The elevator glided to a halt with a soft chime. John stood inside, still wearing the same clothes from his patrol—jacket zipped up, scarf loose around his neck, cap pulled low. He looked like any sleep-deprived teen on an early morning run… if you ignored the dried blood on his knuckles.
The doors parted to reveal the top floor of the Speedwagon Foundation's recovery wing.
Bright. Quiet. Smelled like antiseptic and old wood.
A nurse greeted him with a silent nod and pointed to the last room on the left.
John took a breath and walked.
His mother was asleep when he peeked into her room. IV hooked gently into her arm, a peaceful expression on her face. He lingered at the doorway, just for a moment, before moving on.
His father's room was next.
Joseph Joestar lay propped up against the headboard, a few bandages still wrapped around his chest, but his eyes were open, and sharp as ever.
He looked up as John entered. A grin broke across his tired face.
"About time, kid."
John stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
"You look like hell," Joseph added, voice raspier than John remembered.
"You look worse," John said, slumping into the chair next to the bed.
There was a long pause. A silence filled with unsaid things. Then, Joseph looked at him with a strange expression—half amusement, half pride.
"I heard you were the one who called for help. Got us both out of that wreck."
John shrugged. "You'd have done the same."
"Damn right I would," Joseph said, smiling faintly. "Still. You've got guts, you're almost as handsome as me too, Joestar blood, through and through."
Another pause.
John's eyes flickered. "Smokey told me stories. About the past. About... the beings you fought. What you did."
Joseph's smile faltered, just for a second.
"Yeah," he said softly. "He always did have a big mouth."
"Were they true?"
Joseph didn't answer right away. He looked out the window beside him, where morning light spilled across Central Park.
"They were monsters, John. Real ones. Not metaphorical, not men in masks. I fought them. Pillar Men. Vampires. Ancient beings that saw humans as food and mere play things. I stopped them. Me and my best friend. He..... never mind."
He looked back at his son, eyes now serious.
"I didn't beat them because I was stronger. I beat them because I trained. Because I learned how to fight with more than my fists."
"The Ripple," John said.
Joseph's brow raised slightly. "He told you about that too, huh?"
John nodded.
Joseph exhaled. "It's not something I've talked about in a long time. Hell, most people wouldn't believe it if they saw it. Breathing life energy? Sounds like some kung fu movie nonsense."
"But it worked," John said quietly.
Joseph stared at him.
"You're not asking this out of curiosity, are you?"
John didn't answer.
Joseph smirked. "You've seen something too, haven't you?"
Another pause.
John's hand curled slightly. His fingers tingled with residual Spin energy. He thought of Tusk, floating beside him like a silent phantom.
"...Yeah," he said finally. "I've seen a lot."
Joseph leaned back into his pillows, suddenly thoughtful.
"You ever wanna talk about it… or learn how to protect yourself better… come to me. I might be half-broken, but I've still got some tricks left, for example, the Joestar Secret Technique."
John looked at him. "Secret Technique?"
The offer hung in the air.
Not yet, he thought. Not until I push the Spin as far as it'll go.
But soon.
"…Thanks, Dad," he said, voice quiet.
Joseph gave him a look—one John hadn't seen in a long time.
Pride.
"Anytime, Johnny boy."
-<<>o<>>-
The penthouse was still quiet when the sun began to rise fully over Central Park. Golden light spilled through the massive glass windows, touching everything in soft warmth. But John couldn't sleep.
He sat cross-legged on the living room floor, his scarf and cap tossed aside, hair slightly matted with sweat and dust. His hands trembled faintly from fatigue—not from fear, but from strain. His muscles ached, his knuckles were bruised, and his nails... half of them had grown back already. Tusk's regenerative nature was a blessing, even if it still felt weird.
"Ten scumbags in one night... barely," he muttered to himself, cracking his neck.
The system had already confirmed it:
[Quest Complete: Street Vigilante]
+5% Spin Mastery
[Current Mastery: 10%]
Notice: Tusk ACT 1 will evolve upon reaching 25% Mastery.
His fingers tapped the floor slowly as he stared ahead, the system screen having long since faded. It always felt so clinical, so robotic. No emotion. No guidance. Just progress and requirements.
Still... it was something.
John stood up and made his way toward the study, where the landline phone sat on the edge of a neatly arranged desk. One of the few things in the house that hadn't collected dust.
He picked it up and dialed a private Speedwagon Foundation line Smokey had given him.
The call was picked up instantly.
"Speedwagon Foundation," came a polite voice on the other end.
"This is John. I need a place to train," he said, skipping pleasantries.
There was a brief pause. Then, calmly: "Understood, Mr. Joestar. Your request has been noted. A facility will be prepared within the hour."
Click.
John slowly put the phone down and took a deep breath.
The facility wasn't far—just a short drive into the private lower levels of the Speedwagon Foundation's New York branch. Beneath the seemingly ordinary headquarters lay a vast, high-tech training complex, one that hadn't seen regular use in years. It was originally built to house Ripple training programs and Vampire research.
Now it would become something more.
As John stepped inside, the heavy steel doors sealed shut behind him. Lights flickered on overhead, revealing a sprawling space of reinforced walls, robotic dummies, obstacle courses, and a wide-open combat arena built for stress testing superhuman abilities.
