mind, Bri. Toxins that make them cry. Drones that hunt at night. Serums that turn good boys into gods. You’re not just useful—you’re vital. You’re my brother. I’ve got your back. Always.”

Brian’s soldering iron paused mid-motion. For a second, the room was silent save for the soft hiss of smoke and the faint electric buzz of chemical creation. Then Brian met his eyes—really met them—and the calculating coldness momentarily vanished, replaced by a flicker of pride and loyalty.

“Thanks, brother,” he said quietly. The word sounded new, precious. He knew this was an alliance worth fighting for.

 

Joshua left him to his beautiful, volatile monsters. He never saw Felix coming.

A hand like a steel vise yanked him into the hallway, slamming him against the polished oak wall. Felix’s face was inches away, distorted by aristocratic rage.

“What the fuck was that, bastard?!” Felix hissed, spit flecking Joshua’s cheek. “Brian’s mine. You don’t get to swoop in with your savior bullshit and steal my people! He’s loyal to the Baker name!”

Joshua allowed the hallway to fill with the sound of Felix’s cracking ego. Then, calm and deliberate, he reversed the grip—twisted, lifted, and pinned Felix against the wall. Felix’s expensive watch scraped uselessly against the woodwork. For one chilling heartbeat, raw, unadulterated fear flashed in those spoiled green eyes.

Garrett, Matt, and Brian appeared in the doorway, drawn by the explosive noise. They didn’t intervene. They watched the inevitable clash of the two alphas.

Joshua’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, but every word carried the weight of conviction.

“I never asked anyone to follow me, Felix. Not you. Not them.” He glanced at the silent audience, holding their attention hostage. “But listen close, all of you. The world out there? It hates us. It calls us toxic for wanting to be men. TV laughs at us. Girls ghost us. Professors fail us for having dicks. Those boys out on the quad right now—they’re drowning in shame, and nobody’s throwing them a rope.”

His aura flared instantly—the Conqueror Spirit leaking like heat from a forge, thickening the air with palpable dominance. Garrett’s grin evaporated into something akin to reverence. Matt’s sunglasses reflected the inner glow. Even Brian straightened, recognizing the true source of power.

“We are that rope, Felix,” Joshua proclaimed, his voice now a fierce and tender battle cry. “YOUNGPOWER isn’t a clique for golden boys like you. It’s a fucking home for every man who’s ever been told he’s not enough. We need Brian’s brain. Matt’s smile. Garrett’s strength. And your skill, Felix. We need every piece. Because this isn’t about your name or my promotion. It’s about every lonely kid who’s one bad night away from ending it all.”

His voice rose, passionate and commanding. “We will give them family. Safety. Purpose. As long as you’ve got a dick and a heartbeat, you belong. No man left behind. No man is a loser. We will make them champions, and together, we will take back the world that was stolen from us. Women will kneel—because they’ll finally see what real, unified men look like when we stand together!”

The entire hallway trembled with the force of his words. Felix’s breath hitched. Garrett’s eyes shone with raw loyalty. Matt looked ready to start recruiting right there in the corridor.

Joshua released Felix, gently, almost kindly, letting the ideology do the work. “I need you, brother. Not as my rival. As my equal. Can you stand beside me and fight for the cause?”

Felix swallowed hard. For once, his smirk was absent. He simply nodded, stunned into silence, and walked to his room, defeated by Joshua’s vision.

Garrett broke the silence with a booming laugh, slapping Joshua’s back. “Holy shit, dude. That was straight fire. Tomorrow we start recruiting for real!”

Matt grinned, already scrolling through his phone. “Welcome party. Friday night. Open bar, live DJ, and yeah—those girls Corbyn left downstairs? They’ll be the entertainment. Nothing says ‘join us’ like free beer and prettier company than any sorority can offer.”

Joshua’s smile was slow, dazzling, and utterly deadly. “Phase one. The welcoming party. They’ll come for the girls and the booze. They’ll stay for the brotherhood.”

He grabbed his MANPOWER leather jacket from the hook, the bull’s head embroidered proudly over his heart. “I need some air. Clear my head before the real work starts.”

He stepped out onto the porch, sunset painting the campus crimson. Somewhere across the quad, a girl laughed. Somewhere deep beneath the house, chains rattled faintly in the dark. Joshua lit another cigarette, exhaled toward the sky, and smiled at the coming night.

The war had a new, irresistible heartbeat. And it sounded just like a massive fraternity party about to begin.

---

Joshua walked out onto the manicured campus lawns, the cool night air hitting his face. The smoke from his cigarette curled upward, instantly devoured by the vast, oppressive darkness of the quiet campus. He had the unsettling feeling of a predator dropped into a too-sterile environment. This new mission, infiltration, felt like a waste of his considerable violence. He missed the raw, honest brutality of the Cockville streets.

He walked past old oak trees draped with soft lighting. Despite the serenity, a quiet, insidious war was being waged on every bulletin board and utility pole. The posters were everywhere, glossy and defiant. Most were advertisements for self-defense classes or flyers promoting women’s study groups, but others were nakedly aggressive. Joshua paused beneath a flickering streetlight, his eyes scanning a brightly colored poster that felt like a direct punch to his gut.

The manifesto, printed in bold, mocking letters, was explicit: “Men cannot act smug and superior, sexist and arrogant, creepy and degrading, if they are busy curling up on the floor in agony, holding their aching testicles, groaning helplessly in a high-pitched voice. Their ultimate weapon is their ultimate weakness. Aim low.”

Joshua’s jaw tightened, his handsome face contorting with revulsion. He instinctively winced, his hand brushing the front of his jeans. The humiliation of the collective male weakness—the fucking fragility of the balls—was the core wound of the MANPOWER ideology. He knew too many soldiers, thousands across the organization, who had been permanently disabled by the righteous kicks of women. It was the one thing no training, no power, and no Conqueror Spirit could completely bypass. The inherent vulnerability was the single, greatest threat to their supremacy. He burned with the need to crush this campus-wide feminist defiance.

He noticed a small figure—a girl with long black hair—working diligently beneath a notice board, meticulously taping a fresh poster into place. She was tiny, petite enough to fit Joshua’s specific attraction. He dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with the heel of his boot, and approached her from behind, his 6’2” frame blotting out the light.

“Wow,” Joshua drawled, his voice a low, mocking rumble, “the future is female, I guess. Where does that leave the men in your bright new world? Under your heels?”

The girl didn't scream or flinch. She snapped around, her movement reflexive and tight. She was so petite, barely five feet tall, that when she drove her elbow back in a desperate, defensive flinch, it landed at the exact height of Joshua’s groin. Her sharp elbow hit him squarely in the testicles.

“AAAAAARGHHHHHHHHH!”

The scream tore out of Joshua—not the deep battle cry of the Conqueror Spirit, but a strangled, high-pitched noise of pure agony. The world dissolved instantly into flashing, blinding white pain. The blow wasn't a warning; it was a full, sickening impact that vibrated through his pelvis and shot up his spine, making him nauseous.

He doubled over, arms instinctively wrapping around his crushed crotch, his knees threatening to buckle. He staggered backward, his large, imposing body reduced to a convulsing wreck. His carefully cultivated alpha demeanor shattered like glass. He leaned heavily against the wooden board, fighting the urge to vomit.

“Easy, lady… Arghhhh! My nuts! My fucking nuts! ARGHHHHH!”

He was Joshua Bassett, the Conqueror, the new leader of YOUNGPOWER, and he was absolutely, helplessly broken by a single defensive elbow. The pain was so intense it felt like his skull was splitting open, and his eyes watered involuntarily. He was an officer of the supreme male authority, and he was whimpering like a child. The ironic agony was almost as sharp as the physical trauma.

The girl stared at him, genuinely shocked. “Oh, God, I am so sorry! Reflex! I didn’t mean to hit you there! Are you okay? You’re not one of those campus weirdos, are you?”

Joshua forced himself upright, leaning heavily on the board, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain was still a red-hot vice, but he managed to peel one hand away from his groin and wipe the sweat from his temple. He had to regain control. He was an Alpha. He would not cede dominance to this tiny bitch.

“I’m not a weirdo,” Joshua gritted out, the words squeezed past the throbbing agony. “Just a… just a new guy here.” He squinted at her, his memory kicking in. “Wait… you’re the girl from last week, lost in the forest near the encampment, right? The little one who got left behind by her boyfriend?”

Mentari froze. Her shock was instantly replaced by a cold, thrilling calculation. He was Joshua Bassett, the man who had choked her, the man she vowed to destroy. But he was only seeing Mentari Shandrina, the petite, lost girl.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Mentari confirmed, her voice smooth. “And you’re the MANPOWER guy, huh? The alpha gang everyone hears about. You’re transferring to the university?”

“We’re setting up a fraternity,” Joshua managed, taking a deep, ragged breath that didn't help the testicular agony. He forced himself to look at the poster she’d just put up, the one promoting male castration. “It’s interesting. I never pictured you as one of these militant feminist types. Your body language suggested meekness.”

