YOUNGPOWER Chapter 4: Matt Broome and The Field

 

EPISODE 4

The McLaren GT cut through the soft, late-night silence of Phallusic University like a black razor. Its twin-turbo V8 engine didn't so much roar as it gave a clean, authoritative hiss, the sound of expensive, unquestioned dominance. Inside the low-slung cabin, the scent of fresh leather and high-octane gasoline mingled with the faint, persistent odor of antiseptic—a reminder of the trauma still clinging to their bodies from the Goddesses’ assault only days before.

Matt Broome, impeccably styled even in his off-duty black Youngpower polo and jeans, gripped a duffel bag stuffed with new hardware from a contact on the city's outskirts. He wore a quiet, satisfied smirk.

Garrett, the brute, shifted his massive frame uncomfortably in the passenger seat, the seatbelt straining against his chest. Even Brian’s "Revitalize" serum hadn't fully erased the memory of seven crabs attacking his manhood at once.

"Dude, you gotta tell me you don't miss those Cockville night watches," Matt murmured, his voice laced with the smooth, easy charm he used to recruit marks.

Garrett barked a short, rough laugh that ended with a pained grunt. "Nah, man. Night watch was boring as hell. Just freezing your ass off, waiting for some busted bitch to sneak past the perimeter." He rolled his neck. "Though, I did snag some seriously hot girls a few times, so that was... fine."

"Yeah, fine. Right." Matt chuckled, easing the McLaren through an empty intersection. "But you know what’s better than no rules in Cockville? Being the fucking rule in Phallusic, bro." He tapped the steering wheel once. "No Generals, no Captains, no old-guard assholes to bow down to. We're the top of the food chain in this whole goddamn town. We're the highest hierarchy. And it feels awesome."

Garrett grinned, flexing his immense bicep unconsciously. "True. No Zach. No Drew. Just us five. We're running the whole show."

Matt nodded, his smile thinning slightly as his thoughts drifted to the propaganda war he was already waging online—selling the Goddesses’ attack as a feminist act of terror and Joshua’s shockwave as a divine intervention. He needed assets. He needed eyes and ears that weren't the core five.

"Speaking of running shit," Matt said, slowing for a quiet college gate. "I officially joined the university soccer club today."

Garrett stared, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Wait, what? The lame-ass uni team? Why, bro? Don't you hate jocks?"

"Chill, dude, it's tactical." Matt sighed, letting the suave recruitment voice bleed into something more earnest. "Joshua thinks it's the perfect place to start, and he's right. It's full of competitive alphas—guys who are already wired for supremacy, but they're scared of being called 'toxic.' They already think women's soccer is stupid and their egos are fragile. I can use that. I can make those jocks feel seen and unashamed. It's pure propaganda, bro."

He paused, a flicker of genuine longing in his eyes. "Plus, I gotta be real, I actually miss the field. I was going to try out for the state league back in the day, man. I always wanted to be a great midfielder."

Garrett, ever the brute of simple questions, asked the stupid one. "Then why the hell did you stop?"

Matt gave a harsh, short laugh. "Because I joined MANPOWER, you stupid fuck. Everything changes after that."

The McLaren pulled onto a quiet, tree-lined street before Matt parked it in a dark alcove. They weren't quite ready to pull the exotic beast right up to the mansion yet. The secrecy of their power was still more effective than the display of it.

Matt leaned back against the headrest, suddenly serious. The casual façade dissolved, replaced by the grim shadow of his past.

"Hey, Gar. You ever wonder why I'm here? Like, why the hell did I, the golden boy who was converting classic cars into cash every weekend, trade all that for a black polo and a death wish?"

Garrett shrugged his immense shoulders. "I just figured you were sick of feminists telling you what to do, man. Like all of us."

Matt laughed again, the sound devoid of humor. "It's deeper than that, bro. My old man, he was a legit businessman. Owned a huge car repair chain, paid Jonah protection money to keep the Velvets off our ass in Cockville. We were untouchable."

He swallowed hard, the metallic taste of memory rising in his throat. "One day, this shitty bitch came around. A real Latina liar, man. She said my dad raped her. A total lie. My dad wouldn’t rape a girl. He was a good alpha—he paid for what he wanted. He used his resources, not force." Matt’s voice dripped with the fervent, twisted belief that only MANPOWER’s ideology could forge. "Anyway, the bitch was lying, but you know how fast word travels with those Velvets."

Garrett’s eyes widened, recognizing the escalating threat in the story. "Shit. Justice Girl showed up at your shop?"

"Yeah. Jonah sent Captain Drew Starkey to handle it, to fight Silla or whatever. Drew and Justice Girl were locked in a duel outside our place. It was a chaotic mess, metal clashing, the whole goddamn thing." Matt clenched his hands on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. "But while Drew was focused on fighting Silla, that girl—the one who made the accusation—she crept around the back. She had a blade, man, a rusty, filthy piece of scrap metal. She ambushed my father."

Matt let out a ragged breath. "She ambushed him. Didn’t fight him, didn't use strength, just snuck up and castrated him right there in his own garage."

The silence in the McLaren was thick, heavy with the weight of that violation. Garrett shuddered, instinctively shifting his hips away from the door. Every man in MANPOWER lived with the knowledge of that ultimate vulnerability, but hearing a brother's father suffer it was a different kind of horror.

"Holy shit, bro. I’m sorry. And Drew? Did Drew just... watch?"

"Nah. Drew was pissed. But the damage was done. Justice Girl had already dipped. Drew—he was the one who brought sixteen-year-old me into MANPOWER that day. He literally put a black polo on my back and drove me straight to MENLAIR. That was it. I stopped practicing football, stopped converting cars. I found a new brotherhood. I found freedom, dude. Freedom from the fear of those crazy bitches trying to emasculate the men who built this world."

Matt stared out the window, his vision tunneling into the dark. "My dad... Jonah paid for his care, but he lives in an asylum now, man. The shock of losing his dick just melted his mind. It's a waste."

Garrett gripped Matt's shoulder, his hand heavy and comforting. "You okay, man? That's some heavy shit."

Matt nodded once, curtly. "Yeah. I’m fine. But I swear, Garrett... I'll find that girl. She had a sister with her, I remember that much. Some Latina bitch. I don't know her name, but I will find her, and I will fuckin rape her for real, dude. I'll take back what she took from my old man and from the world. I swear I will." His voice was low, raw with the conviction of a revenge that felt holy.

"Does Josh know all this?" Garrett asked, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "That's why he’s so tight with you, right?"

"Yeah. Only Josh knows the real deal." Matt smiled grimly. "And you know Josh. He kept his word. His whole thing is about making us strong. He even helped me out a few weeks ago, used Captain Alif's military computer to run some surveillance and facial recognition on some old police files. I got a photo of the bitch's face now. It’s saved in a file in my room."

Matt turned the key, powering down the McLaren. "But listen, man. This stays between us. Felix and Brian? They think they know everything about everyone, but they don't know this. Don't breathe a word. Not yet."

"Word, bro. My mouth is shut," Garrett swore, placing a fist over his still-sore groin. "Youngpower secret, for life."

