Chapter 202 | The Meeting

Chapter 202: 202 | The Meeting

Dexter reached the restaurant at 12:40 PM.

He had ten minutes to make up for. His jacket was torn at the shoulder from the fight. His knuckles were bruised and the adrenaline from the confrontation at Harvest Homes was still humming through his veins like electricity through a live wire.

None of it showed on his face.

He walked through the restaurant entrance with the calm, composed expression of a man who had not, in fact, just been thrown through a wall by a four-meter Ultra Realm expert thirty minutes ago.

The receptionist looked up and smiled.

"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome. How may I help you?"

"I’m Dexter Ashford. I have a reservation. Booth 24."

The receptionist checked the tablet in front of her. Her eyes moved across the screen. Then she looked up, her smile brightening.

"Welcome, Mr. Ashford. Your party is already seated. Please head down the main hallway, second door on your left."

Dexter thanked her and walked through the dining area.

The restaurant was busier and every table was occupied.

Waiters wove between chairs carrying steaming plates of meals.

He reached the hallway, Booth 24.

He placed his hand on the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

When he stepped inside, there were six people seated in the booth.

He had expected five.

A few meant three or four, maybe five at most. Dexter had prepared himself for a small, informal gathering of mid-rank heroes who wanted to swap war stories and discuss squad formation over a meal.

He had not prepared himself for six.

He had especially not prepared himself for the woman sitting alone in the corner chair, sipping a glass of palm wine with the unhurried patience of someone who was accustomed to being the most important person in any room she entered.

Dexter controlled his expression.

It took effort. A significant amount of effort. His brain registered the scene in a single, comprehensive snapshot, processing every face, every posture, every detail in the fraction of a second before his expression could betray his surprise.

He smiled.

The booth was a private room. Circular table. Seating for eight. The lighting was warm. The walls were decorated with handwoven textiles in geometric patterns of indigo and gold. A large platter of assorted appetizers sat in the center of the table, surrounded by glasses and bottles.

Five men sat in a loose circle around one side of the table. They were relaxed. Comfortable. The body language of people who had been chatting long enough to settle into their seats and claim their territory.

The sixth person sat alone.

Aurora.

The youngest S-Rank hero in the Hero Association.

She sat in the corner chair, separated from the others by a gap of empty space that was clearly not accidental. The five men had arranged themselves on the opposite side of the table, grouped together in a cluster that spoke volumes about their collective willingness to sit within arm’s reach of someone who could probably level the building if she sneezed.

Aurora didn’t seem to mind. She leaned against the table with one elbow, her glass of palm wine held loosely in her hand, her dark eyes fixed on Dexter with an expression of quiet, evaluating interest.

Dexter catalogued the other faces.

Cole who was called Plasmatic Man. Seated at the center of the group. He was the one who had organized this meeting. Mid-twenties. Clean-shaven. Blue t-shirt and jeans. His plasma energy was fully suppressed, giving no hint of the devastating power he could wield.

To Cole’s left was a man Dexter recognized from the outbreak. Blitz. A speed-type hero whose talent allowed him to move at extraordinary velocities for short bursts.

He had been the one pulling injured civilians from collapsed buildings during the attack, darting in and out of danger zones with a fearlessness that had impressed even the veteran responders. He was slender. Wiry. His features were sharp, his eyes constantly moving, scanning the room with the restless energy of someone whose brain operated at a faster clock speed than everyone else’s.

To Cole’s right was a man Dexter recognized but did not like.

Bullet Spear Man.

His real name was apparently something else, but everyone in the hero community knew him by his combat moniker. He was tall. Muscular. His arms were thick, and his hands were large. He carried a collapsed spear harness on his back, the weapon’s shaft visible above his shoulder. His face was handsome in a rough, aggressive way. Strong jaw. Cropped hair. A scar running from his left ear to his collar.

Dexter remembered him from the outbreak.

He remembered what Bullet Spear Man had done.

During the Goblin attack, when a group of civilians had been cornered in an alley by a pack of six-star beasts, Bullet Spear Man had been in a position to rescue them directly. Instead, he had positioned himself at the opposite end of the alley and attacked the monsters from behind, using the civilians as bait.

The strategy was effective. The distracted monsters were easier to kill from behind. The civilians survived, though two of them were injured in the process.

Dexter understood the tactical logic. He understood that sometimes, in combat, difficult choices produced better outcomes than heroic ones. He understood that Bullet Spear Man’s decision had resulted in fewer total casualties than a direct rescue attempt might have.

But understanding logic and trusting a person were two different things.

A man who would use civilians as bait would use teammates as bait. Given the right circumstances. Given the right tactical calculation. Given the right price.

Dexter did not trust Bullet Spear Man.

He nodded politely, smiled and said nothing beyond the basic social courtesies.

The fourth person was a man called Gridlock. A defensive specialist. His talent allowed him to create localized force fields that could absorb and redirect kinetic energy.

During the outbreak, he had used his barriers to create safe zones where civilians could shelter while the combat heroes engaged the monsters.