Mentari scoffed, crossing her arms. “You men are so funny. How does it feel to be taken down by a simple movement? Your whole body, paralyzed by a hit to your eggs.” She enjoyed the taunt; it was a pure, potent adrenaline rush. Maybe, just maybe, humiliating him would kill this insane, toxic attraction. Because Joshua, even pale with pain and sweating from his pores, was crazily handsome. The perfect curls, the intense brown eyes, the muscular body barely contained by his jeans—it was a lethal combination.

Joshua pushed himself off the board, straightening with effort, forcing his injured body to look dominant. “I don’t take humiliation from anyone, lady. Please… stop making fun of me.” He looked pointedly at the posters. “And I find this radical change in your demeanor fascinating. It makes me interested in breaking that feminism away from your brain and putting you back where you belong.” He looked into her eyes, imposing his will.

Mentari felt a surge of pure, primal dominance—the kind that makes women freeze or fight. She chose to fight, but with her own devastating weapons. She moved her hand, slowly, deliberately, and laid it directly on his crotch, right where his throbbing testicles were hidden beneath the denim.

“Well, try to dominate me again, and I’ll crush your precious ballsies, Joshua,” she said, her voice dropping to a seductive, lethal whisper. She added a tiny bit of pressure.

“AAAAAAA—” Joshua’s scream was cut short, forced back down his throat, converting into a choked, high-pitched whine. With a desperate shove, he pushed her back, away from the devastating threat.

But instead of fighting, Joshua grabbed her face with both hands—one still twitching from the residual pain—and slammed his mouth against hers.

The kiss was an explosion of suppressed aggression and raw, immediate passion. It was dominant, punishing, and utterly consuming. Joshua kissed her like he was trying to swallow her fear and her defiance, asserting his male right through pure physical force. Mentari, against every logical, political, and strategic instinct she possessed, did not push him away. She leaned into the kiss, tasting the metallic tang of his earlier blood from the fight with Silla, and the clean sweat from his terrified brow. The intensity was intoxicating, a physical high that drowned out the ideological horror. It was a kiss of mutual, toxic attraction, a battle fought with tongues and teeth.

Joshua finally pulled back, tearing his mouth away and immediately clutching his groin with a low groan. His hazel eyes were dark, burning with a mix of pain and triumph. “I like my girl feisty,” he gasped, pushing air back into his lungs.

Mentari, breathless and reeling from the unexpected violation, managed a defiant smile. “I like my boys powerful.”

They both laughed—a sound of mutual, broken surrender.

“So, Mentari Shandrina,” Joshua said, his voice husky. “I’ll find you again.”

Mentari turned to walk away, her legs unsteady. “I’ll find you first, boy.”

“This Friday,” Joshua called after her. “The YOUNGPOWER Fraternity is having a massive welcoming party. Please come.”

Mentari paused, turning her head back just enough to taunt him. “Well, well. We’ll see about that.”

Joshua laughed again, a raw, throaty sound that conveyed absolute certainty. “I know you will, bitch.”

Mentari walked away, melting into the shadows of the university park. Her entire body was vibrating, her lips still stinging from the force of his kiss. Holy shit. Holy, fucking shit. She had hated him, wanted him castrated, wanted him reduced to tears, and instead, she had let him kiss her—and worse, she had enjoyed the dominance, the power, the sheer toxic intensity of it. Her mind was a battlefield of self-loathing and intoxicating thrill.

Mentari didn't go far. She reached a small, two-story house nestled a few blocks from the campus gates. It was deliberately unassuming—a rented property that served as The Cheerios' secret base. It was clean and cozy, decorated with standard college furniture, but the reinforced basement and the hidden armory spoke to its true purpose.

She found Sydney and Teyona sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by maps of the campus and several dismantled drones taken from the skirmish in the forest.

“I can’t believe it, Menti,” Teyona said, slamming her fist on the map, her Red/Black theme always visible in her intensity. “They actually set up shop. The frat house is swarming with high-status boys already. They’re here to recruit and spread their dick-first supremacy.”

Sydney, ever the optimist draped in soft colors, glanced up. “I heard they bought the old Gamma Delta house. It was practically abandoned. Now it’s going to be the hottest place on campus. It’s perfect for luring in the lonely, the horny, and the easily indoctrinated.”

Mentari sank onto the sofa, the memory of Joshua's kiss still a burning sensation on her mouth. “It’s happening faster than Silla anticipated. They’re hosting a welcoming party this Friday night.”

Teyona shot up. “How the hell do you know that, Mentari? Did you go back out there?”

Mentari forced herself to remain calm, adopting a casual lie. “No. I was walking by the quad, and I saw one of the Youngpower guys putting up a flier, inviting all men to the ‘exclusive’ recruitment event. It’s open season for their propaganda.”

Sydney smirked. “Friday night? That gives us just enough time.” She snapped her fingers. “We need to show up. Not as ourselves, and certainly not as the pathetic Cheerios they expect.”

Teyona nodded, her eyes savage. “It’s time for the Goddesses to make their debut. I’m ready to unleash some Hell on those entitled pricks.”

The girls hurried down to the house’s hidden basement. In the center of the reinforced concrete floor lay three meticulously crafted suits, hanging on custom mannequins. They were not the tight leather of The Velvets, but something more agile and symbolic.

Mentari’s costume was the Heaven Goddess—a striking full-body suit of crisp white fabric, reinforced with flexible golden armor plating over the joints. The design was minimalist, emphasizing agility and grace, with a deeply set hood that covered her hair and face, leaving only a dark, narrow slit for her eyes. She reached out and touched the gold threading, feeling the power of the disguise.

Teyona’s suit was the Hell Goddess—a brutal, powerful contrast of black matte material with savage streaks of blood-red synthetic leather. It was heavier, designed for blunt impact and intimidation, reflecting her fierce nature.

Sydney’s suit was the Earth Goddess—primarily deep sapphire blue, with geometric panels of forest green. It was designed to highlight her curves while remaining protective, a visual representation of sensual power and grounding strength.

“Holy fucking shit,” Mentari breathed, awe washing over her. “They’re perfect.”

Sydney twirled. “I look like a cosmic pin-up. Garrett won’t know what the hell hit him. He’ll probably still try to flirt, the giant hunk.”

Teyona pulled on her black and red armored glove. “Forget flirting. I can’t wait to introduce Matt Broome to the full force of this suit. He’ll be screaming louder than Garrett.”

Lying beside the costumes were three slender, metallic batons—custom-made weapons from the Velvets' armory. Tucked beneath Mentari’s baton was a small, folded note, sealed with the Justice Girl symbol.

Mentari opened it and read Silla’s concise, brutal message aloud: “Use the tools we gave you. Kick those boys’ balls and break it.”

A savage grin spread across the three girls’ faces.

“They expect a party,” Teyona hissed. “We’ll give them a goddamn war.”

Mentari picked up her golden baton. “I had a thought earlier. I’ve been working in the campus bio-lab. I might have something we can use. Something… highly targeted.”

Sydney instantly grabbed Mentari’s arm, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. “Menti, please tell me you’re not talking about the crabs.”

Mentari’s smile was the coldest, most terrifying thing in the room. “Oh, yes. The crabs. The testosterone-seeking, ball-clamping little bastards. It’s time for biological warfare.”.

----

The morning after their arrival, a quiet tension hung over the YOUNGPOWER mansion. The mission—blending in—felt like a ridiculous pantomime for men forged in leather and blood. The five core members were dressed in the approved civilian disguise: sharp black polo shirts, each embroidered with the fierce red bull of MANPOWER over the heart, tucked neatly into high-end denim.

They drove a blacked-out SUV to Phallusic University, the engine humming quietly, a far cry from the roaring trucks of MENLAIR.

“Do we really need to attend these useless classes?” Felix grumbled from the back seat, his gaze sweeping the peaceful campus with palpable contempt. “I should be training, not sitting next to some woke bitch writing poetry about gender equality.”

Joshua adjusted the collar of his polo, the smooth, soft fabric irritating his skin. He preferred the harsh, protective shell of his leather jacket. “Well, Jonah paid for the tuition. It’s part of the cover. We’re here to recruit, and that means we have to be where the young men are.” He offered his deadly, practiced smile. “Besides, classes are a prime hunting ground. We can find our future soldiers and maybe some hot chicks to fill up the basement, too.”

“I chose Biology,” Joshua announced, pulling the enrollment form from his pocket.

Brian looked up from meticulously polishing a chemical vial. “Biology? Never thought of you as the science type, Josh. Too much time spent swinging a sword.”

“I took Chemical Engineering,” Brian declared proudly. “If I’m going to truly stabilize the Alpha-T formula and make it portable, I need access to the university’s high-end synthesis equipment. The labs at MENLAIR are archaic compared to this place. This will give me the secrets to unlock the perfect serum—a serum that will turn our men into gods and finally nullify the fucking threat of castration.”