They climbed out of the car, their black poloss a stark contrast to the quiet university street. They slung their duffel bags onto their shoulders and walked toward the Youngpower mansion, the silent monument to their toxic new religion.

 

At the same time, miles away but still on campus, the air was thick with the honest smell of sweat and effort, not propaganda and gasoline.

In the university’s massive, brightly lit main gym, Teyona was engaged in a brutal, solitary war against a weight rack and a heavy bag. She was clad in a simple black sports bra and shorts, her skin gleaming with sweat, her features set in fierce concentration.

She approached the barbell loaded with enough iron plates to crush a lesser man. It was 405 pounds—a weight she had mentally designated as a metaphorical YOUNGPOWER spine. She centered herself, gripping the knurled steel, feeling the raw power of the floor beneath her feet. With a guttural exhale and a tightening of every muscle in her body, she lifted the bar: Deadlifts, 5x5 at 405–455 lbs. Her entire focus was on punishment, envisioning the resistance as the combined will of her male enemies.

After finishing her heavy lifts, Teyona moved to the far end of the workout area for her Specialized Groin-Destruction Drills. A heavy, cylindrical Muay Thai punching bag was precisely set at the exact height of a man’s testicles. It was a drill born of hate and trauma—a physical meditation on the enemy’s singular, crippling weakness.

She snapped into position. Two hundred to three hundred full-power Muay Thai knees per session. Left leg. Right leg. Left. Right. Each impact was a hollow, sickening thwack that rattled the chain hanging from the ceiling. She channeled every ounce of the rage she felt toward Matt, toward Felix, toward the whimpering, broken body of Garrett, until the heavy vinyl bag was visibly compromised, threatening to rupture with the sheer force of her vengeance. It wasn't until her knees were stinging with friction and her lungs were screaming that she finally stopped, resting her forehead against the trembling, sweat-slicked bag.

A voice, soft and unexpected, cut through the echoing silence of her adrenaline crash.

"Hey there. That was... insane."

Teyona snapped her head up. Leaning casually against a structural pillar was a girl: tall, lean, with short, dark hair and the effortless build of a seasoned athlete.

"Sorry," the girl said, pushing off the pillar and walking closer with a confident, open smile. "I saw you finishing up. My name's Ana Sanchez. I'm the soccer club captain."

Teyona managed to rasp out, "Teyona." She felt her heart skip a beat—a physical, panicked flutter that completely derailed her iron control. In the back of her mind, a part of her screamed for the immediate, hostile hatred she reserved for every man. But this girl... she didn't trigger the hate. She triggered a heat Teyona had never recognized before, but was suddenly, terrifyingly, familiar. She had always known she was different from the boy-crazy Sydney and the magnetically attractive Mentari. They despised men but were still drawn to them. Teyona, however, only felt contempt for men. And now she knew why: she was into women.

"Well, Teyona," Ana said, emphasizing her name with an amused quirk of her lip. "Your kick is absolutely lethal. I mean, holy shit. You should seriously join the team. I could use someone with that much sheer power and precision on the field."

Teyona felt a furious, uncharacteristic blush rising from her neck. Her face felt hot, blood rushing to her skin. She forced herself to nod. "I... yeah. I love soccer. I'd love to join."

Ana's smile widened. "Awesome. We have practice tomorrow at 4 PM. We'll start with some drills, but honestly, your technique is already incredible. See you then, Teyona."

"Y-yeah. See you tomorrow." Teyona stuttered, her voice rough. She watched Ana turn and walk away with a fluid, athletic grace that held no threat, only mesmerizing confidence. Teyona instantly whirled toward the nearest wall, leaning against it, her entire body shaking, her cheeks burning. She wanted nothing more than to run from this terrifying, sudden shift in her identity.

She grabbed her towel and practically sprinted for the showers.

Teyona arrived back at the unassuming house that served as their sanctuary, her skin still flushed, the image of Ana Sanchez refusing to leave her mind.

She found Sydney in the living room, meticulously applying a new layer of gloss and adjusting the fall of her blonde hair—always ready for war or flirting.

"Well, look who finally decided to show up," Sydney drawled, not looking up. "Where the hell were you two? It's almost midnight."

"Gym," Teyona gasped, leaning against the door frame. "I was at the university gym. Where's Mentari?"

Sydney shrugged. "Library. Said she was running some last-minute research for the lab. You know Menti, she lives in her head, planning some new shit."

As if on cue, the front door opened, and Mentari slipped inside, clutching a stack of bound, official university documents.

"Sorry I'm late, girls. I was reading at the library," Mentari said quickly, her dark eyes flashing, betraying the lie with her nervous energy.

Teyona didn't press. She couldn't focus on Mentari's secrets right now. "Well, good news," Teyona announced, forcing her voice to sound casual. "I joined the university soccer club. Practice starts tomorrow."

"Oh, thank Christ," Sydney sighed dramatically. "Some competitive energy around here. You think they'll have cute frat boys we can recruit to humiliate?"

Teyona forced a dry laugh. "Doubt it, Syd. Just some aggressive alpha males that need to be put in their place." She deliberately omitted any mention of Ana. The secret felt heavy and strange, a fragile, new part of her she didn't dare expose to the light.

Meanwhile, across campus, the recovery was beginning at the Youngpower mansion. The main living room, still littered with the pathetic remnants of their failed party—scattered Solo cups, spilled alcohol, and the lingering, metallic smell of male defeat—was silent.

Matt was sprawled on a leather couch, watching a muted sports channel, one of the few things that still offered him comfort. His body ached, but the immediate, sharp pain was gone, thanks to Brian’s serum.

The front door opened quietly. Joshua walked in, tossing his jacket onto a chair. He looked tired, but his eyes were alive with that cold, predatory hunger that always marked his focus.

"Joshua, where the hell have you been, dude? Brian was looking for you," Matt asked, sitting up.

"Library," Joshua said, his voice curt. "Reading."

Matt laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, I bet you were 'reading,' bro." Matt's eyes tracked a faint, purple-red mark high on Joshua’s neck, barely visible above the collar of his black polo—a fresh, definite hickey. Matt shrugged it off. Joshua carried the weight of the entire Youngpower future. If he found some bitch to service him, he damn well deserved it. He didn't push.

"Well, welcome back, Mr. Leader. We got a lot of propaganda to spin tomorrow. That chaos needs to look like a win, bro."

The Phallusic University soccer pitch was immaculate, a vast stretch of perfect green under a high, indifferent sun. Matt Broome jogged onto the field, feeling the unfamiliar tightness of his soccer cleats after years of wearing heavy MANPOWER boots. He wore the blue and white practice kit, but the familiar black of his Youngpower polo and jeans was folded neatly in his duffel bag on the sidelines—the costume of war swapped for the costume of sport.

Matt had finished his pre-law class and had a clear hour before the rest of the team arrived. He texted Gavi, the soccer captain, letting him know the new recruit was already on the field.

Matt inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of grass and possibility. This was it. This was where he used to be the star, the number 10, the shining star.

