The sprawling lights of the Las Vegas Strip stretched out below as Reed’s plane descended into McCarran International Airport. Even from the air, the city pulsed with energy—neon signs flickering, traffic snaking through the arteries of the desert metropolis.

  Reed stepped off the jetway into the terminal, a carry-on slung over his shoulder. His baseball cap was pulled low, shielding his face from the endless stream of security cameras. He moved with purpose but without haste, blending into the sea of arriving passengers.

  Kranch was already waiting near the baggage claim, leaning casually against a pillar, his phone in hand. A worn leather jacket hung from his broad shoulders, and he looked every bit the tired traveler.

  “Smooth flight?” Kranch asked as Reed approached.

  “Uneventful,” Reed replied, his eyes scanning the crowd.

  “Good. Carter’s landing in forty minutes. Grimes is already on-site.”

  They moved together toward the airport exit, navigating through the controlled chaos of SYNC attendees arriving from every corner of the world—photographers lugging camera bags, crew members in branded polos, influencers vlogging their way through the terminal.

  SYNC wasn’t just a convention—it was the convention. The place where deals were made, careers launched, and reputations cemented.

  Outside, the air buzzed with taxi horns and shuttle engines. They slipped into a black SUV waiting at the curb.

  As the vehicle pulled away, Kranch adjusted his earpiece. “Grimes says the main floor is already buzzing. Barry’s crew is everywhere. We will be watched the moment we step into the venue.”

  Reed’s eyes flicked to the passing skyline. “Good. Let them look. We’ll give them exactly what they expect to see.”

  The SYNC convention floor at the Las Vegas Convention Center was a controlled frenzy—setup crews darting between booths, banners hoisted skyward, and high-tech displays blinking to life.

  Grimes stood near the main stage, clipboard in hand, headset on, blending perfectly with the chaos.

  When Reed and Kranch slipped through one of the side entrances, Grimes didn’t look up immediately. He finished giving orders to a lighting technician before walking toward them.

  “Welcome to the circus,” Grimes said, his tone dry.

  Reed smirked faintly. “You seem at home.”

  Grimes gestured toward the massive stage looming behind him. “This place is Barry’s cathedral. Every camera, every light, every cable—it all runs back to him. He’s not just hosting this; he’s owning it.”

  Kranch scanned the floor, his gaze sharp as he noted clusters of security personnel and the way their eyes lingered a beat too long on certain individuals. “And us?”

  Grimes’ expression hardened. “We’re ghosts right now. But once this thing kicks off, we’ll have maybe two minutes to do what we need to do before someone realizes the system’s been compromised.”

  Reed felt sick to his stomach at the reminder. Two minutes. That was all they’d have to turn the tide—or lose everything.

  “Then let’s make every second count,” Reed said firmly.

  Grimes led them away from the chaotic stage floor, weaving through rows of equipment crates and half-finished setups until they reached a quieter corner—a temporary operations booth humming with quiet urgency. Screens displayed live security feeds, floor schematics, and logistics schedules.

  “We’ve got backend access thanks to Carter’s devices,” Grimes said, his voice low, eyes scanning the monitors in front of him. “Barry’s rehearsals are locked down tight—full security detail, closed-loop surveillance. Nobody gets in or out without clearance.”

  Reed crossed his arms, his focus sharp. “And Barry himself?”

  “Arriving later today. Private jet. The director’s already here, fine-tuning every second of his keynote.”

  Kranch stepped closer to the monitors, his jaw tight. “Anything on Duenkel?”

  Grimes’ expression darkened, his voice dipping lower. “He’s here. Barry brought him in early. If Duenkel sees us, it has to be as photographers—not operatives. He’s naturally suspicious, so it’s best we stay off his radar.”

  Reed nodded. “Then we stay invisible. We play our part. Barry wants a show, and we’ll give him one—but on our terms.”

  Grimes nodded. “Every piece is in motion.”

  “All right,” Reed said, his tone firm but quiet. “We split up. Kranch, secure our access points. Grimes, keep monitoring the feeds. Carter will be here soon. I’ll start mapping our routes.”

  Kranch adjusted the strap on his toolkit, his usual smirk absent, replaced by something colder. “Clock’s ticking.”

  “It’s always ticking,” Reed replied.

  Without another word, they dispersed into the chaotic heartbeat of the convention floor. The symphony of noise—crew members barking orders, forklifts whining as they maneuvered crates, distant bursts of feedback from sound tests—wrapped around them like static.

  Above, enormous banners stretched across the cavernous ceiling: SYNC: A New Vision. They fluttered faintly in the sterile breeze of industrial air conditioning—a manufactured wind in a manufactured reality.

  Reed moved with purpose, weaving through clusters of setup crews and tech personnel. His steps were measured, his gaze sharp, but the weight of the days ahead pressed against him like an anchor.

  Every plan was set. Every risk calculated. But Barry was a master at flipping traps against their makers. And Reed knew they were dancing on borrowed time.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket.

  Reed slipped it out carefully, shielding the screen from any wandering eyes. The message was plain, untraceable:

  “2 Corinthians 6:14B.”

  He froze for a beat, the verse hanging in his mind like a riddle suspended in midair. Quickly, he typed it into a search bar and whispered the passage under his breath:

  “Or what fellowship has light with darkness?”

  The words settled heavy in his chest. Reed’s gaze flicked over the crowd, his breath steady but sharp, half-expecting someone to step from the shadows, eyes waiting and knowing.

  Minutes later, in a quieter corner near a service entrance, Reed regrouped with Kranch and Grimes. The noise of the convention floor faded to a distant hum as he held up his phone for them to see.