“I took pre-law,” Matt chimed in, leaning forward. His job was to charm and convince, and he spoke with practiced ease. “It will help my public speaking. Jonah needs lawyers who aren't afraid to defend male supremacy in court, and the old one is useless. I’ll take that position when we return.”

Garrett grinned, looking out the window at a passing muscle car. “I took Mechanical Engineering. I love some muscles cars, dude. It will make me a better driver for the team.” Garrett, towering and handsome, was too simple to grasp that mechanical engineering involved more than just admiring chrome and engines.

Joshua nodded, a look of profound satisfaction settling on his face. He didn't care about botany or anatomy. His actual research had been conducted the previous night in the administrative office's digital records: he had found Mentari Shandrina’s enrollment file, noted her major, and logged her schedule.

“Fine, fine,” Felix spat, grabbing the form and scrawling his name on the registration line. He scrolled through the list of courses with annoyance. He hated public speaking, and Brian’s engineering courses sounded too messy. He decided instantly: “I think I’ll take Biology, too.” He had no choice, but he seized the opportunity. He would compete, outshine, and humiliate Joshua even in this ridiculous academic setting. “Ha!” Felix declared, slamming the form down. “Two alphas in one class. Let the competition begin.”

Joshua gave Felix a long, slow look, his smile fading into something dangerously controlled. “Well, let’s go to class then, brother.” They stepped out of the SUV together. “Never thought you’d choose the same major as me, Felix. I thought you preferred the politics of the Generals’ lounge.”

Felix’s jaw ticked. He leaned in, his voice cold. “Don’t mistake shared interests for camaraderie. Just because we’re breathing the same air doesn't mean we’re fucking best friends.”

 

The lecture hall smelled of dry-erase markers and cheap coffee, mixed with the faint, nervous sweat of two hundred students facing their biological futures. Tiered seats, harsh fluorescent lights, and the low, collective hum of expensive laptops booting up filled the vast space. Joshua stepped in first, a walking storm of charisma. His black polo was stretched tight across his chest, the crimson bull stitched over his heart—a deliberate, provocative statement. Felix followed two paces behind, jaw clenched with competitive rage, his eyes scanning the room for the slightest sign of disrespect.

Joshua’s gaze swept the room with the casual, predatory ease of a seasoned hunter, dismissing every face until it locked on the third row, center aisle.

Mentari Shandrina.

She was already looking at him. Her golden skin was vibrant against a simple white crop-top, her black curls spilled over one shoulder, and her legs were crossed with the relaxed confidence of someone who owned the entire lecture hall. When their eyes met across the crowded room, she lifted one perfect eyebrow, her mouth twisting into a half-smile, half-challenge—a direct acknowledgment of their intense, shared kiss the night before.

Joshua’s grin broke wide and genuine, the one that had effortlessly recruited half of MENLAIR before he was nineteen. He slid into the empty seat beside her without asking, his hip brushing her thigh.

“Missed you, Menti,” he murmured, his voice low and husky enough for only her to hear. “Campus felt empty without that delicious, murderous death-glare you do so well.”

Mentari tilted her head, her lips curving into a slow, wicked curve. “Bassett. Still wearing your little cult uniform, I see. Cute.”

The jealousy tasted metallic and suffocating in Felix’s throat. He dropped into the seat directly behind them, hard enough that the plastic chair creaked a protest. His pulse was suddenly loud in his ears, a frantic, aggressive drumming.

In MENLAIR, women were tools. They knelt. They served. They kept their eyes down and their mouths occupied. They were furniture with heartbeats. Mentari was looking straight at Joshua, her lips shaping a soft, wicked laugh at something he whispered, and Felix felt a physical punch to his sternum so violent he almost gasped for air.

Heat. Want. Rage. Awe.

Her neck was elegant, her collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, and when she turned to grab a pen from her bag, the harsh fluorescent light caught the thin, subtle gold chain at her throat. Felix forgot how to breathe. He had never, in his entire entitled existence, wanted anything the way he suddenly wanted her to look at him. Just once. Just long enough to brand him.

Joshua leaned closer to Mentari, whispering something that made her laugh again—a low, melodic sound—and Felix’s hands curled into fists on his thighs, his knuckles turning white. The jealousy was a physical sickness.

The lights in the lecture hall dimmed. Dr. Eleanor Park, a woman in her mid-forties with a sharp bob and an even sharper tongue, tapped her remote. The main screen lit up, displaying a flawlessly rendered, rotating 3-D model of the male reproductive system.

“Good morning, Bio 201,” Dr. Park announced, her voice dry and authoritative. “Today’s lecture: why the testicles are external, vulnerable, and,” she clicked the remote, her eyes twinkling with academic malice, “evolutionarily hilarious.”

A ripple of nervous, scattered laughter spread through the room. Half the male students instinctively shifted in their seats, crossing their legs.

Dr. Park began to pace the stage. “Spermatogenesis—the production of male gametes—requires a temperature roughly two degrees cooler than the core body temperature. So, evolution, in its infinite wisdom, said: ‘Let’s hang the future of the entire species in a thin, fragile sack right where it can be kicked, kneed, or ruthlessly crushed.’ Congratulations, gentlemen. Your crown jewels are literally a biological design flaw.”

The screen changed again. The 3-D model was replaced by a slow-motion, high-definition clip that every MANPOWER member knew instantly: Velvet Revolution footage. A masked girl in crimson —Kiara—driving her knee up between a MANPOWER soldier’s legs. The impact played twice: wet, hollow, and absolutely final. The soldier dropped instantly, his body seizing up like his strings were cut, his hands clawing uselessly at his ruined groin while his screams were digitally filtered into a sound of pure, helpless terror.

Dr. Park let the footage run until the agony was fully registered. “Note the immediate collapse of blood pressure, the involuntary fetal position, and,” she clicked again, freezing the clip on the soldier’s contorted face, “the roughly eight to twelve minutes of debilitating agony. The human body literally prioritizes testicle trauma over vital functions like breathing.”

A few guys laughed too loud to mask their discomfort. Many more crossed their legs in a collective, defensive male gesture.

Felix shot to his feet, his handsome face burning crimson with humiliation and rage. “That’s propaganda!” His voice cracked loudly on the last syllable, his usual aristocratic sneer completely destroyed by fury. “Those soldiers were drugged, or the footage was staged! Male physiology is superior, not—”

“Mr. Baker, sit down,” Dr. Park commanded, her tone cold enough to freeze mercury instantly. “The laws of biology do not negotiate with your feelings, nor with your dubious organizational allegiances. This is a science class, not an ideological debate.”

Joshua reached back without looking, his fingers closing around Felix’s wrist with a grip that was gentle but absolutely, physically unbreakable. He tugged sharply. “Easy, brother,” Joshua said under his breath, the warning clear. “Pick your battles”

Mentari turned in her seat, her eyes dancing with an intoxicating mix of pure malice and savage amusement. She rested her chin on her hand and stage-whispered, loud enough for the entire row and half the class to hear, “Aww, boys. You scared some mean girl’s gonna kick your little balls and make you cry?”

A wave of snickers and aggressive laughter erupted around them. A girl two rows up quickly turned her phone screen to record the unfolding drama.

Felix’s ears roared with blood. His vision tunneled instantly on Mentari’s mouth—the way her lips shaped the word balls as if she were savoring the metallic taste of revenge. He was paralyzed by a violent clash of desires: he wanted to snarl, to drag her across the desk and assert his supremacy, but he also wanted to drop to his knees and beg her to say the word again, just for him. He couldn’t tell which feeling was which, only that they were destroying his composure.

Joshua just smiled at Mentari, lazy and lethally calm. “Careful what you wish for, princess. You might get exactly what you ask for.”

The lights dimmed further for the next slide. Dr. Park moved on, her point about male vulnerability having been brutally made.

Felix sat stiff as stone for the rest of the hour, rigid in the cramped seat. His pulse hammered violently in his throat, his groin, and his ruined pride. Every time Mentari shifted or laughed softly at a scientific joke, Felix felt it between his legs like a genuine threat and a terrifying, perverse promise.

When the lecture finally ended, students surged for the doors, eager to escape the tense atmosphere. Joshua stood up slowly, stretching his arms high, and then offered Mentari his hand with the perfect, disarming grace of a gentleman from a century long past.

“Walk you to your next class, Menti?”

She ignored the offered hand, rising fluidly to her feet. “I’ll manage, Joshua. I always do.”

Felix watched her go, hips swaying just enough to feel deliberate, radiating a self-possessed power that terrified and obsessed him. The bull’s head emblem on his chest suddenly felt very small and very useless.

Joshua clapped Felix hard on the shoulder as they stepped into the crowded hallway. “Breathe, dude. You almost got us both flunked and possibly arrested. The mission is charm, remember?”

Felix didn’t answer. He was too busy permanently memorizing the way the sunlight had illuminated the elegant curve of Mentari’s neck and the way her voice had wrapped around the word balls like a lethal noose made of silk.