He started juggling the ball, finding the rhythm instantly. It was muscle memory—the gentle tap, tap, tap of the leather against his feet, a familiar comfort that quieted the constant, angry noise in his head. He’d sacrificed this life for vengeance, and he didn't regret joining MANPOWER—never. But sometimes, when he was alone, he wondered what lay on the other side of that bloody destiny.

Matt took a running start and drove the ball toward the empty goalpost—a powerful, clean strike aimed just under the crossbar.

A figure in a brilliant scarlet jersey suddenly intercepted the ball—not blocking, but neatly controlling the shot with the easy, infuriating confidence of someone who owned the field.

"Try again, Youngpower Boy," the figure called out, kicking the ball back to him.

Matt’s jaw tightened. Standing there was the goalkeeper of the women's soccer team, the captain Ana Sanchez. Her build was lean and powerful, her energy radiating pure athletic focus.

"You're joining the men's team?" she asked, her voice carrying a slight edge of amusement. "I'm Ana. Captain of the women's team."

Matt grabbed the ball. He wiped his sweat-slicked brow. "Matt Broome."

Ana walked closer, juggling the ball expertly with the inside of her foot. "Well, Matt Broome. I gotta say, seeing a big gang guy join Gavi's team, he must be over the moon to have a man like you on the roster. But don't worry, gang boy," she winked, the gesture disarming and challenging at the same time. "We're still gonna win. We always do."

Matt, still in his mindset of the night before—the humiliation, the propaganda, the balls—felt a rush of hot, competitive rage. He took a deliberate step closer, his eyes narrowing. He was here to recruit and spread the ideology, and this girl was a perfect, arrogant target.

"Look, Ana," Matt said, dropping his voice to that cold, conspiratorial murmur he used to pull recruits closer. "Just so you know, soccer is for men. It's built for us. It's science, not hate."

Ana seemed genuinely amused by his sudden seriousness. She stopped juggling the ball, letting it settle on the toe of her cleat. "Well, I have to admit, you're cute. That blonde curl really makes you cute. But... you're just another sexist man in Gavi's team who turns out to be a gang member. And you’re all the same, Matthew." She drew out the name, adding a patronizing bite to it.

"No one calls me Matthew," Matt snapped.

"Well, Matt is short for Matthew, right?" Ana countered, her head tilted slightly. "Or is it short for 'Male Authority Trying To Humiliate women'?" She laughed, a high, clear sound that hit Matt's bruised ego like gravel.

"You know why men are better soccer players, Ana? It’s science. It’s biology," Matt pressed, now firmly in propagandist mode. He dropped the classic red-pill talking points he’d been rehearsing for the new recruits. "Higher testosterone means more fast-twitch muscle fibers. We are built for explosive power and speed. Women's records are basically our warm-ups. No hate, just biology."

He leaned in further, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, linking the sport directly to the ongoing war. "Look, I'm not saying girls can't kick a ball. I'm saying when they try to take our spot, they're basically saying our entire existence is worthless. They're trying to erase men. They're trying to shame us into being smaller. That's why we have to protect our spaces."

He finished with the core of his trauma, tying it straight back to the Goddesses' attack. "Those psychos who hit us last week, those bitches who tried to take our lives? Same energy. They don't want equality; they want us on our knees. They want to crush the source of our strength."

Ana didn't get angry. She didn't shout. She just looked at him with an unsettling, calm amusement.

"Maybe... Just maybe I love my curl blonde boy on his knees," Ana said, her voice dropping into a low, playful challenge. "You know, women right now don't wait, right? They say it in front of you. I find you cute, Matthew, but you're so predictable. Your mind is filled with that sexist MANPOWER crap. You know I could make you go down right now?" She giggled, the sound utterly mocking.

Matt felt the blood drain from his face, replaced by a cold surge of dread and fury. He was Matt Broome, the future lawyer, the one who controlled the narrative. He wouldn't be dismissed.

"I would like to see you try, Ana..." Matt challenged, flexing his fist.

Without warning, without hesitation, and with the fluid, explosive speed of a genuine striker, Ana drove the ball against her left heel, spinning it with controlled power right off the ground, aiming not for his legs, but up, right into Matt’s vulnerable groin.

CRACK!

The ball, spinning rapidly and traveling only a few feet, hit Matt's recovering, serum-doused nutsies with a sickening, hollow impact. The contact felt like a sledgehammer wrapped in freezing iron.

"AAAAARGHHHH! FUCK!"

The scream tore out of Matt—raw, high-pitched, and absolute. His body folded instantly, his hands clamping his crotch with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. He stumbled backward, his knees buckling, the manicured field blurring into a smear of unbearable pain. The philosophical debate about male superiority instantly dissolved into the primal reality of his biology.

Ana stepped over his writhing body, dusting off her hands. "Well, I tried, and goal. Hit you right where it hurts, your nutsies. So bye, Matthew."

She leaned down quickly, placed a chaste, mocking kiss on his sweaty forehead, and straightened up just as a dark, powerful figure approached from the side field.

"Hey, Ana, is this man bothering you?" Teyona asked, her voice low and edged with protective suspicion. She was fully in her black athletic gear, her expression unreadable.

Ana smiled, a genuine, warm flash that made Teyona’s heart execute that unfamiliar, nervous flutter again. Ana shook her head. "No worries, Teyona. Just a cute guy trying to mansplain the laws of physics to the wrong captain. I guess he got his lesson."

Ana and Teyona walked away together, their movements synchronized and powerful, heading toward the second field for the women’s practice. The sight of their retreating figures—powerful, unbroken, and united—fueled a fresh surge of rage and humiliation in Matt. The jealousy was sudden and acute, tearing through the physical pain in his groin.

"Shit," Matt groaned, forcing himself onto his hands and knees. He couldn't stay down. He was the propagandist. He had to get up. He crawled toward his duffel bag. "Shit, shit, shit, my nuts! Arghh!"

He managed to stagger to the locker room, changing quickly into his soccer jersey. The pain was dulling slightly, a testament to Brian’s serum, but the psychological wound was fresh. The cutie tried to mansplain... Ana’s dismissal was the sharpest blow of all.

The Field of Brotherhood

By the time Matt limped back onto the field, the men's team was arriving. The practice started, and for the next hour, Matt lost himself entirely in the game.

He was a natural midfielder, his vision and passing accuracy pristine. He moved the ball with an effortless grace that belied his recent trauma. He was an engine, distributing the play, finding pockets of space, and controlling the tempo. He was doing what he loved, and it made him feel alive again. The shame and the pain faded, replaced by the honest, simple joy of athletic dominance.

He controlled the midfield, intercepting a loose ball, pushing it wide, and then sprinting forward. He received the return pass, dribbled past a bewildered freshman, and then, with a perfectly weighted through-ball, sent Pablo Gavi—the striker—clean toward the goal. Gavi took one touch and blasted the ball into the back of the net.

The men erupted. "GOAL! FUCK YEAH, GAVI!"

Matt was immediately smothered by a crush of sweaty, relieved bodies.

"Bro, that pass was filthy!" Gavi yelled, slapping Matt hard on the back. "Where the hell have you been hiding that foot?"

