"See? It killed him. That thing is a monster—why can't you just accept that?" Haturii's voice shook with anger, raw and unfiltered.
"We don't know that," Stane replied evenly, his tone calm yet unyielding. "I've stared into the eyes of real monsters, and that... that wasn't what I saw. Why would he fight so hard to protect something if he were just a mindless beast?"
"A corpse. He was protecting a corpse," Haturii snapped. "Do you even hear yourself? What makes you so sure he wasn't the one who killed it? Stop shielding that thing. Monsters don't feel emotions, Doctor."
"Well, this one does. Maybe they all do—we wouldn't know, because we kill each and every single one we lay eyes on!" Stane shot back, his voice rising with frustration.
"And what would you have us do?" Haturii demanded. "Let them roam free? We kill them because they kill us. We hunt them because they hunt us. You're giving that beast way too much credit. Trusting it without evidence is pure folly. You, of all people, should know better."
"I must be a damned fool then," Stane muttered, stepping forward. The doubts Haturii voiced weren't new to him. They had haunted his every decision since being assigned anomaly 004—his first major field posting after years of archival obscurity. He'd seen creatures that defied comprehension—grotesque, surreal, horrific.
There was 121: Madam Koi Koi, the nightmare with red stilettos that haunted school dorms across generations. Then 811, the Bushbaby, a spirit-creature born of myth, haunting forests like a whisper from forgotten folklore.
And then... there was 004.
In the RSCP Foundation, nothing was impossible. Termination attempts were common—Stane had watched countless researchers sign up for the glory and walk away humiliated… or never walk away at all. Terminating an immortal entity was like tying on a blindfold and swinging at a piñata—except this one hit back. Hard.
"You're dangerously invested," Stane observed darkly, narrowing the gap between them. "This path you're on… it reeks of desperation. Of war."
"The war came to us," Haturii continued, cutting him off. "Five years ago, that thing burned our homes and shattered our lives. Thousands died. If there's even a onepercent chance it's a threat, then we take it as absolute certainty. We must destroy it."
"But he's not our enemy!"
"Stane, what did trust ever earn Stonehaven? Look at our past. How many heroes are left standing?"
"But I went into the pod. I saw what he was protecting." Stane's voice softened. "He wasn't holding a weapon. He was holding a memory. Please… just don't hurt him."
"Who? The monster? The one you let out?" Haturii's tone turned cold. "Is that what you're worried about? Not the thousands it's almost killed, the innocents drained dry as a result of your restless actions?"
"It's not his fault. He's not dangerous!" Stane's voice cracked with urgency. "Yes, he looks terrifying—but if you could just see beyond that... If you saw the boy beneath the teeth and claws—you'd see someone lost. Someone trying, despite everything, to belong. He's just a child. A Kaiju, yes—but not evil. Just… confused."
He stepped closer, his eyes locked with Haturii's. "People make mistakes. That doesn't mean we destroy them. Even good people falter. And if this creature—this boy—can teach us anything, it's that there's still hope for understanding."
Then, with a quiet finality, Stane set his pocket watch on the table. "If you're right, then history will forget me. But if I'm right..." He turned, leaving behind the room—and Haturii, lost in thought.
---
Inside the chamber, everything was arranged with surgical precision. Desks formed neat arcs, surrounded by tools and materials—planks of reinforced wood, polished steel, sealed crates. Surveillance equipment lined the rafters, their blinking lenses trained on the centerpiece: a towering, cylindrical glass chamber.
It stood like a monument—unbreakable, eternal. But what drew the eye wasn't the structure. It was the figure inside.
The Kaiju.
Slumbering. Silent. His body curled as if hiding from the world, his unusual form suspended in containment fluid. A child inside a storm.
Dr. Rhys Stane had devoted years to this place—his hands adjusting protocols, his heart navigating ethics. He'd made it his mission to ensure the Kaiju remained safe—from others, and perhaps from himself.
---
Elsewhere, Orenji surveyed the battlefield.
The track lay in ruins. Teammates sprawled across the ground, some groaning, others motionless. Sean's relentless offense had picked them apart, and now they were down to scraps.
He exhaled slowly, weariness soaking into his bones. "Another defeat," he muttered. "Just like yesterday… and the day before."
But then he glanced at him—the Kaiju, standing apart. Eyes burning with something... more.
Orenji blinked. No... he hasn't given up.
"Hey! Egoist!" he called out, voice firm.
The Kaiju's head snapped up, startled by the call.
"Time to refocus."
A flicker of clarity returned to the boy's eyes. He inhaled, slow and deep, then offered Orenji a small, crooked smile. A silent acknowledgment.
"Yeah," Orenji murmured. "Let's elevate our game even more this time."
The air shifted.
The final round began. The ball was in play, and all eyes turned to the Kaiju.
Sean launched forward with unshakable confidence, expecting the same tired defense. But the Kaiju was no longer drifting—his gaze, now pulsing between blue and amber, locked in with supernatural precision.
Sean went for his usual roulette.
But this time... the Kaiju was there.
Intercepted.
Ayumi swooped in, snatching the ball from the stunned Sean and breaking into a lightning sprint. The defense reeled. Sean swore, scrambling to recover.
But Ayumi had already passed it.
Back to him.
She called over her shoulder: "Don't mess this up, newbie. Go long!"
Sean watched in disbelief. That damn Kaiju—still standing. Still fighting.
It was infuriating.
This was his story. They were just side characters. They had no right to take the spotlight.
And yet...
The Kaiju clutched the ball, his muscles taut with tension. Every fiber of him screamed to act. Not just for himself—but for them.
The clock read: 00:20.
Sean reappeared, flanked by a tall dark-haired teammate, blocking the path.
"You're done!" Sean yelled.
But the Kaiju smiled.
Not with arrogance.
With respect.
You made it this far. I knew you would.
00:06.
Both teams strained, exhaustion threatening to break them. The Kaiju switched the ball from one hand to the other, his eyes scanning for an opening.
Step aside…
With a movement that transcended instinct, he lunged.
A goal is calling!