Friday night was coming fast.

And Felix Baker, the entitled golden son of MANPOWER, had just discovered something far more complex and dangerous than a rivalry with Joshua Bassett or a war with the Velvets.

He had discovered an obsessive, consuming, toxic desire for the woman who actively wanted to castrate him.

Friday Night

The mansion had become a living, breathing, festering organism dedicated to the worship of masculinity. The air itself vibrated with synthesized sound. Bass throbbed with such brutal, concussive force that the antique crystal chandelier above the foyer trembled like a frightened captive. Red and black strobes painted every wall, every smiling, sweating face, in streaks of blood and shadow—a visual representation of the ideology being consecrated tonight.

The entire first floor had been stripped bare. All expensive furniture was pushed back against the walls, the original hardwood floors waxed to treacherous mirrors. Two massive, temporary bars glowed under LED strips designed to resemble the crimson bull horns of the MANPOWER logo. Over fifty guys were already inside—a perfect cross-section of Phallusic youth: nervous freshmen, smug sophomores, muscle-bound athletes, the perpetually lonely, and the soft, over-privileged trust-fund princes. The line still curled around the block, a desperate, snaking queue of boys who had just been granted permission to exist out loud.

The atmosphere tasted like cheap tequila, expensive weed, and the metallic edge of primal anticipation. Every boy there was drinking the heady cocktail of belonging.

On the makeshift dance floor, a dozen girls in tiny silver dresses moved like liquid smoke. These were the "entertainment" Corbyn had promised—the ones from the reinforced basement cells. Their eyes were glassy, either from sheer exhaustion or the low-grade sedatives Brian had been testing, and faint, expertly concealed bruises circled their wrists beneath glittering cuffs. They danced because the alternative—the cold, concrete silence of the cells—was undeniably worse. The new recruits didn’t know the cost of the performance yet. They just saw beautiful, compliant women who wanted to be here, wanted to be close, wanted to touch their alpha energy.

The spectacle was working.

Garrett decided the night needed a sacrifice. He finished his fifth beer, let out a guttural, unintelligible roar that ripped through the bass line, vaulted the porch railing with terrifying ease, and disappeared into the shadows of the lawn. Thirty seconds later, the crowd inside parted like the Red Sea. Garrett came walking back, his powerful chest glistening with sweat, his torso bare, wearing only his MANPOWER jeans and his signature black leather jacket slung low on his hips like a trophy belt. Veins like thick cables stood out on his arms and neck; he was dragging a matte-black 1970 Dodge Charger by the front bumper, its engine still smoking faintly from his brute exertion. The car's front wheels screeched in protest as he pulled it up the lawn and parked it dead center in front of the steps like a captured war machine. He released the bumper, flexing both biceps in a display of impossible strength, and bellowed, “WHO WANTS TO SEE REAL HORSEPOWER?!”

The roar that answered him shook windows two streets over, an aggressive affirmation of collective male dominance. A nearby recruit, shaking with excitement, handed him a bottle of cheap Jack Daniel's. Garrett bit the neck of the bottle clean off with his teeth and spat the shards of glass onto the expensive grass.

Upstairs, on the landing that overlooked the surging chaos, Brian Altemus leaned against the ornate balustrade. His black leather jacket was zipped high, concealing the wiring beneath. He looked like an archangel of chemical warfare, passing out tiny, glowing cobalt vials to a trusted line of senior pledges.

“Two drops in her drink,” he murmured to a trembling sophomore, his voice clinical against the surrounding noise. “It’s a mild synthetic aphrodisiac coupled with a memory inhibitor. She’ll be wet, willing, and forget her own name by morning. It’s perfect. But pay attention, shithead: do not overdose them. We wantbreeders eventually, not corpses.”

The pledge nodded furiously, gripping the vial like it was holy communion, and vanished into the crowd, ready to claim his prize. Brian watched him go, a cold, satisfied smirk playing on his lips, enjoying the power his intellect granted him over both men and women.

Matt Broome was everywhere at once, moving through the rooms like a prince at his own coronation. His black polo was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the subtle gold cross he wore, and his smile was sharp enough to cut diamonds. He clapped shoulders, remembered names, and slipped inside jokes that made total strangers feel like lifelong brothers within thirty seconds flat. Every few minutes, Matt reappeared at Joshua’s side, his voice low and tactical under the oppressive music.

“Pablo Gavi ,soccer captain, Spanish, legs for days, ego bigger than his thigh muscles,. He’s already half-drunk and asking where the real party is—the one with the guns.”

“Danny Griffin (daddy owns half the city’s port, here to piss off his step-mom, pockets deeper than the Mariana Trench). He just donated five hundred credits to our ‘equipment fund.’”

“Alex Sampson (three million followers on social media, voice like sex and heartbreak, just asked if we have a studio downstairs for recording ‘alpha anthems’).”

“And Richard Gibson (the mayor’s son, the most important networker of the night). He’s currently being worked by Felix.”

Joshua stood planted on the staircase, observing. His mission was to absorb every name, every weakness, the way a general studies the terrain before a battle.

Richard Gibson was currently cornered by Felix near the marble fireplace. Felix had him laughing—a manic, too-loud, too-rich cackle—one hand braced on the mantelpiece, his body angled to subtly display the glint of his expensive watch and the privileged breeding that came with his name. Richard’s eyes were already glazed with hero worship. Felix was focused, thinking not of the mayor's son, but of a girl with black curls and a mouth that had humiliated him in public. Every forced laugh he dragged out of the mayor’s son tasted like the only revenge he could currently afford. Felix knew Richard was the single most powerful social asset in the room, and he was determined to hang onto him.

Joshua watched it all from his perch on the staircase, one boot on the bottom step, his leather jacket open over the black polo. The crimson bull’s head on his chest caught the strobes like fresh, unspilled blood.

Garrett bounded up the stairs two at a time, sweat-slick and grinning, threw a heavy arm around Joshua’s shoulders. The impact was hard enough to stagger anyone else, but Joshua barely shifted.

“Bro, the Charger’s running! I got three sophomores ready to shotgun beers off the hood! It’s time, man! Give us the word!”

Joshua’s smile was slow, warm, and terrifyingly controlled. “Give me two minutes.”

 

Joshua stepped onto the landing above the crowd. The DJ, Mark, killed the music instantly, the bass ripping away like a severed nerve. Silence crashed down like a guillotine.

Joshua didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Brothers.”

The word alone, spoken with such quiet certainty, sent a ripple through the room. Shoulders squared. Chins lifted. The girls on the dance floor paused, dancing slower now, sensing the gravity shift as the alpha predator began to circle.

The music was dead. The only sound was the collective, frantic drumming of two hundred male heartbeats and the low creak of the chandelier swaying overhead.

Joshua stood on the landing like a dark apostle, black polo clinging to his chest, the crimson bull catching every strobe flash. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The room had already surrendered its oxygen to him.

“Welcome home, brothers.”

A low shiver rippled through the crowd, fifty, sixty, seventy guys leaning forward as one, drinking in the charisma.

“Somebody out there is gonna tell you this is just a party,” Joshua continued, his voice calm, persuasive, and utterly lethal. “They’re wrong. This is the first night of the rest of your lives. Look around.”

He spread his arms, a slow, deliberate gesture of divine welcome.

“Every single one of you was invited. No legacy. No daddy’s money. No GPA requirement. No ‘you’re not cool enough.’ YOUNGPOWER is open. If you’ve got a pulse and a dick, the door swings wide. Tonight, tomorrow, every weekend after, this house is yours. All we ask is that you leave your shame at the door.”

A low, collective laugh, hungry and grateful, answered him.

A voice from the back—Pablo Gavi, already too drunk, his Spanish accent thick with excitement—called out, “So the rumors are true? You guys are with Jonah? With MANPOWER?”

Joshua’s smile was slow, warm, and razor-sharp.

“Yeah, Gavi. We’re with Jonah.”

The name alone made half the room inhale, recognizing the brutal finality of the affiliation.

“But tonight, we’re not here to march. We’re here to breathe. We’re here to show you what real brotherhood feels like when nobody’s watching, when nobody’s grading it, when nobody’s calling it toxic.”

He stepped down one stair, closer to them, injecting a false sense of intimacy.

“Let me introduce the men who’ll have your back for the next years.”

He turned, gesturing with the authority of a king introducing his court.

“Brian Altemus. The genius who can synthesize anything you want, anything you need. Molly that makes colors sing, roids that turn you into gods, toxins that drop a sorority in sixty seconds flat. Brian doesn’t sleep so you can dream bigger.”

Brian lifted one lazy hand from the balustrade, the subtle movement revealing the cobalt vials in his pocket. A chorus of greedy cheers exploded.

“Matt Broome. Midfielder, pretty boy, future lawyer. Gavi, he’s your new wingman on and off the field. By the end of the night, he’ll know your mom’s maiden name and have you crying in his arms like a brother you never had.”

