"General Manager, an Elekid just showed up on Field Three at the Water Club," Keiko's boyfriend reported as he returned to the Electric Club.

As a senior sparring partner here, he knew about the Elekid theft. He'd even spent time hunting for leads—there were bounties on tips and recovery.

"Hm?" The GM hadn't expected that. He grabbed the remote, flipped the monitor to the Water Club's feed, and saw the kid sending out Elekid—Shun.

He picked up the desk phone and called the department store, asking whether the Elekid on-screen had any purchase record.

"Got it." The reply came back: no purchase on file under Shun.

He thought a beat, made another call, and confirmed Shun had one living grandfather.

Then he dialed again—Manager Jin.

"Check whether an old man called 'the Captain' bought an Elekid at your shop."

A few minutes later, Manager Jin called back: "General Manager, a week ago a man called the Captain bought an Elekid. I know him—he used to guard the black market gate and owned the Midnight Bar. That bar then closed; he moved near the Pokémon Center to the Sailor's Bar."

"A week ago? Black market gatekeeper?" The GM compared the details—same as his previous call. Nothing out of line.

Yet something itched at him. He couldn't place it, so he chased the obvious thread.

"Why did he move? Why stop running the Midnight Bar?"

"He moved within two days of buying the Elekid. Sudden. I'm not sure. Want me to probe him?"

"No." The GM chose not to spook the quarry.

"General Manager, could it be because of the pseudo-legendary going up for auction tonight?"

"Just guard the warehouse." Realizing nothing more useful would come from Jin, the GM hung up, tapping a finger on the desk as he sank into thought.

The Elekid purchase and the bar move fell within the same window; the pseudo-legendary rumor surfaced then, too. Did the Captain move because of that?

If it were Elekid-related, he would have fled, not "moved."

But moving over a mere rumor? A seasoned fox wouldn't scare that easily. That didn't fit the Captain's style.

Unless…

He thought of a certain underground syndicate. He'd told Manager Jin to shut down and hole up tonight to avoid collateral losses if a fight broke out over the black market. After tonight, whoever controlled the market would still need business—at worst they'd raise "taxes."

If Team Rocket spooked that old fox, the sudden relocation made sense. Same logic as his own—avoid man-made disaster. Still, that fox's nose seemed awfully sharp.

In their case,Team Rocket envoys had approached the clubs already to line up support ahead of a grab for the market; that was how he knew trouble was brewing.

But how had the Captain caught wind a week early?

He couldn't place the man's information pipeline, only admit the fox had a nose for weather.

If the club wanted to grow, these plugged-in local powers couldn't be ignored.

Having reconstructed the "why," the GM stopped tapping, privately pleased with his own acuity. From a few clues, he'd "solved" the chain of events—he was sure he'd nailed the Captain's logic.

Unfortunately, he'd artfully avoided every vital point. He leaned back in the leather chair, self-satisfied, until he noticed someone still standing at the desk. The smile faded to neutral; he waved the man out.

"That Elekid isn't the stolen one. You can go."

"Yes, General Manager." Keiko's boyfriend hid his disappointment and turned to leave—then the GM's voice followed.

"Good work. Ren, right? Go to Logistics and collect ten boxes of premium Electric cubes."

"Understood." The gloom flipped to fire. Ten boxes meant sixty or seventy thousand in resources—nearly a week's wages unless a whale booked him. More exciting still: the GM knew his name.

He decided to hitch himself to the GM for good—do whatever he could, work up to a coach slot. In clubs, "sparring partner" sounded polite; most days it meant "punching bag."

Ren left, thrilled, heading straight for Logistics.

Watching him go, the GM's smile returned. He didn't miss employee microexpressions. When someone stepped up, you rewarded them. The man was already on the coaching candidate list; greenlighting him wouldn't hurt.

After all, if you want the horse to run, you feed it.

…

Sailor's Bar, second-floor private room. After leaving the arena, Reiji and Shun came straight here to meet the old man.

"There you are." At the door's swing, the Grandpa waved the waitress off his legs and beckoned them to the sofa.

Shun launched into his arms. "Grandpa, did you see? I won my first-round match!"

"I saw it. When I was your age, I made the cut. Don't drag my name through the mud." The scolding pressed his edge down, but the warmth in Grandpa's eyes leaked through. The boy was still his heart.