It was like stepping into a secret world—silent, sterile, but full of potential.
He walked to the center of the arena. The soles of his shoes echoed faintly on the concrete floor.
John raised his hand and focused. Slowly, his fingers began to hum dangerously, the nails rotating with a subtle vibration. The familiar hum of the Spin vibrated through his bones.
Behind him, Tusk ACT 1 emerged from the air—a small, pink quadruped Stand with curious, intelligent eyes. It tilted its head, watching him.
"Let's get stronger," John muttered.
-<<>o<>>-
The facility's silence was almost meditative. The hum of the lights above blended into the soft breathing of a boy chasing something ancient—something perfect.
John stood in the center of the reinforced combat arena, his jacket thrown to the side, his undershirt clinging to him with sweat. His hand was raised, nail spinning fast, then slowing... then wobbling.
"Still unstable," he muttered, breathing hard.
The nail halted its spin with a sharp snap. Tusk hovered behind him, silent and watchful.
John lowered his hand and sat on the cold floor. He leaned back, exhaling, his breath misting faintly in the artificial cold.
Then he closed his eyes.
Fragments of memory began to surface—snippets of a past life, faint and out of reach. It wasn't perfect clarity, but it was something. He remembered lying in bed one night, scrolling through forums and videos. He had been obsessed with physics, geometry... and beauty. He began to remember how Johnny Joestar had learned the Spin.
And one night, he had fallen down the rabbit hole of the Golden Rectangle, his obsession only encouraged by the Steel Ball Run manga.
"The Fibonacci Sequence... the Golden Spiral... the idea that everything natural and beautiful follows this ratio. 1.618..."
He snapped his fingers, eyes flashing open.
"Of course."
John stood again, more energized now. He walked over to a nearby console table and grabbed a whiteboard marker meant for combat analysis. He began sketching a rectangle on the glass wall—adding square after square, drawing out the spiral within.
16:9. 3:5. 5:8. Fibonacci.
He drew circles, spirals, even arrows indicating angular momentum. It wasn't perfect, but the rough theory was taking shape.
"If I can follow the flow of the Golden Spiral... maybe the Spin will become more stable. More natural."
He turned back to the center of the room, this time picking up a dumbbell from the weight rack—not to lift it, but to rotate it. He began spinning it slowly, watching the way the weight shifted, tracing invisible arcs in the air. Then he dropped it and picked up a disc-shaped training shield from the armory rack. Something light. Symmetrical.
He tossed it, spinning it... and it fluttered awkwardly to the ground.
Again.
And again.
Each time, he adjusted the angle—tried to match it to the curve he saw in his mind. The spiral.
Hours passed. The floor was littered with scuffed equipment, chalk marks, and sweat stains.
But finally—finally—something clicked.
He rotated his finger, slow at first. He imagined the spiral. He felt it. The pull of momentum, not outward, but inward—tight, condensed, perfect.
Then he released it.
The nail spun out, silent and sharp, whirring with almost no recoil. It punched clean through a reinforced dummy's shoulder with a snap of impact and embedded itself in the far wall with a clean thwunk.
John stood there, wide-eyed. Tusk gave a nod of approval behind him.
The Spin had changed.
The system notification appeared soon after:
[Spin Mastery increased by 10%.]
[Current Spin Mastery: 20%]
[5% more required for Stand Evolution.]
John's arms hung loose at his sides. Exhausted. Aching. But he smiled.
He still wasn't perfect. But he had found the path.
The Golden Path.
John had barely caught his breath when the scanner crackled to life in the corner of the room.
"All units, be advised—multiple armed suspects have taken control of 12th Street Savings & Trust Bank. Hostages are confirmed. Suspects are heavily armed and barricaded inside."
John's eyes narrowed.
"Perfect," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Time to put this training to use."
He grabbed his scarf and shades, tugging the baseball cap low over his face. The familiar outfit had become something of a second skin by now. The urban vigilante uniform.
But as he reached for the training shield—one of the few consistent objects he'd been using to throw—he paused. His hand hovered over the edge of it, thumb running across the imperfection in the rim.
His lip curled slightly. This wasn't it.
"It's not stable," he muttered. "No symmetry. No precision."
He thought back to the throws. The way the spin faltered with every imperfect object he used. He was compensating for flaws. Fighting the tools as much as the enemies.
But then… a memory sparked.
A name.
"Gyro Zeppeli…"
It came unbidden—just a whisper from a long-forgotten life. A man on horseback. Precision incarnate. The steel ball dancing through the air in perfect harmony.
That was it.
That's what he needed.
"A Steel Ball…"
He clenched his fist, already imagining the weight, the smooth surface, the balance. Something designed to spin—crafted for nothing but that.
He looked toward the far end of the training room. The Speedwagon Foundation's forge lab was just a floor down. Their tech could whip up bio-weapons, vampire detectors... custom alloy-based combat gear? Easy.
With renewed urgency, John turned toward the exit.
"This time," he said, "I'm going in with the real thing."
He disappeared through the door, Tusk Act 1 trailing behind him like a silent guardian.
Outside, sirens were already howling in the distance.