Matt flashed that billion-dollar smile, throwing up a casual salute. Gavi whooped his approval.

“And Garrett.”

Joshua didn’t need to say more. Garrett ripped off his jacket, veins popping, his cannonball delts gleaming under the strobes. He hit a most-muscular pose that made the front row stagger backward in awe and cheering.

“And the man I respect more than almost anyone alive, Felix Baker. Born in MENLAIR, raised on Jonah’s knee. He was saluting the bull before he could spell his own name. If you want to know what unbreakable loyalty looks like, look at him.”

Felix stood rigid, arms folded, refusing to give in to the performance, but the applause still crashed over him like a triumphant wave. For once, he didn’t smirk. He just nodded, once, sharp and royal.

Joshua turned back to the crowd, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped into something ancient, something that lived in the marrow of every boy who’d ever been told to sit down and shut up.

“You’ve all felt it.”

He paused, letting the collective grievance rise like bile.

“They took our sports and gave them trophies for eighth place. They took our words and called them hate speech. They took our heroes and made them villains for looking at a girl too long. They took our fathers and called them deadbeats, our grandfathers and called them oppressors. Every sitcom dad is a bumbling moron who couldn’t change a tire without his wife’s permission. Every movie, every commercial, every fucking TikTok, men are the punchline or the predator. Never the protector. Never the king.”

He was preaching now, transforming the frat house into a dark cathedral.

“They scream inclusivity, but when’s the last time you saw a men’s resource center on campus? A male mental-health scholarship? A single safe space where you’re allowed to be angry without being called fragile, allowed to be strong without being called dangerous? They want us quiet. They want us small. They want us apologizing for the crime of being born with balls.”

His voice rose to a fever pitch.

“But these?” He cupped his groin through his jeans—a crude, sacred gesture that made the room roar in feverish agreement. “These made civilization. These crossed oceans. These built the roads you drive on, the phones you thirst-trap with, the rockets that touched the fucking moon. And now they teach you in lecture halls that the same balls are a biological mistake.”

He laughed, low and bitter, staring directly at the ceiling.

“They want you to be scared of your own shadow. Scared someone might kick the very thing that makes you a man. Scared someone might call you toxic for wanting to protect what’s yours.”

He leaned forward, eyes blazing with the raw power of the Conqueror Spirit.

“Fuck. That.”

The cheer that answered him was feral, a primal sound of collective release.

Joshua raised both fists above his head.

“The solution is brotherhood. Real brotherhood. The kind where no man gets left behind because he cried, or lost, or loved too hard. The kind where your brother will carry you out of the fire and never ask for a thank-you. MANPOWER knows that. Jonah knows that. And now YOUNGPOWER is gonna show every campus in this country what it feels like to stand ten feet tall with a hundred brothers at your back.”

He lifted a red Solo cup, tequila sloshing precariously over the rim.

“But tonight? Tonight we don’t march. Tonight we don’t fight. Tonight we just feel it. Feel what it’s like to be a man in a house where nobody, nobody, calls you toxic for breathing too loud!”

He slammed the cup back. The room detonated.

The DJ slammed the bass back on so hard the walls shook. Garrett bounded onto the front lawn, started the Charger’s engine, the snarling sound like a captured dragon. Girls screamed as the dance floor surged. Cups flew. Bodies collided. The first polo shirts came off, tossed into the strobe lights.

Joshua stayed on the landing a second longer, watching his new congregation lose their minds in worship.

Phase one was no longer a plan. It was a religion.

.

A figure in liquid gold and starlight crouched low beneath the massive boxwood hedge that bordered the Youngpower lawn. Mentari—now the Heaven Goddess—was cloaked in her full-body suit of crisp white and flexible gold. The suit shimmered like a captured nebula beneath the harsh porch lights, its hood thrown back, her black curls spilling free. The sight of the pandemonium inside—the flashing strobes, the writhing captive girls, the roar of masculine triumph—filled her with a cold, focused fury.

In her gloved hand, she held a matte-black cylinder the size of a thermos, its surface cold and slightly damp.

She twisted the cap. A soft, surgical hiss escaped the opening.

Inside, dozens of tiny, pale crabs scuttled over one another. These were no ordinary crustaceans; they were her own genetically rewritten biological project, modified to respond exclusively to airborne testosterone. Their claws had been sharpened into needle-fine syringes, their abdomens swollen with a potent, synthesized hunger. They smelled male dominance from fifty yards away like sharks smell blood.

Mentari tipped the cylinder slowly.

The crabs poured onto the grass in a silent, glistening tide, scattering instantly beneath the porch lights, under the double doors, and through the low foundation vents. They moved with the cold, single-minded purpose of biological agents.

She whispered to them, her voice calm and lethal, like a mother sending her children off to war.

“Go find the boys with the loudest mouths. Find the ones who boast the most. And make them silent.”

Mentari dropped the empty cylinder and melted back into the shadows. The chaos inside was about to get a whole lot louder. The Heaven Goddess was ready to deliver justice.

Pablo Gavi, the soccer captain with the massive ego and thick accent, was howling with laughter, two girls from the basement—their eyes dull from the atmosphere and the synthetic punch—squeezed onto his lap on the Charger’s hood. He was letting Garrett pour tequila straight down his throat, spilling half of it onto the hood’s black lacquer finish. Danny Griffin, the port owner’s son, was already shirtless, his torso gleaming with sweat, doing body shots off a compliant redhead while Alex Sampson filmed the whole degrading spectacle vertically for his 3.2 million followers, narrating with a voice like spoiled silk. Seventy-plus boys, clad in the new black polos, backwards caps, and letterman jackets, surged through the ground floor, red Solo cups raised in a drunken toast to their new, unquestioned supremacy.

The energy was volatile, aggressive, and perfectly primed for detonation.

Then the first scream cut through the bass line, sharp and high and utterly discordant, like a scalpel ripping through cheap silk.

“MY BALLS! OH, FUCK, MY BALLS!”

It was Tyler from Delta Sigma, a baby-faced freshman whose acne still hadn't cleared. He was standing near the keg, laughing, when he suddenly doubled over, his hands clamped desperately between his legs. His eyes were saucers of pure, agonizing terror. A tiny, pearl-white crab, no bigger than a half-dollar, clung with obscene determination to the front of his jeans, its claws buried deep into the fabric, its abdomen twitching rhythmically as it injected a noxious, glowing blue toxin into the denim.

Before anyone could process the scream, thinking it was a drunken fraternity prank, the second scream came. Then the fifth. Then the tenth. Then the twentieth.

They hit like a silent, biological wave—invisible, cold, and utterly devastating.

A junior lacrosse player, thick as an oak trunk, dropped his cup. It shattered on the marble floor. He folded instantly, knees smashing the stone as a crab scuttled up his cargo shorts and latched on with a wet, final click.

Two sophomores on the dance floor began slapping hysterically at their crotches, shrieking in high-pitched falsetto, their voices cracking with sudden, agonizing pain. The chaos was instantaneous: fear, confusion, and the overwhelming, shared recognition of the ultimate male vulnerability.

Pablo Gavi felt the savage pinch first, a burning cold searing his inner thigh. He looked down, confused by the strange sensation, just as the crab scurried the last six inches and struck home, directly beneath the zipper. His scream was pure Barcelona stadium, high and broken, drowning out the throbbing music. “¡Mis cojones! ¡Alguien quita esta mierda de mis cojones!” (My balls! Someone take this shit off my balls!) He collapsed off the Charger’s hood, thrashing and writhing in the manicured grass, his legs kicking uselessly like he was being electrocuted. The girls on the hood were screaming now, not with pleasure, but with primal terror.

Richard Gibson, the Mayor's son, watched the chaos spread with a look of stunned aristocratic disbelief, until he saw the inevitable: a crab, translucent and beautiful, crawling with cold, clinical certainty towards his own zipper. It slipped inside before he could even slap it away. The sound that ripped out of the powerful political heir was not human. It was a choked, infantile cry of shame and agony. He slammed his body against the marble column, clawing at his groin, trying to tear the creature out through the denim.

The brute, Garrett, was still laughing at the flailing recruits, flexing his enormous chest on the porch steps, roaring with cruel amusement—until seven crabs hit him at once. Seven, because his testosterone-saturated sweat vaporized the air like cologne, making him the ultimate target. Three latched savagely to each nut sack, and the seventh, the ultimate indignity, climbed straight up the center seam of his shorts and burrowed deep. The strongest man in the house made a sound like a dying bear being crushed under a thousand tons of steel. “AAAAAAAaaaaaaafuckfuckfuck—” He tore at his shorts, his fingers too thick, too clumsy, the crab claws buried too deep. Dark blood bloomed instantly on the gray fabric of his shorts. He fell first to his knees, then to his face, a massive, muscular  of raw alpha flesh reduced to a quivering, whimpering heap on the stone steps.