"Midfield vision, bro. It's science," Matt gasped, grinning wide. It was the best he'd felt since before the crabs. This was the brotherhood he craved—the one built on shared victory, not shared trauma.

Then, from the sidelines, a familiar, deep roar of encouragement: "MATT! MATT! MATT!"

Joshua was standing there, his black polo radiating authority, his face a portrait of proud approval. Beside him stood Garrett, his massive form a silent wall of support, and Brian, the scientist, even managed a thin, proud smile. Even Felix, sitting grudgingly on the bench, was there. They were watching him, cheering for him, acknowledging his strength. Matt truly felt like a star again.

The practice finished with the men's team feeling energized, united, and victorious.

Gavi clapped his hands together. "Alright, guys! That's a wrap! Good work today, everyone. See you guys tomorrow!"

Matt walked off the field, his chest expanding with pride. He grabbed Gavi and pulled him close, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"Hey, bro. Let's change up. Listen, you know my bro there, Joshua? The one that can make shockwaves? The Conqueror?" Matt nodded toward Joshua, who was walking toward them with casual, magnetic confidence. "He wants to talk to us. Just a quick chat about the team, the house, and keeping us ahead of the competition. I think you're gonna like it."

---

Matt Broome zipped up his black MANPOWER jacket, the sleek leather feeling cool and familiar over the black polo shirt he’d swapped his sweaty jersey for. He wore his standard blue jeans, the fabric now stiff from the rough wash and the fear of a second debilitating blow. He was recovering, he was focused, and now, he was hunting.

He saw Gavi, the soccer captain, along with three other teammates—Archie, Scott, and Frenkie—also changing into casual shirts and jeans, still hyped from the practice high. They were the key. They were the future.

"Yo, Matt, bro, that through ball was insane!" Gavi slapped Matt's shoulder with enough force to jar his still-tender groin, but Matt managed to absorb it without flinching. "We gotta run that play all season, man. You're the engine."

"Any time, brother," Matt replied, using the word brother with the ease of a cult leader. He glanced toward the door. Perfect timing.

There was a heavy thud as Joshua Bassett pushed open the locker room door and strode in, followed by the rest of the Youngpower core: Garrett, massive and towering in a black tank top and jeans; Brian Altemus, looking oddly academic in a black t-shirt and jeans, a pair of surgical gloves tucked into his pocket; and Felix Baker, who was predictably leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, radiating toxic aristocracy in his leather jacket.

"Good game, dude!" Joshua's smile was magnetic as he crossed the room and high-fived Matt. "You were on fire."

"Thanks, brother!" Matt returned the high-five, the use of the term brother intentional and heavy for the ears of the new recruits.

Joshua turned, flashing that winning, charismatic smile at the surrounding soccer players.

"Hey, Gavi!" Joshua said, remembering the star striker from the mansion party.

Gavi, already flustered by the sudden presence of the local legend, immediately started talking up Joshua to his teammates. "Guys, this is the dude I told you about. You should see him. He has that super freaky power. Like, you know, Jonah from MANPOWER? The Supreme Leader?"

The air in the locker room changed instantly. The soccer chatter died, replaced by a nervous, almost reverent silence. The recruits—Scott, Archie, and Frenkie—shifted their weight, their eyes locking onto Joshua. They weren't just looking at a charismatic college kid; they were looking for a leader, for credibility. They wanted proof that the miracle they witnessed at the party wasn't just mass hysteria.

Scott, a lanky defenseman, took the bait. "So you really know Jonah, man? And you guys are really MANPOWER members? Dude, I seriously want to join. That's actually kinda cool."

Joshua fixed Scott with an intense, captivating gaze. He didn't boast. He spoke with the quiet conviction of a prophet.

"Yeah, of course. We're Youngpower, Scott. We're like the young branch, the next generation. And yeah, I know Jonah. He's more than cool. He’s the one who sees the truth. I truly believe he’s the one that will bring us into salvation, that will crush those bitches and make men great again." Joshua paused, letting the words sink in. "

Archie, a skeptic who was too proud to be easily swayed, pushed back. "Okay, fine. Prove it. Can you show us that power, man? Just a little burst, dude. Gotta make sure you're not a fraud."

Felix let out a harsh, dry snort of laughter from the doorframe, a sound dripping with schadenfreude. He truly wished Joshua would fail, be humiliated, and prove himself to be the fraud Felix already believed him to be.

Joshua didn't even look at Felix. Instead, he smirked—a cold, calculated twist of the lip. Unbeknownst to the four core Youngpower members, Joshua had spent every day since the attack trying to consciously trigger his Conqueror Spirit. He didn't know how he did it, but he knew the feeling of the power bubbling up from his gut, fueled by a mixture of anger and absolute self-belief.

He focused his will, not on them, but on the ceiling tile above Archie's head.

A sudden, invisible wave of raw, psychic pressure slammed outward from Joshua. It wasn't a physical blow, but a shockwave of absolute dominance that was deafening in its silence.

Archie gasped, his face instantly draining of color, and his knees buckled, sending him crashing to the tiled floor. Gavi, Scott, and Frenkie stumbled backward, slamming into the adjacent lockers, their heads throbbing, a high-pitched whine filling their ears. The Conqueror Spirit didn't injure them; it simply forced obedience.

Joshua stood unmoving, his eyes burning with an intense, quiet power. He waited until the air settled and Archie was struggling to his feet.

"Wanna more?" Joshua asked, his voice low and entirely devoid of heat.

Frenkie, visibly shaken, wiped sweat from his brow. "Dude. You're... you're legitimately cool, man."

Joshua smiled, satisfied. He had them. He had them with a show of power, but now he had to keep them with an idea. He hopped lightly onto the center bench, gaining a crucial six inches of height over the others.

"So, here's the deal. I want you to be part of us. To be Youngpower," Joshua announced, his gaze sweeping over the impressed athletes. "You're all athletes. You're naturally the pinnacle of manhood. And it's not even just about your physical power, although that's sick. It's about the mindset."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a persuasive, confidential tone. "Hear me out, brothers. Masculinity is about the grind. It's about passion. It's about pushing boundaries and conquering every limitation. We just need to be better than ourselves yesterday. That's the only rule."

Joshua gestured to his core team, demonstrating the strength of their diverse masculinity. "We have a lot of different shapes of masculinity in this brotherhood. You know Garrett here..."

Garrett, recognizing his cue, stepped forward and, with a single, massive roar and a burst of impossible strength, he shattered the padlock on a nearby locker door with a casual punch.

"See?" Joshua smirked. "That's pure, unchained power. And Brian here? He's a genius who's literally finding ways to make us immune to those castrating bitches. Felix is a great fighter and a top strategist. And Mattie—Matt right here—is the best athlete MANPOWER has. And we want all of you to be part of us. We need you to be yourselves. We need to show those bitches that sports is a man's world and their little female leagues are just charity to be 'inclusive.' Are you sick of them taking our spaces, thinking their little sports equal ours?" Matt jumped in, his voice ringing with his authentic, deep-seated resentment. "Are you sick of those cunts acting like they can share the spotlight? This is a man's world!"

