Here is **Chapter 3 of Zeko Super**, narrated:
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### **ZEKO SUPER**
**Chapter 3: Perfect Fragmentation**
The headquarters of ZOK Inc Technologies was not a place of hope, but of precision. Located in an underground bunker, the air was heavy with the smell of ozone and the coldness of corporate ambition. Titanium walls were shot through with veins of green circuitry that pulsed like artificial life, and holograms of super-powered suits spun silently in the air, models on a deadly catwalk.
At the head of the oval table sat Oliver. His posture was rigid, an unsolvable equation of a man. His eyes, cold behind geometric-framed glasses, analyzed every speck of dust in the room. As leader of the Z Shock—ZOK's elite of "perfect" heroes—he was the embodiment of control.
His costume was a work of lethal deconstruction: a layered, acid-green combat suit, completely disassembled into floating panels that magnetically reconnected with each movement. Under the black light of the room, it glowed like a living fractal, generating a subtle force field that defied the laws of physics. Oliver drummed his fingers on the table, and with each tap, green particles danced in the air, a constant reminder of his power to dismantle reality.
Two holograms flashed on his screen, reports of past missions where "inefficient structures" had been "reassembled." He smiled—a precise cut, without heat.
— Zeko's reality is a jumble of disorganized vectors. Inefficiency in every atom — his voice was calculated, echoing with the precision of an algorithm. — Our mission today: infiltrate NexTech's rival lab, extract the prototype "quantum stabilization" chip. I lead. You... follow the pattern.
The door opened with a hydraulic hiss. Belka Zatchet entered first, her neon purple uniform impeccable, the golden threads pulsing like a veiled threat. Close behind, Jarrette Pratt stumbled slightly into the doorway, her chameleon-like corduroy and silk suit changing from blue to an anxious purple, pulsing like a heart with a bug.
—Oliver. "The Shredder". Always a pleasure to deconstruct the day with you — said Belka, her professional smile not reaching her eyes.
Oliver turned to her, the panels of his suit realigning with a gentle quantum hum. His eyes traced her transparent curves as if mapping coordinates.
—Belka. Its shape... an almost tolerable organic symmetry. Almost," he leaned in, his voice low and sadistic, with a hint of immoral flirtation. — Imagine if I deconstructed it, particle by particle, and reassembled it into something... pure. Without the emotional impurities. You would glow acid green. Perfect. Would you accept a private adjustment after the mission?
Belka froze. His professional smile hardened for a split second, a microexpression that only Jarrette, in his hypervigilant state, seemed to notice. Her micro-motors hummed a little louder, but she remained silent, her eyes fixed on the holographic table.
Jarrette sat on the other side, feeling the air thicken. His suit pulsed erratically, turning an angry purple.
The mission hologram activated: a 3D map of the NexTech laboratory, with armed guards marked as "failed nodes" in red. Oliver gestured, and a pen on the table crumbled into particles of acid-green energy, instantly teleporting to his hand with a luminous *pop*. A casual demonstration of his **Luminous Fragmentation**.
— Simple: touch, deconstruct, rematerialize. Quantum efficiency," Oliver said, his gaze falling on Jarrette, his voice dripping with disdain. — Not like certain… chromatic anomalies. Jarrette Pratt, correct? Your "Error Pulse". A glitch in a binary system. How do you not dissolve into self-induced chaos? It's... comical. A hero who melts his own ego before the enemy.
Jarrette blushed, the suit quickening his pulse, the blue light flashing like an impending rendering error. He let out a forced laugh, but his fists clenched under the table.
— Hey, Oliver, "The Shredder." My glitch saved the day last week. ZOK sales rose 20% with my memes. It's not perfection, but it's... authentic. Stop with the jokes, man. Focus on the mission?
Oliver laughed—a cold sound, like crystals breaking in a simulation. The panels of his suit glowed brighter, casting green shadows across Jarrette's face.
— Authentic? You're an analog relic in a quantum world, Pratt. Real men impose vectors, they don't blink like a buggy code. And this of yours... "emotion". Pathetic. Women like Belka at least fake symmetry. You? An organic data structure, bloated with randomness. If I touched you now, what would I rematerialize? A melted clown? Or something more useful, like a coffee stand?
Belka watched, motionless. Internally, Jarrette exploded—emotional stress peaking. His suit went into overload, emitting an intense blue light. For a second, the chair beneath him seemed to lose its solidity, the edges becoming momentarily slimy.
— Enough, Oliver! — he stood up, his voice firm. — I'm not your geometry experiment! If you don't stop this "sadistic perfectionist" bullying, I... I'll make a mistake in your perfect outfit there!
The air froze. Oliver stopped, the green particles dancing in his hand like a latent threat. His eyes narrowed in cold calculation of betrayal.
But Belka acted quickly. She reached out, pulling Jarrette close with surprising firmness, her golden nails digging lightly into his arm. The touch soothed her—and overwhelmed him.
— Shh. Shut up, Jarrette," she whispered, her voice low and sharp, as she smiled at Oliver as if it were nothing. — Don't fuck up again. He's the ZOK model – perfect costume, perfect powers. Stronger than me, than anyone. If he realizes we're against him... he'll kill us. No mercy. Fragment and reassemble as you wish. It's happened before – entire teams over stupid arguments. Hold on. Firm.
She turned to Oliver, slowly releasing Jarrette, her voice becoming mellifluous and submissive—the opposite of her public persona.
— Sorry, Shredder. Jarrette is just... adjusting the emotional parameters. He values your leadership. Really, Jarrette?
Jarrette swallowed hard, looking at Oliver—the man who could dismantle him into particles with a touch. Your powers? A 3-second glitch against quantum teleportation? Useless. He sagged, shoulders slumping, suit changing to a defeated blue, pulsing weakly.
- And yes. Sorry, Oliver. Continue. I... I'm just the glitch in the system.
Oliver smiled, satisfied—a nihilist imposing his order. He gestured, and the hologram moved forward, showing the entrance to the laboratory.
— Good boy. Now watch and learn, anomaly. Or maybe, in the next deconstruction, I'll reassemble you as something... real male. Without the emotional crying.
Belka squeezed Jarrette's hand under the table—a silent warning. Jarrette bit his lip, swallowing his anger. The mission continued in the simulation: Oliver deconstructing virtual guards with precise touches, while Jarrette simulated his pulse — which failed pathetically in a corner of the map.
***
The transition to the actual mission was seamless. The trio emerged from the shadows of the NexTech laboratory. Oliver in the lead, tearing apart a fence in a whirlwind of green particles that rematerialized like a bridge. Belka floated behind, her uniform shining, suppressing her fury. Jarrette followed, stumbling over debris, his suit pulsing like a wounded heart.
They advanced in silence, with Oliver flirting with Belka again with immoral "geometric" comments and insulting Jarrette with jokes about her "organic uselessness". None of them reacted. Extracting the chip was quick: Oliver teleported the artifact to his hand, rematerializing it perfectly.
But at the climax, an alarm sounded—a high-pitched siren that echoed off the metal walls. Oliver hesitated for a microsecond as he reconstructed a door. And then, it happened. A **physical glitch**.
His hand, for a very brief and terrifying second, failed to rematerialize. The green particles coalesced into a semi-liquid form, dripping like radioactive acid before solidifying with visible effort.
— Harmonic resonance... — he growled to himself, his voice tense for the first time. — Tolerable failure. But unacceptable.
They escaped, victorious. The chip was safe. But the cost of the mission was invisible, etched into each person's fragmented soul.
**In Zeko, perfection is a weapon. And silence, a prison.**