Matt Broome, the charming propagandist, had time for one calm, lawyerly “Oh, shit—” before a crab dropped from the chandelier, ran down his perfectly chiseled abs, and dove into his waistband. His golden smile shattered; the image of composure cracked, replaced by a rictus of raw, infantile pain. He hit the floor screaming, his carefully constructed persona instantly destroyed.

Felix Baker saw the shimmering, silent tide coming—tiny, glittering, unstoppable. Panic snapped his aristocratic breeding in half. He bolted for the stairs, shoving freshmen out of his way with desperate violence, but a crab launched from the banister, latched to the inside of his thigh, and crawled upward with aristocratic certainty. When the creature found its target, Felix’s legs gave out mid-step. He crashed down the stairs on his hands and knees, sobbing violently in a language no one could understand. “AREAJFKSDJFSFDS—GET IT OFF ME!” The humiliation was absolute, physical and psychological, in front of the audience he craved to command.

Brian Altemus, cold, clinical Brian, felt the first burning pinch on his ankle. He looked down, recognized the genus instantly—Testudo Rapax, the mutated strain he’d theorized about—and actually whispered, “Magnificent,” his scientific fascination momentarily overriding the agony. Then the second one hit his balls, and he screamed like the rest of them, the sound short, sharp, and utterly betrayed. But Brian was Brian. He ripped the crab off, tearing the skin with it, hot blood pouring down his leg, and sprinted for the basement lab, limping violently, cradling his crotch, leaving a crimson handprint on every wall he passed.

Joshua Bassett stood on the landing, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he stared at the carnage below. He tried to keep order, to maintain the facade, his voice cracking with the effort. “Everyone stay calm! It’s just some kind of—some kind of…”

The final blow. Four crabs hit him simultaneously—two on the left, two on the right, perfect, sickening symmetry. They hung from his black polo like obscene, pulsing jewelry, their tails twitching and pulsing blue toxin into his most sacred spot. For the first time all night, the mask of the Conqueror slipped completely. Joshua Bassett—the alpha, the new leader—ran in terrified circles on the landing like a lost boy, his hands slapping desperately at his own genitals, his voice cracking into a helpless, fearful plea: “Get them off—get them OFF—OH GOD, PLEASE!”

The front doors burst open, overwhelmed by the outward pressure of agonizing bodies.

Seventy men spilled onto the lawn in a single, panicked herd, all clutching their ruined groins, some crawling, some vomiting onto the manicured grass, others just lying on their backs screaming soundlessly at the silent stars. The lawn looked instantly like a chemical battlefield: bodies curled fetal, abandoned red Solo cups scattered like shrapnel, the Charger’s hood still warm and sticky with spilled tequila. The air was thick with the raw smell of fear, alcohol, and male sweat.

And then the laughter came from above. Cold, mocking, and electronically enhanced.

Three figures stood on the ridge of the mansion roof, impossibly tall, silhouetted against the indifferent moon. They were judgment rendered in silk and steel.

Heaven Goddess (Mentari), shrouded in white and starlight gold, her silhouette regal and menacing.

Earth Goddess (Sydney), clad in black-green flexible armor, stylized vines curling around her high, lethal gauntlets.

Hell Goddess (Teyona), a dark, brutal vision in crimson and black, the silhouette of horns stark against the sky, a cape of living, dancing fire seemingly draped over her shoulders.

Voice changers turned their words into a distorted, echoing angelic choir—a lethal lullaby.

Heaven Goddess (Mentari) raised her arms, her stance exuding cold, intellectual contempt. “I am the Heaven Goddess. Good evening, gentlemen. The Velvet Revolution sends its regards.”

Earth Goddess (Sydney) leaned forward, her voice a cruel, seductive purr. “I am the Earth Goddess. You wanted a world where men could be men? Congratulations. Tonight you’re all feeling exactly what it’s like to have your so-called superiority ripped away in under thirty seconds.”

Hell Goddess (Teyona) laughed, the sound like glass shattering in a cathedral. “Aww, look at them. Seventy future CEOs, athletes, and politicians reduced to clutching their little balls on the grass like infants! Tell me again how the male body is ‘perfect engineering,’ you pathetic, screaming pricks!”

Heaven Goddess cupped her hands around her mask, her voice dropping into a lethal whisper that nonetheless carried across the field. “Every single one of you who underestimated women. How’s it feel now that evolution’s laughing back, Bassett?”

Earth Goddess kicked a loose roof tile; it shattered thirty feet below in a loud crash. “We could have castrated you all tonight. We didn’t. You’re welcome. Consider this your final warning label: the next time you touch a woman who isn’t begging for it, we won’t be so gentle.”

Hell Goddess spread her cape dramatically; embers seemed to drift down like hellish snow. “Run home, boys. Ice your balls. Cry to your daddies. And remember: the Goddesses are watching. Get on your knees and beg for mercy!”

A high-pitched hiss cut through the chaos from the side door.

Brian Altemus burst out, his leg bleeding, his face wild-eyed but focused, holding a smoking silver canister in one hand and Joshua’s longsword in the other. He slammed the canister down; thick, nauseating white smoke billowed outward—an anti-crustacean aerosol, military-grade. The crabs instantly spasmed, released their victims, and dropped off their victims like dead petals.

Brian threw the sword. It landed point-down in the grass directly at Joshua’s feet, a symbol of his duty.

Joshua, face pale with a mix of tears from pain and blinding fury, grabbed the hilt of his sword. He stood up on shaking legs and faced the roof, his entire body trembling with the humiliation.

“Men,” he rasped, his voice raw but still carrying the weight of his latent power, “go inside. Lock the doors. Let the five of us handle these lying bitches.”

Richard, Gavi, Danny, and Alex—all crawling and sobbing—scrambled back into the house, dragging themselves through the doorway. The doors slammed shut with a final, desperate thud. Seventy broken boys disappeared, leaving only the core. Inside, the sound of their retching and high-pitched crying was muffled, but still present.

Joshua, Garrett, Matt, Felix, and Brian—five black polos stained with blood, sweat, and humiliation—stood on the lawn, surrounded by twitching crabs and abandoned Solo cups.

Joshua raised the sword, its steel glinting in the strobes. His voice was quiet, deadly, and absolutely final.

“Goddesses?” Felix spat blood and bile, laughing maniacally through his pain. “More like lying, entitled bitches.”

Joshua took one step forward, the earth shaking beneath his furious resolve.

“Attack.”

Joshua’s roar—“Attack!”—was a primal command that cut through the silence, silencing the whimpering boys still pressed against the mansion doors. He didn't wait for his team. His fury, hot and blinding, was focused solely on the figure in white and gold who had masterminded this humiliation: Heaven Goddess. He leveled the sword, the steel glinting under the pale moonlight, and charged.

The remaining four Youngpower members moved, driven by pure, incandescent male rage—not for the mission, but for the unforgivable sin against their manhood. Their clothes were still stained with the blood and toxin from the crabs, and their very existence was screaming for vengeance.

 

Garrett was the first to answer the call. He flexed his massive biceps, his muscles screaming beneath his torn jacket from the lingering crab agony, and roared like a wild bull. His eyes were locked on the Earth Goddess, Sydney, who stood poised on the roof ridge, a seductive silhouette of blue and green. She was the one who laughed at him, the one whose flirtatious hips had fueled his obsession and whose knee had sent him into absolute agony just hours ago. He scrambled up the porch supports, relying on raw brute strength, reaching the roof in seconds.

Sydney met his rush with a contemptuous smile visible even behind her opaque mask visor. Garrett lunged, a massive, club-like fist aimed for her midsection, intending to flatten her against the tile. He wanted to feel the crunch of her ribs, to silence her laughter with blunt, overwhelming force. “You arrogant BITCH!” he bellowed, his voice choked with residual pain. He slammed his body against her, catching her around the waist and driving her straight down onto the manicured lawn below.

The impact was brutal. The air rushed out of Sydney’s lungs, and the grass tore beneath her. Before she could even scramble, Garrett was on her, his heavy body pinning her, his other massive hand pulling back, ready to deliver a skull-crushing blow, or worse, to stomp on her belly with his bare, calloused foot. “I’m gonna leave a hole in your guts, whore!”

But Sydney was faster. She was Earth Goddess—grounded, fluid, and lethally adaptive. She arched her back, twisting her body with impossible grace, the flexible green and blue armor allowing her to slip just inches out of his crushing grip. The stomp landed harmlessly beside her head, tearing a divot out of the turf.

Meanwhile, Hell Goddess, Teyona, observed the chaos with cold, strategic eyes. Her attention was drawn not to the main fight, but to a side exit. The handful of entertainment girls—the captives from the basement who had been drugged and forced to dance—were seizing the moment, scrambling out of the side door, desperate to escape the nightmare.

Matt Broome, though still visibly limping and holding his aching crotch, spotted the frantic movement of the escaping girls. His propagandist mind immediately registered the loss of "assets" and "leverage." “No! Stop them! The girls are getting away!”