The recruits erupted. "YEAH! FUCK THEM BITCHES!" Gavi yelled, his eyes alight with fury and adrenaline. "FUCK FEMALE SOCCER! MEN RUN THIS SPORT!"

"YEAH! YEAH!" Scott and Frenkie screamed in unison.

Joshua and Matt exchanged a private, triumphant high-five. They had them. They had a squad of fierce, influential allies. The propaganda was working.

Miles away, the silence in the women's locker room was broken only by the gentle hiss of water running in the communal shower and the quiet chatter of the three Goddesses.

Sydney and Mentari were sitting on the bench, surrounding Teyona, who was leaning forward, her damp hair clinging to the back of her neck.

"I don't know a damn thing about soccer, but honestly, Tey, that was... fantastic. I think," Sydney said, trying to be supportive even though she had mentally spent the entire practice ranking the men's team by jawline and dick-size.

Mentari just smiled, a small, knowing expression that Teyona hated and desperately needed.

"Iknow why you're being so quiet, Tey," Mentari said gently. She reached out and hugged Teyona, her small frame a surprising source of strength. "Someone has a crush."

Teyona flinched. "Wait, you guys... you know?"

Sydney scoffed dramatically, leaning back against the cool tiles. "Babe, we're more than friends. We're sisters, bound by blood, violence, and a sworn hatred of the penis. Of course, we know!" She hugged Teyona tightly. "And honestly, it's kind of a privilege, you know? You're into women."

Sydney sighed, a dark cloud crossing her perfect features. "We’re stuck being into men. Like, women are so much better than men. Men are useless, shit, fucking pathetic, and I've got this curse that still makes me intensely attracted to those filthy creatures with their filthy dicks. Ewww. They're so fuckin' gross, but I can't look away." She shuddered, disgusted by her own uncontrollable lust. "You, on the other hand, babe, you don't attract to those walking disappointments. You're so lucky. I wish that was me."

Teyona absorbed the wave of raw, honest emotion from Sydney. It was both validating and strangely painful. She was lucky, but she was also terrified.

"Yeah, well, I don't think she's into me," Teyona mumbled, staring at the floor. "And Matt... that annoying blonde cutie, he was totally flirting with her today."

Mentari laughed, a sharp, cynical sound. "Oh, Tey. You're afraid that stupid Matt, with his pathetic propaganda, will get the girl from you." Mentari tapped Teyona’s temple. "Think, Teyona. Think like a woman, not like a soldier. What do men do? Men always think with their dick. They posture, they mansplain, and they try to conquer. They see women as a prize to be won for their own ego."

Mentari leaned in, her voice intense and sincere. "But we, women, treat women like human beings. You need to show her kindness. Show her respect. Show her your authentic self. You need balance, Tey. I know we fight patriarchy and those stupid Youngpower monsters, but it's important to keep a balance, right? You're so intense, I just fear you're going to burn out."

Mentari squeezed her shoulder. "Just be sincere. Don't play the man’s game. So... walk to her. Ask her to dinner. Just enjoy the genuine connection, okay?"

Teyona looked up, her gaze finding Ana on the other side of the room. Ana was just zipping up her own black t-shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly cool, laughing with another girl. A slow, determined fire lit in Teyona’s eyes—not the fire of hatred, but the unfamiliar warmth of hope.

"Thank you," Teyona whispered, the simple act of saying the words feeling like a revolutionary act. She finally stood up, ready to move toward the new, frightening challenge.

 

---

The ice cream parlor near the university quad was bright and overly cheerful, smelling sickly sweet of waffle cones and synthetic strawberry. Teyona sat across a small round table from Ana Sanchez, clutching a melting scoop of dark chocolate. It felt absurd—the Hell Goddess, the purest engine of anti-male vengeance, was on a date.

Teyona wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, her expression tense. She was mesmerized by Ana's easy confidence and the genuine warmth in her eyes. It was a terrifying, exhilarating experience to connect with someone who wasn't Mentari or Sydney, someone who offered validation instead of battle plans.

Ana took a delicate bite of her pistachio cone, then sighed, her expression shifting to one of easy frustration. "You know what, Teyona? I never really found someone that just... sees me for who I am. Like Matt earlier."

Teyona leaned forward slightly. The mention of the Youngpower member immediately brought her back to the front line. "What about him?"

"He’s cute, I guess, in that aggressively well-fed way, but God, the privilege is blinding. He thought that female soccer is just a stupid hobby, right? Like we're just here to post thirst traps for the men's team." Ana shook her head. "Men never really understand us. It’s like they live in this bubble of inherited entitlement and then have the audacity to scream like they’re the oppressed ones. It's truly pathetic."

Teyona nodded, the muscle in her jaw twitching. "Well, men are just... like that. They can't handle losing the spotlight."

Ana slammed her cone down gently, her eyes blazing with sudden passion. "Exactly! Whenever I tell a guy I love soccer, the first thing they do is mansplain the offside rule and ask me to name three players from my favorite club. It’s like their brains are wired to believe women only consume sports to find hot men. We don't have autonomous interests. It's all about them."

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "It’s not the truth, Tey. I’m even still figuring out my sexuality, and trust me, it’s got nothing to do with my love for this sport. When will men be capable of thinking that a woman can have an intense interest in a field, and it’s not all about their validation? Men are so irrelevant right now, and their fragile ego just can’t hold it together. Oh God."

Teyona felt a profound connection. Ana wasn't just talking about sports; she was articulating the core truth of the Velvet Revolution—the male refusal to see women as fully autonomous human beings. Teyona grinned, a genuine, unforced expression she hadn't allowed herself in months.

"So, you're definitely not with Matt?" Teyona asked, the question carrying a heavy, hopeful weight that she couldn't hide. "I saw you with him earlier."

Ana laughed, a loud, dismissive sound that bounced off the glass walls. "That Youngpower Boy? Teyona, please. Matt is cute, yeah, but he's full of himself. And just so you know, I kicked a ball right into his nutsack earlier, and he went down, baby. He joined a gang, but he’s still weak. He's pathetic."

Ana leaned back, crossing her arms, her disgust palpable. "Honestly, he’s just a stupid man trying to flirt with me. I don't like him, and eww. Imagine me with one of those Youngpower men, with their big ego and the illusion that their nutsack gives them power. Eww, no no no, just no. Please, Teyona, save me from him. Eww, just eww."

Teyona burst out laughing, a deep, relieving roar that shook her shoulders. "Men are fuckin' shit, man. I bet Mattie is butthurt if he knew what you really think of him."

Unbeknownst to them, the universe was indulging in a devastating piece of dramatic irony. Just around the corner of the parlor, hidden behind a large promotional ice cream cutout, stood Matt Broome.

Matt had felt restless, his groin still aching, and he had come out for a solo walk, needing to clear the fog of humiliation. He wasn't even looking for the women; he was simply existing on the street when he heard Ana's distinctive, cutting laugh and the sound of his name—"Mattie"—uttered with pure, toxic contempt.

He heard everything.