And the kid was getting better under this young man's hand. Give a little thorn to a bigger thorn; that had been the right call.

"Old man, my arrangement with the book is done. Four days of fixed matches. How much did you make?" Reiji dropped onto the sofa and skipped the small talk.

"All right." Grandpa had just found his rhythm with his grandson when Reiji cut in, but he let it go—business first.

He slid a black plastic bag across the table.

Reiji opened it. Money. Bundles of it—each brick a hundred notes—each brick a million. Two or three dozen bricks.

"Damn. This racket prints money?" He blinked.

Bet fifty at one book, six books is three hundred. Four days, three matches a day—twelve shots.

"The take's split three ways—nine-point-four million each. A bit over a million went to wages. That's the week," Grandpa said. Seeing doubt on Reiji's face, he puffed a lazy mouthful of smoke. He wasn't going to argue the point.

"Don't look at me like that. It's small stuff. What you've done for Shun isn't something cash buys."

He wasn't skimming. Reiji had landed Shun a Wingull and a Mankey—each worth over a million. Nine million here wasn't worth staining that.

Reiji coughed, sheepish. His paranoia was a habit—and partly performance.

In truth, both of them cared less about the cash than the kid.

He split the bag into thirds and took one share—9.4 million.

Shun took another 9.4, grumbling under his breath. He'd worked hard and even won his match. The old man hadn't spared a single word of praise.

Grandpa left the last share untouched. It wasn't that he didn't want to praise Shun; he just feared one win would bloat him. Elders always thought cutting down was better than lifting up—when all it bred was insecurity.

So Grandpa played the bad guy; Reiji got to be the good one.

Aside from one early dressing-down, Reiji rarely scolded the boy. No wonder Shun clung to him a little closer.

When they'd finished splitting, Grandpa pulled two photos from his coat. One showed the masked courier unmasked: a young man in casual wear, cruelty plain in his eyes. The second showed his underling: stubble, a greasy look, a nasty little smile caught perfectly by the camera.

Grandpa laid them on the table and gave the background. He knew Reiji—a man who didn't sleep on grudges—would go after the casino's muscle.

"The courier's a club enforcer—same line as the brothers you dealt with. Moves cash, leans on people. The other is his lackey—nothing special."

"The courier's the point. He sent his man to bait the drunk, tried to kill you by proxy. The drunk was too weak; you handled it."

"I have his team too. Four Pokémon, and odd choices."

"Odd how?" Reiji's interest rose. Odder than his own roster?

"Strongest is a Grumpig. The rest—Exeggutor, Noctowl, and a Poliwag."

"Grumpig, Exeggutor, Noctowl, and… Poliwag?" Reiji frowned. It was strange. Two Psychic types, both expensive here—Psychic stock was scarce; the department store didn't even have a dedicated Psychic breeder. When it did sell Psychic, it was usually as a secondary typing.

If he didn't have a mine at home, raising Grumpig was a flex. That suggested something special about that Psychic pokemon.

And Exeggutor also was Psychic type—two Psychics in one squad was unusual around here.

Poliwag was the real head-tilt. Why raise that? Grandpa answered first.

"Poliwag's recent. He saw your Poliwhirl shine and decided to copy."

"I see." Reiji rubbed his chin. Maybe the man had tried to fish out his Poliwhirl regimen but fell out before he could ask—and then tried to kill him out of spite when it didn't pan out.

"How does he compare to those we killed before?"

"Stronger. Last recorded outing was last month. Grumpig didn't even move. Exeggutor took a two-on-one and beat a Victreebel and a Kingler."

"So, he is really stronger than those bastards," Reiji weighed. Even if Exeggutor was Elite tier, it was a strong pokemon—two-on-one wins don't come easy.

Poliwhirl could do the same; yesterday in the alley it had chained four. Normal business.

Conclusion: a trainer who actually raised things right.

If the man were a full Veteran across the board, he wouldn't be a bagman. He'd run the book himself—more money, more status, more "little bricks."

And if a book's top man had personally delivered hush money to Reiji—that would be giving him way too much face. He wasn't that big—yet.

Now that he had the identity and the power scale, a plan clicked into place.

Simple enough. Reiji had thirteen Pokémon. Shun had seven. That made twenty. If they swarmed, they'd drown four.

And it'd be an ambush.

Looked like he'd be a thief for more than one night.

(End of Chapter)

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