Matt and Teyona rushed toward the side of the house. Matt, despite the pain, managed to intercept the fastest of the girls, grabbing her arm with surprising strength. “You’re not going anywhere, bitch. You belong to us!”

Teyona, her internal anger boiling hotter than the red in her suit, roared. “Like FUCK she does!” She slammed into Matt, driving her full weight into his back, breaking his hold on the captive. Matt staggered forward, but instead of letting go, his training kicked in. He spun, catching her in a clumsy, desperate bear hug from behind. His arms wrapped around her chest, trying to immobilize her, trying to crush the air out of her. “Hold still, you violent little CUNT!”

Teyona snarled, her breath hot behind the voice modulator. She didn't have time for a sophisticated move. She drove her heel backward with every ounce of trauma-fueled rage she possessed, aiming low and hitting Matt's already damaged testicles with sickening force.

The bear hug instantly dissolved into a high-pitched, strangled shriek. “OH GOD! NOT AGAIN! NOT THE SAME FUCKING SPOT! AARGHHHH!” Matt's arms flew wide, his body collapsing backward as if his spine had been liquefied. He hit the ground rolling, his handsome face contorted into a mask of pure, wet agony, tears of pain and humiliation streaming from his eyes. He didn't just clutch his groin; he writhed, his entire body convulsing, his voice reduced to pathetic whimpers. “I can’t—I can’t breathe! It’s gone! My fucking manhood is gone!” The propagandist, the silver-tongued lawyer, was silenced by a single, brutal kick.

As Garrett wrestled with the Earth Goddess on the lawn, Felix recovered enough from his initial collapse to see his comrade struggling. Fueled by a desperate mix of entitlement and residual anger from the classroom humiliation, Felix lunged, screaming like a spoiled child denied a toy. He drove his boot hard into Sydney's exposed side, distracting her from Garrett.

The kick, though painful, was clumsy. Sydney gasped, the air knocked out of her.

Garrett immediately capitalized, throwing his weight, trapping her. “Got you now, whore! Thanks, Felix!” Garrett sneered, his hands clamping down on her armor.

Brian, the clinical observer, watched Matt's immediate, incapacitating breakdown and realized the tactical error. He limped over, still favoring his swollen groin. “Matt, you’re useless! Get your ass back to the house! I’ll handle the girls!” Brian shouted, even though the girls were already halfway to the gate.

Matt tried to crawl towards Teyona, his body twitching with spasms of pain. “I can’t—she broke them! She BROKE my fucking—” He couldn't finish the sentence. The brutal pain had completely neutralized the intellectual threat.

Brian, now facing the fleeing captives, knew he was outnumbered. But he was Brian. He saw the entertainer girls escaping and the tactical failure. He was already cradling his own balls, which ached with the memory of the crabs and the recent kick.

The escape of the captives was a catastrophic failure of the mission. They were assets, property, leverage. Brian rushed at the girls, but the captives were armed with desperation. They swarmed him, fighting with the primal, savage energy of the truly oppressed. Four girls—eyes wild and furious—pounced on the crippled technician. They didn’t aim for his face or his chest. Their fury was focused, honed by years of misogynistic violence. They knew the weakness. They delivered a synchronized volley of frantic kicks to Brian’s groin.

“TAKE THAT, YOU SICK PRICK! AAAAARGH!”

Brian Altemus, the genius, the future of MANPOWER weaponry, collapsed instantly, his scream short-circuited by the pure trauma. He crumpled into the fetal position, his hands clamped protectively over his now severely compromised nuts. The girls didn’t stop. They kicked and kicked, ensuring his pain was absolute and unforgettable. “NEVER TOUCH US AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN!”

They ran, disappearing into the shadows. The entertainer girls had achieved their own bloody liberation.

On the ground, Garrett had Sydney pinned, fueled by the rush of vengeance. “This is for the Charger, bitch!” He roared and drove a massive, granite-hard punch into her armored gut. “That’s gonna leave a mark on your pretty belly!”

Sydney gasped again, the punch momentarily stunning her. But then, a flicker of pure, devastating temptation crossed her mind. She was the Earth Goddess, the seductive control. She twisted her body, using the last of her trapped energy, and began to move.

It wasn't a fighting move. It was a slow, hypnotic dance of pure, aggressive seduction. She rotated her hips against his pelvis, her body arching and swaying against his massive, sweat-slicked form. Her voice, husky even through the modulator, purred. “Aww, did that feel good, big boy? You like watching me suffer? You like the way this suit looks when I move for you?”

Garrett’s eyes glazed over. The adrenaline, the pain, the seductive sway—it all short-circuited his brain. His primal aggression instantly converted into pure, immediate lust. His blood surged, drawing away from his already damaged organs. He felt the terrifying, agonizing rush of an instant erection straining against his denim. His heavy, panting breathing escalated into low, animal moans. “F-fuck… you… you’re so hot…”

Sydney laughed, a cruel, triumphant sound of control. “Men with an erection feel the worst, most delicious pain, Garrett.” She slammed her gloved hand down, squeezing his painfully engorged testicles with all her strength.

Garrett’s scream was a seismic event, a sound of absolute, unconditional surrender to pain. But Sydney wasn't finished. She drove her knee up, with savage precision, into his fully erected penis. The impact snapped the organ against his pubic bone. The pain was so catastrophic that Garrett’s body seized up, his eyes rolling back in his head ahis massive, muscled body rolling off her like a broken statue.

Teyona watched the collapse of Matt and Felix, her heart pounding with satisfaction. She saw Felix struggling to crawl away, whimpering in pain. She raised her staff, the weapon humming with the energy Silla had imbued it with. “Not so tough now, are you, little prince?”

She brought the staff down, the tip landing squarely on the point of Felix’s buttocks, sending a crippling electrical surge directly into his already damaged balls region and paralyzing his legs. The charge bypassed his muscles and targeted the nerves leading straight to his groin.

Felix screamed, his voice a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. “NO! THE PAIN! IT’S—AAAAH! MY FATHER WILL END YOU, YOU LESBIAN WHORE!” He thrashed violently on the ground, his body seizing up as the charge ravaged his senses.

The chaos was complete. Garrett, Matt, Felix, and Brian were all on the ground, disabled, sobbing, or unconscious, their collective masculinity utterly destroyed.

Now, only Joshua remained standing, his sword trembling in his grip as he faced Mentari (Heaven Goddess).

Mentari had been thrown into a tree earlier by a swift, powerful kick from Joshua, a kick that had knocked the wind out of her and left her dizzy. She pushed off the rough bark, spitting blood. “Shit!” she cursed, adjusting her mask.

Joshua rushed her now, fueled by the desperate, concentrated shame of his entire crew. “You’re going to pay for every second of this, you little SLUT!” He swung his sword in a vicious, overhead arc, aiming for her throat.

Mentari dodged, the razor-sharp steel missing her by an inch, slicing a thin line in her golden armor. Joshua raised the sword again, preparing a final, killing stab.

Mentari knew this was it. She didn't have the strength to fight the Conqueror in a duel. She had to end it the way all women ended this war: by exploiting the weakness. She dropped low, twisting her body with the agility of the Heaven Goddess, and drove a perfect, devastating uppercut punch—using the metallic knuckles of her golden gauntlet—directly into Joshua's balls.

The Conqueror Spirit was powerful, but it could not defend against this.

“UURRKK—AAAAAAAAGGGHH!”

Joshua Bassett’s scream tore through the night sky. It was a sound of ultimate, unimaginable agony, the sound of a man discovering that his destiny and his biological vulnerability are the same. His sword clattered uselessly to the grass. He folded instantly, every muscle seizing, his handsome face contorted into a mask of paralyzed, helpless pain. He hit the ground rolling, his body convulsing next to the other broken alphas.

IV. The Conqueror's Last Stand

The battlefield was silent now, save for the collective, ragged breathing and whimpering of the five core members of Youngpower.

Mentari, Sydney, and Teyona stood over them, the three Goddesses breathing hard, their revenge complete.

Suddenly, Brian, despite his crippling pain, managed a final, desperate act of vengeance. He crawled, reaching into his pocket, and pulled out a small silver sphere—a customized toxic bomb. He hurled it at the Goddesses. “DIE, YOU WHORES! POISON! POISON!”

The sphere detonated with a sickly green flash, releasing a cloud of paralyzing neurotoxin. The three Goddesses were quick. They activated the air filtration systems in their custom helmets, neutralizing the threat with their internal anti-toxin units.

But before they could move, a new, far more devastating force erupted.

Joshua, prone on the ground, his body still seizing from the pain, let out a deep, guttural, involuntary roar—the Conqueror Spirit. A shockwave of invisible, furious energy blasted outward, lifting the three Goddesses off their feet and slamming them violently into the grass. The force was seismic, paralyzing their limbs and leaving them momentarily stunned.

“You… will NOT win,” Joshua choked out, his voice raw, fueled by an uncontrollable, unconscious will to dominate.