He heard his name spat out like garbage. He heard his manhood ridiculed. He heard his entire ideology—the salvation that saved him from his father's fate—dismissed as a "stupid illusion."

“He went down, baby. He joined a gang, but he’s still weak.”

The words were not just an insult; they were a knife twist in the same psychological wound he endured. The humiliation was total, immediate, and overwhelming. The laughter—Ana's laughter, Teyona's complicit laughter—echoed the cruel mockery.

A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit Matt. His eyes burned, but he remembered Jonah’s creed, the harsh, metallic voice of his father ringing in his ears: Men take what is theirs. Do not cry. Men never cry. Crying was the surrender of masculinity, the very weakness .

The overwhelming urge to collapse and weep was channeled into a violent, burning resolve. They want to shame me? They want to call me weak? I will show them the consequence of that weakness.

"Fuck... women are all the same," Matt whispered, his voice shaking with absolute, murderous fury. "They smile, and then they destroy you. I swear Ana will be my slave! Fuck that!"

His internal turmoil resolved into a clear, devastating objective: Terror.

Matt spun around and stalked back toward the university fields, his mind now zeroed in on the most vulnerable symbol of Ana’s pride: the female soccer team's space. He knew exactly where the women’s team stored their equipment—a separate, unsupervised locker room tucked away beneath the old wooden stands.

He didn't make it twenty feet before he ran into his new allies.

Gavi and the three converts—Frenkie, Archie, and Scott—were hanging out near a coffee stall, sipping iced drinks and talking loudly about their successful indoctrination into Youngpower.

"Hey, Matt! Thought you went home with your Youngpower bros?" Gavi asked, casually sipping his coffee.

"Nah, man. I just... I got a solo mission," Matt said, his eyes wild and fixed. He lowered his voice, the menace in his tone instantly drawing the recruits in. "Listen, I'm heading to the female locker room. Wanna wreck that fuckin' room? I swear Ana will regret whatever she said to me behind my back."

The recruits' faces lit up—not with fear, but with dangerous, immediate excitement.

Gavi smirked, the ice coffee forgotten. "Oh God. Yes. Let’s make them forfeit the team, bro. Disband those bitches. We terrorize them."

Scott slammed his fist into his palm. "Let’s make those women too afraid to put their shoes on and leave the soccer for us! FOR MEN!"

Matt’s lips peeled back in a feral grin. "YEAH!" he roared. He had them. His private shame was now their collective, righteous act of retribution.

They headed back toward the field, their steps synchronized and charged with violent entitlement.

Back at the parlor, Ana finally stood up. "I've gotta go. I'll catch you tomorrow, Teyona. Thanks for today’s talk. Really appreciate that." Ana smiled warmly, a flash of genuine, non-hostile affection that Teyona’s heart clung to.

Ana walked to her car, but stopped abruptly. "Shit, the key," she muttered, patting her jeans pockets. She had changed in the women's locker room and must have left her car keys and wallet in her gym bag. Ana sighed and turned back, jogging toward the locker room beneath the stands.

Meanwhile, Matt led his squad into the darkened locker room. They had armed themselves with whatever they could find: Gavi gripped a baseball bat; Frenkie and Archie carried heavy tire irons they’d scavenged from a nearby maintenance shed.

"I wish I had my crossbow," Matt hissed, his voice raw, pulling his black polo over his head. "But this is enough."

The destruction was immediate and chaotic. The sound of splintering wood and shattering plastic filled the small room. The men, high on adrenaline and collective entitlement, attacked the space with savage joy.

Frenkie and Archie used the tire irons to violently smash the vanity mirror into a thousand shards, destroying the space where the women preened and prepared.

Scott ripped the bulletin board with the team photos and motivation slogans off the wall, tearing the paper to shreds with manic pleasure.

Gavi used the baseball bat to systematically cave in the front of every locker, creating a landscape of crumpled metal and ruin.

Matt stood in the center, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the piles of colorful jerseys—the hated scarlet of Ana's captain's uniform and the bright yellow of the rest of the team. He grabbed a handful of jerseys, feeling the smooth fabric slip through his fingers. He imagined Ana's mocking face, her triumphant laugh.

The rage was now pure and corrosive. Matt unzipped his jeans, pulling out his erect, throbbing penis. He stood over the pile of jerseys and peed on them, the warm stream of urine soaking the fabric in a final, profound act of territorial marking and sexual humiliation.

He finished, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He laughed—a choked, victorious sound—as the other boys paused their destruction to cheer.

"Yeah! That's what they get!" Frenkie screamed.

Matt turned back, his dick still out, shaking it triumphantly at the destruction. He zipped his pants and let the sheer, absolute violation fill him.

A sudden sound—a choked gasp—cut through the triumphant chaos.

Ana Sanchez was standing in the doorway, clutching her gym bag, her eyes wide, staring at the ruin, the wreckage of her team’s morale, and the glistening puddle on the jerseys.

"What the hell...?" Ana whispered, her voice breaking. "You're such a loser! You ruined our room!" Tears welled in her eyes, not of fear, but of devastation.

Matt’s grin was vicious. He stepped closer, his body blocking the exit. He was high on the transgression, his earlier humiliation purged by this act of monstrous entitlement.

"You're going to regret mocking me, bitch," he hissed. He didn't need a bat or a crossbow. He had four angry, aroused allies. "Boys, let’s make sure this bitch will be ruined."

The men, led by Matt's savage rage, moved in, circling the terrified, crying girl.

Scott and Archie, their faces grim and exhilarated, held Ana Sanchez captive, twisting her arms hard enough to make her gasp.

Matt Broome, his face contorted into a mask of pure, savage vengeance, stalked closer. He placed a thumb and forefinger under her chin, forcing her head back to meet his furious gaze. The adrenaline had spiked his focus, making the room tunnel on Ana's terrified, defiant eyes.

"I heard every word you said to that other bitch," Matt hissed, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. "You wanted to humiliate me, huh? Call me a loser."

Ana, even in captivity, was unbreakable. She spat, the saliva hitting Matt's cheek. "You're just like I think, Matt! A pathetic, jealous loser who can't stand that a girl is better than you!"

Matt threw his head back and let out a manic, unhinged laugh. "Oh, Ana! It's illogical that a woman can be better than men in sports. It's just... your sick, little, wildest fantasy."

He slammed his lips down on hers, a violent, punishing kiss of pure domination. He held her chin captive, and while his mouth was pressed against hers, he fumbled his phone from his pocket, speaking rapidly into the voice recorder: "Guys, check my location. NOW!"

He ripped his mouth from hers, wiping the spittle and saliva away. "I don't wanna fuckin' hurt you, Ana. Not for real," Matt said, his voice dropping into a seductive, terrifying whisper. "Just say it. Say 'men are better than women,' and we will let you go. Then you disband your stupid little hobby club and leave this sport to MAN!"

Gavi stepped up behind Matt, the baseball bat hanging loose. "Yeah! Do that, bitch! Disband the team!"

Ana glared at Matt, tears of pure, furious humiliation welling in her eyes. "Go to hell!"