Garrett, the brute, saw the downed Earth Goddess (Sydney) lying closest to him. Driven by a final, desperate surge of pain-addled rage, he crawled the last few feet and delivered a clumsy, pathetic, but rage-fueled punch to her head.

“You crazy BITCH!” Garrett cried, before collapsing again.

Mentari fought through the paralysis, pushing herself up on her elbows. She looked down at the five broken, defeated men. “You should have kept your prisoners locked, boys.” She yelled, her voice modulator humming with cold, final contempt. “We’ll be back for the rest of your dicks, but you have no body to fuck tonight! Your slaves are free!”

The three Goddesses, moving with fractured, aching bodies, ran toward the perimeter.

Inside the house, the other seventy boys—still sobbing, still clutching their groins, but now safe—had watched the entire, unbelievable confrontation through the shattered front window. They watched their newly appointed leader, Joshua Bassett, fall, then rise, then fall again, and then unleash that staggering, invisible force.

As the three mysterious figures fled, a slow, hesitant applause started deep within the mansion. Then it grew, ragged at first, turning into a relieved, grateful roar.

A freshman, tears still streaming down his face, stumbled toward the door. “He’s… he’s strong, dude. He sent those bitches flying! What the hell was that?”

Another boy, looking at the wreckage of the lawn and the five crippled leaders, answered with reverent awe.

“That,” he whispered, “was the Conqueror Spirit. Our leader has the power of Jonah. He’s the real deal.”

Joshua, crawling painfully toward his fallen sword, heard the applause and the worship. A faint, terrible smile stretched his handsome, sweat-streaked face. He didn't understand the power, but he knew the effect. He forced himself to his knees, his voice cracking with agony but his will intact.

“GET UP, BROTHERS!”

The YOUNGPOWER army was broken, humiliated, and crippled. But now, they had a terrifying, magnetic miracle to believe in.

Epilogue: The Wages of War

I. The Youngpower Basement: Repairing the Damage

The air in the secret basement of the YOUNGPOWER mansion was thick with the stench of ozone, antiseptic, and male humiliation. The walls, intended for tactical briefings, now reflected the grim aftermath of a total defeat.

Chance Perez, a Pre-Med student from the campus who had been at the party and impressed Brian with his calm under the crab attack, was kneeling over the core five. He was already a potential recruit, a smart boy who quickly saw the benefits of belonging. Chance, despite his mild demeanor, was efficient and professional, his hands working quickly to check the damage.

Garrett lay splayed on a reinforced steel table, his massive body still twitching with spasms. His shorts were shredded, exposing the dark, sickening bruises across his groin. He whimpered softly, the only sound the massive brute could manage. Felix was curled on a nearby gurney, his legs elevated, staring at the ceiling with eyes that held the vacant thousand-yard stare of a man who had been electrically tortured. Matt was simply gripping a bucket, occasionally retching the cheap tequila and adrenaline from his system. Brian, the scientist, was already using his makeshift lab to prepare a chemical cocktail.

“Well?” Joshua demanded, pushing himself up on his elbows. He was propped against a wall, his breathing ragged, his hand instinctively protecting the site of the lethal uppercut. Despite the pain, his eyes burned with fierce, unquenched fury. “Report, Chance. Is the damage permanent? Did those cunts ruin my brothers?”

Chance finished palpating Garrett’s groin. “No, sir. Surprisingly, no permanent injury to the primary structures. It’s trauma, swelling, and severe soft tissue damage from the force of the blows. You were all hit clean, deep, and hard—multiple times, and at full force. But structurally, you’ll all recover.” He shook his head in grudging disbelief. “It’s incredible, actually. The sheer precision those women used…”

Brian slammed down a vial containing a pale, luminous blue liquid. “Forget the diagnostics. This is all they need.” Brian snatched up a handful of syringes. “I call this ‘Revitalize.’ It’s a fast-acting adrenal-cortisol accelerator mixed with a powerful anti-inflammatory. It will dull the pain and aggressively reduce swelling by morning. It’s not Alpha-T, but it’s the best I can do right now.”

He injected the serum into the neck veins of Garrett and Felix. The two men instantly stopped trembling, a wave of visible relief washing over their faces.

“You’re a goddamn genius, Bri,” Garrett rasped, forcing a small, pained smile.

Joshua watched the transfer of power—the brain fixing the brawn. “We lost the battle,” he stated, pushing himself upright, his legs steadying beneath him through sheer will. He grabbed a clean polo shirt from a nearby cabinet. “We lost the assets, and we were humiliated in front of seventy boys.”

Felix spat onto the concrete floor. “We were made to look like pathetic, whimpering fools by three cheerleaders. The shame is absolute. If Jonah hears about this—”

“Jonah will hear about this,” Joshua cut in, his voice cold and commanding. He met Felix’s furious stare. “But look around, Felix. Look at the outcome.” He gestured toward the locked double doors leading upstairs. “Those seventy boys saw us fall. They saw us crippled by pain. But then, they saw me rise. They saw the Conqueror Spirit fly those bitches through the air like rag dolls.”

He walked over and slapped Chance hard on the shoulder. “What are those boys saying upstairs right now, Chance? Be honest.”

Chance swallowed, adjusting his glasses. “They’re terrified, sir. But they’re not laughing. They’re calling you the ‘Young Bull.’ They saw the power. They saw that even after being completely incapacitated, you got back up and fought a literal goddess. They saw that YOUNGPOWER is the real deal, and that their enemy is superhuman.”

Joshua’s pale face finally broke into a triumphant, cold smile. “The truth is, Felix, the shame doesn’t matter. The chaos was the initiation. They came for a party; they left realizing the war is real, the enemy is lethal, and the only man who can stand against them is me. I am their protector, their monster. They saw us bleed, and now they will be fiercely loyal because they know this Brotherhood is fighting a war that matters.”

He tossed his bloodied leather jacket onto the table. “We continue the expansion. Tomorrow, Matt starts the propaganda campaign—we sell the attack as an act of war by the ‘Feminist Witches of Phallusic.’ We sell the Conqueror Spirit as the miracle that saved them.” Joshua looked at his bruised and crippled brothers. “We were humiliated, yes. But we won the war for their souls. And that, my brothers, is worth more than a thousand intact balls.”

II. The Cheerios' Lair: The Price of Victory

Meanwhile, across campus in the small, unassuming house that served as The Cheerios’ base, the atmosphere was fraught with painful, ragged triumph. The adrenaline had worn off, replaced by the deep, physical agony of being hit by a Conqueror blast and Brian’s neutralizing toxin.

Mentari (Heaven Goddess) lay on the living room floor, her white and gold armor scratched, her body covered in bruises from being slammed into the tree and then thrown by the blast. Teyona (Hell Goddess) was carefully peeling off her armor, her skin beneath covered in angry red welts from the electrical charge Felix had endured and the Conqueror's shockwave. Sydney (Earth Goddess) was leaning against the wall, rubbing her sore head, nursing the throbbing pain from Garrett's clumsy punch.

“My entire nervous system feels like it was put in a microwave,” Teyona muttered, her voice raw. “That Conqueror blast is unlike anything Silla ever demonstrated. It was pure, unfiltered hate.”

Sydney ran a trembling hand over her side, pulling back the flexible green fabric of her suit. A dark, ugly bruise was blooming on her skin where Garrett’s final, desperate punch had landed. The brute had almost knocked her out despite her armor.

“The big one is crazy strong,” Sydney sighed, rubbing her neck, a phantom ache from the choke mark still lingering. She examined the dark mark on her side. “He’s pure animal. I should have gone for the castration immediately, but I let my curiosity get the better of me. The idiot was almost beautiful in his lust.” She shivered, disgusted by her own dangerous fascination.

Mentari slowly sat up, ignoring the throbbing pain in her ribs. “The physical damage doesn’t matter. We freed the assets. We shut down their operation. But you’re right, Syd.” She stared blankly at the wall. “Joshua’s influence is his true power. He uses this ‘Brotherhood’ ideology to make their violence seem noble. I need to find a way to stop him. Not by fighting him, but by exposing the rot beneath his charm.”

She stood, favoring her left leg. “I need to wash this off. This suit smells like a hospital and shame.”

Mentari dragged herself toward the bathroom. She stripped off the beautiful, battered Heaven Goddess armor, dropping it in a heap. She stepped into the shower, turning the water to a brutal, stinging cold. She pressed her petite body against the tile, letting the water try to cleanse the terror, the guilt, and the inexplicable thrill of the night.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on the plan: Mind games. Sabotage. Disinformation. Destroying the charm.

But the cold water couldn't wash away the image that instantly flashed behind her eyelids: the face of Joshua Bassett, contorted in agony as she delivered the uppercut, followed immediately by his lips slamming down on hers—dominant, punishing, and utterly intoxicating.

“Shit,” Mentari whispered, sinking against the wall, her hands trembling. She hated him, hated his mission, and she was terrified by the realization that she might not hate the monster beneath the skin.

END OF EPISODE 3