Matt laughed, a cold, predatory sound. "What a feisty bitch. Jonah's influence is deep in this campus. Whatever I do tonight will never get me kicked out, babe."

He raised his hand, the signal for the attack. "Boys—"

The sound was a cataclysmic crack. The door, which they had barely shut, was instantly blown inward off its hinges, slamming against the concrete wall with the force of a battering ram.

Framed in the doorway, radiating scarlet and black vengeance, stood Hell Goddess.

Her armored suit seemed to suck the light out of the room. The visor of her helmet glowed menacingly. She held her electrified staff, and her voice—low, amplified, and utterly terrifying—cut through the noise.

"Step away from the women of this campus," Hell Goddess commanded. "I am the protector of women. I am Hell Goddess, and I will make sure you taste hell!"

Matt's jaw twisted into a vicious, confident grin. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me! Only one from the three, huh? Cowardly bitches! Come on! Bring it on!"

Matt charged forward, gripping the baseball bat like a club. Hell Goddess met his advance, swinging her magnetized staff. The crack of wood against metal was explosive, sending splinters flying. Matt stumbled back, his hands stinging, but the sight of his father's ruined life fueled him.

Frenkie seized the moment, kicking out from behind the Goddess. But she was a blur of vengeance. She caught Frenkie’s foot in her gauntlet, twisting his ankle, and then, with a sharp, brutal grunt, she drove her armored heel straight into his exposed testicles.

"ARGGGGH! OH, GOD, NOOOO!" Frenkie dropped, his scream high and animalistic, his body already convulsing.

The brutal efficiency of the strike instantly shattered the focus of Scott and Archie. Ana seized the critical second of distraction. She drove her elbows back with pure, savage force, aiming for the soft, unprepared groins of her captors.

"ARGHHHHH! NOOOOO!" Scott and Archie collapsed, screaming and clutching their ruined crotches, the sound echoing agonizingly off the tiled walls.

Gavi stood, his pride warring with his fear. "You will disband the female club! UNDERSTOOD!" Gavi screamed. Ana didn't hesitate. She punched him square in the face.

"Fuck you, Gavi!"

Gavi staggered back, dazed and bleeding from the nose. The four recruits—the cornerstone of Matt’s plan—were entirely incapacitated, their fear now total and irreversible.

Matt didn't flinch. He saw the pure hatred in Hell Goddess’s attack and focused all his fury on her. She rushed him, but Matt was faster than he looked. She swung her fist; it hit his padded flank, but Matt, boosted by Brian's serum, tanked the blow. He countered, kicking out and sending her staff flying.

Matt smirked, unleashing the move he'd practiced: the MANPOWER PUNCH. He hit Hell Goddess square in the gut, sending a shocking, concussive wave through her. She gagged, the air knocked from her core, and she crumpled, wheezing.

"You bitch," Matt spat, grabbing the baseball bat again. "I wish I knew who the hell you were." He raised the bat, ready for the killing blow.

Suddenly, Ana spotted salvation: two heavy leather soccer balls. Gavi was staggering, his vision blurry. Ana, moving like the captain she was, sprinted past Gavi, grabbed the two balls, and drove her foot through them.

CRACK! CRACK!

The balls exploded off her foot, hitting Gavi's already damaged crotch with the devastating force of twin ball-peen hammers. Gavi let out an inhuman, high-pitched wail—a sound of profound, final loss—that seemed to vibrate Matt's teeth and shattered his concentration.

It was all the time Hell Goddess needed.

She propelled herself off the floor, an unstoppable blur of scarlet and black vengeance. She lunged at the momentarily stunned Matt, grabbed him by his polo shirt and jacket, and slammed his back against the cold, tiled wall with brutal, decisive force. The air rushed from Matt’s lungs, and his vision swam. He was trapped.

Hell Goddess's cold, black visor was inches from his face, reflecting his own panicked, widening eyes. He could feel the terrifying, absolute focus of her purpose. She didn't hesitate; she delivered her ultimate, specialized blow: the Thunder Eggcracker.

She pulled her armored knee back to her chest and drove it forward directly, with full, calculated, anti-male force, into Matt’s vulnerable testicles. The sheer momentum of her body, coupled with the dense armor plating, transformed her leg into a projectile engineered for biological ruin.

The sound was a sickening, wet, muffled crunch—a sound Matt heard not just with his ears, but deep in the core of his abdomen. It was the sound of soft tissue being pulverized beneath an iron knee, an echo that immediately silenced the screams of the other boys.

Matt’s world instantly dissolved. The bright lights of the locker room became a searing, blinding white static. A wave of liquid fire—hotter than any chemical burn, colder than any frostbite—shot from his groin, up his spine, and detonated behind his eyes. It was a complete system overload. He was conscious, but paralyzed, locked inside a body consumed by an agony that defied description.

His scream was not the loud roar of a fighter; it was the unholy howl of absolute, final surrender. It was the same, high-pitched, emasculated shriek his father must have made years ago in the garage, a sound of total defeat ripped from the depths of his soul.

The serum Brian had given him was useless. Matt’s legs gave out. He vomited instantly, the bitter retch tearing through his convulsing body as he slid down the wall. The vomit splattered across his black polo shirt, mixing with the sweat and the shame.

Matt Broome was utterly destroyed.

His consciousness dissolved into ragged, black waves. The Propagandist—the architect of the Brotherhood, the son sworn to bloody vengeance—was gone. His ideology, his revenge, his father's legacy, and his manhood were all crushed in that single, final blow. He lay twitching, a wrecked symbol of the pathetic vulnerability he had sworn to eliminate. He was just another crumpled boy screaming for his mommy.

The outer door burst open, this time with true military force. Joshua, Felix, Garrett, and Brian—in full tactical gear, responding to Matt's panicked location alert—flooded the room.

Felix, armed with his heavy, spiked mace, saw the Hell Goddess standing over the convulsing Matt. Roaring in fury, he swung the mace low. It connected hard with the Goddess's side armor. Hell Goddess gasped, the blow forcing her to her knees.

Before she could recover, Brian, with clinical speed, lunged and ripped her helmet off.

Ana, who was tending to the downed Gavi, looked up, saw the unmasked face, and let out a single, shocked whisper: "What? Teyona?"

Garrett immediately seized the unmasked Teyona and slammed her to the floor, her power neutralized.

But the fight wasn't over. Heaven Goddess and Earth Goddess arrived, landing hard in the hallway, their armor gleaming in the harsh light.

Joshua drew his long, wicked sword and focused his will. He released a wave of the Conqueror Spirit—a visible, vibrating aura of sheer power that slammed into the two women, forcing them to pause.

"Brian! Get Matt and the recruits out of here now!" Joshua roared, his voice thick with raw command.

Brian dragged the twitching, ruined body of Matt toward the door.

Joshua advanced, his invisible power holding the two women captive. He pressed the tip of his sword against Earth Goddess's throat. "You. Unmask yourself."

They had no choice. The Conqueror Spirit was too overwhelming. Mentari (Heaven Goddess) and Sydney (Earth Goddess) slowly, agonizingly, reached up and removed their own helmets.

The sight hit Joshua and Felix like a nuclear strike.

Felix stared, staggering back a step.

Joshua stared at the petite, dark-haired girl—Mentari. The object of his violent, toxic obsession. The only woman he couldn't conquer. His eyes widened in absolute, traumatic shock. The two people who mattered most to him—his target and his rival—were revealed to be the enemy.

Mentari met his gaze, no longer the terrified student, but the determined leader. "We're going to stop you, Joshua," she declared, her voice ringing with cold finality. "I'm done with the secret identity bullshit! Your war is propaganda, and now... we're going to do the same. We're going to empower women to fight you openly!"

Joshua let out a scream of pure, tortured rage, the sound echoing his internal collapse. He lowered his sword, his body trembling, and looked at his defeated, humiliated core unit.

"Let's go back," he ground out, the words ripped from his chest. He shoved Mentari and Sydney away and sprinted for the exit, followed by Felix and Garrett dragging the others.

Ana rushed to the side of the unmasked Teyona, who was struggling to sit up. "Teyona! You saved me! Oh my god, you're one of them!"

Teyona, pale and breathing hard, nodded.

Ana, crying with fear and relief, bent down and kissed Teyona on the mouth. It was a long, deep kiss of gratitude, terror, and sudden, undeniable attraction.

In the chaos of the mansion parking lot, the Youngpower unit regrouped around their broken brother.

Garrett stared back at the lights of the university. "So, Mentari, Sydney, and Teyona... they're the Cheerios?"

Joshua didn't even look at him. His eyes were cold, hard, and focused. The shame of his defeated propaganda had resolved into terrible resolve.

"They changed their plan," Joshua said, his voice flat and dangerous. "They want open war. We'll give them open war."

A day later, the basement of the Youngpower mansion, now converted into a triage infirmary, was clean but smelled faintly of antiseptic and defeat. Two rows of cots held the four incapacitated soccer players, their whimpering reduced to groans.

Joshua Bassett walked to the back corner where Matt Broome was sitting up, his face pale and drawn, a massive ice pack cradled precariously in his lap. Joshua, wearing a fresh black t-shirt and his jacket, looked utterly composed, his mind already calculating the next move.

"You holding up, bud?" Joshua asked, his voice low and devoid of judgment, extending a hand for a high-five.

Matt slapped his hand weakly. "Yeah, Josh. I'm... I'm good." The lie was obvious, but the need to maintain the facade of strength was paramount.

Brian Altemus stepped up, adjusting his glasses, the clinical assessment offering cold comfort. "The good news is Matt’s was blunt force trauma. He got severely swollen testicles, grade three contusion, but nothing ruptured. It’s temporary. The recovery time is rapid thanks to my anti-inflammatory cocktails."

"See? Unlike my dad," Matt said, his voice raw with pride, "I'm still a man. And Brian said in two days, I can fight again, dude."

Joshua grinned, a flash of genuine approval. "That’s my brother. That’s Youngpower."

"We need a plan, Josh," Matt hissed, the shame of his humiliation burning hotter than any physical pain. "I'll make Ana and that bitch Teyona pay for what they did"

Joshua didn't answer directly. Instead, he pulled a crumpled, glossy pamphlet from his jacket pocket and handed it to Matt.

The pamphlet was bright pink and white, adorned with a bold, beautiful illustration of a woman in a college sweater, a soccer ball tucked under her arm, her face a portrait of confident defiance. The title, printed in aggressive block letters, read: THE CHEERIO SORORITY: EMBRACE YOUR POWER. OWN YOUR SPACE.

"They're not just fighting us, Matt," Joshua said, his voice flat with terrible resolve. "They're fighting us for the soul of this campus. They're making a sorority to compete with the Brotherhood. They want to weaponize femininity." Joshua’s eyes were cold and burning. "We'll show them. We're the best. We'll give them the open war they crave, but we'll win the social war first."

Midnight

The university campus was utterly silent under the cover of midnight. A full moon hung high, casting long, velvet shadows across the quad.

Mentari, dressed in civilian clothes, walked briskly away from the main library, clutching a handful of photocopied research notes—data she would use to fuel the new Sorority's propaganda campaign. She was exhausted, haunted by thethe terrifying, magnetic face of Joshua Bassett.

She didn't hear him. She only felt the sudden, crushing force as a powerful arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her violently into a dark alleyway between two lecture halls. Her books scattered across the pavement. She was slammed hard against the cold, brick wall.

It was Joshua. He wore a simple black tank top and jeans, his body radiating a terrifying mix of raw power and toxic charisma.

"Going home late, little bird?" Joshua asked, his voice low and amused, his body pressing against hers, trapping her. He smelled of sweat, adrenaline, and expensive cologne.

Mentari didn't struggle. She met his gaze, defiance hardening her features. "Going home from working, Joshua. Something you wouldn't understand."

"Oh, I understand work," he murmured, his gaze falling to the spilled pamphlet on the ground. "Setting up an open war, new sorority, huh? That's what you were reading for? You want to turn this into a political battle now?"

He laughed, a sound that held both admiration and deep condescension. "You can be my girl, Mentari. You’re too smart to waste your energy fighting me. Imagine what we could build together."

"You wish, Josh," Mentari spat. "I'd rather burn."

Joshua's eyes narrowed, but the anger was quickly eclipsed by the relentless fire of his obsession. He pushed off the wall slightly, allowing her a fraction of space, then pulled her back into his body, caging her.

"I really think you're going to be my good wife," Joshua whispered, his lips grazing her ear. "But you're too stubborn right now. Don't worry, I'll make you a tradwife soon enough when you realize my full power."

He gave her no more time to argue. He slammed his mouth down on hers, the kiss mirroring the violence of their first encounter—dominant, punishing, and utterly consuming. Mentari didn't fight. She kissed back, her hands gripping his muscular shoulders, her hatred for his ideology momentarily consumed by the undeniable, terrifying fire of their mutual, raw attraction.

The kiss lasted long enough to burn the lie into both their souls.

Joshua finally released her, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with the dark, ecstatic victory of a man who knew he could destroy her mind as easily as her mission. He didn't say another word. He turned, grabbed his sword bag, and stalked away into the night, back toward the monstrous, gilded cage of the Youngpower frat house.

Mentari slid down the brick wall and sat on the cold pavement, clutching her arms, tears of shame and conflicting desire pouring down her face. She loved the chase, hated the man, but knew her battle was more important than the pathetic, confusing state of her own heart.

Unbeknownst to either of them, a dark figure watched the entire exchange from the roofline of the nearby Biology building.

Felix Baker adjusted his spiked mace and smiled, a chilling, calculating expression that promised nothing but betrayal.

"The fool," Felix whispered, his voice dripping with aristocratic contempt. "Joshua is weak. His supposed power is undermined by his uncontrollable lust for the enemy. He risks his life, his mission, and the entire organization for a piece of defiant ass."

Felix looked down at the spot where Mentari sat crying. His smile tightened into a vicious vow.

"I'll get the leader position, Joshua. And you, Mentari, would be my queen."