  “2 Corinthians 6:14B,” Reed said, his voice clipped. “It says: ‘Or what fellowship has light with darkness?’ Any guesses?”

  Grimes frowned, arms crossing tightly over his chest. “What? Are we getting scriptures now?“

  Kranch ran a hand over the back of his neck, his brows knitted together. “I don’t like it. Who sends something like this in the middle of an op? Are they trying to warn us… or mess with us?”

  Reed pocketed the phone, his jaw flexing with tension. “I don’t know. But someone’s been steering us from the start, and they’re still watching. Every message comes when we need it—but never enough to give us answers.”

  For a moment, silence settled between them, heavy and thick, broken only by the ticking of distant ventilation fans.

  “Add it to the list,” Kranch said finally, his voice tight.

  Reed nodded, the verse embedding itself into the growing puzzle in his mind. But unlike the other cryptic phrases, this one lingered. It felt… heavier.

  As they moved back into the swirling current of the crowd, Reed couldn’t shake the feeling that the verse wasn’t just a message—it was a warning.

  The stakes couldn’t be higher now. Barry’s operatives were everywhere—men and women in plain clothes but with sharp eyes, scanning faces and watching patterns. Every casual glance, every half-step out of place, felt like it could unravel the entire operation.

  Twice, Reed caught a security agent lingering on him a second too long. Once, Kranch doubled back behind a set of stage curtains to avoid crossing paths with a guard whose gaze lingered a beat too long. And Grimes narrowly sidestepped a technician whose interest in his clipboard seemed far from casual.

  Every corner they turned, every movement they made—it all felt like walking a tightrope above an open flame.

  But the team pressed on, each member vanishing into their respective tasks with disciplined focus.

  Reed’s hand brushed against the phone in his pocket. Or what fellowship has light with darkness?

  It wasn’t just a verse—it was a question.

  And Reed wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

  Carter arrived at the Las Vegas Convention Center just after noon, blending effortlessly into the flood of attendees pouring through the grand entrance. He wore a pressed polo shirt with a fake event coordinator badge clipped to his belt. With his camera bag slung across his shoulder and a confident stride, he looked like every other tech-savvy professional walking the SYNC setup.

  Reed spotted him from across the main floor. Their eyes met briefly, and Reed gave a subtle nod before turning away, disappearing into the maze of booths and banners.

  Minutes later, the four regrouped in a cramped utility corridor off the main exhibition hall. The hum of HVAC systems filled the space, fluorescent lights flickering weakly above them.

  Carter dropped his camera bag onto an overturned crate and unzipped it, revealing a sleek tablet and a tangle of cables and devices. “Alright, status update,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “Grimes has control over the live-feed monitoring,” Reed began. “Kranch secured access points for the streaming devices—server room, encrypted comms, and the surveillance hub.”

  “And Barry?” Carter asked without looking up, his fingers already flying across the tablet.

  “Arriving soon,” Grimes replied, glancing over his shoulder. “The director’s locked down his rehearsal space. Security’s airtight.”

  Carter nodded, scrolling through a schematic map of the convention center displayed on his screen. “First things first: I need to make sure the devices Reed and Kranch planted at The Darkroom are connecting properly. Without those streams, this whole operation is dead in the water.”

  His fingers moved with precision, opening connection logs and encrypted pathways. Green indicators blinked on the screen as the devices began reporting back.

  “Connection's live. Signal strength is stable.” Carter squinted at one section of the display. “But there’s intermittent lag on the third device. Could be environmental interference, could be someone poking around where they shouldn’t be.”

  Kranch’s brow furrowed. “Can you fix it?”

  “I can stabilize it for now, but if someone starts sniffing around the system, we’ll lose that feed. And if we lose one, we lose redundancy. Barry’s security systems are too tight for half-measures.” Carter’s voice was steady, but an edge of tension sharpened his tone.

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  Reed leaned against the wall. “Do what you can. We can’t afford even one weak link.”

  Carter’s fingers flew across the tablet again. After a tense moment, the flickering green indicator stabilized.

  “Alright. That should hold. Now let’s talk about the security vulnerabilities here at SYNC.”

  He swiped across his screen, bringing up a schematic of the venue. Red outlines highlighted weak points: secondary exits, blind spots in surveillance, and inconsistencies in guard patrol routes.

  “This is where Barry gets sloppy,” Carter said, pointing to a poorly monitored hallway near the back of the keynote stage. “It’s an old service corridor. Cameras are outdated, blind spots everywhere. If we need to slip backstage without being noticed, that’s our route.”

  Kranch leaned closer, studying the map. “What about the main presentation feed? How do we patch our stream into Barry’s keynote without tipping anyone off?”

  Carter tapped the screen again, highlighting a small control room tucked behind the main stage. “That’s our insertion point. It’s where all the live feeds merge before hitting the main projection system. We get into that room, plug in a hardline connection, and our stream overrides whatever Barry’s showing on stage.”

  Grimes allowed himself a faint smile. “Leave that to me. After all, I’m the ‘Event Organizer.’”

  Carter smirked but continued. “Good. Now, they rely on rotating personnel for that room, and the handoff times are sloppy. If we time it right, we’ll have about ninety seconds to patch in before anyone realizes something’s wrong.”

  Reed’s eyes narrowed as he studied the schematic. Ninety seconds. Barely enough time to tie a shoelace, let alone hijack a live broadcast in front of an international audience. But it was the only window they had.

  “Kranch,” Reed said, his voice firm. “You make sure the hardline connections are perfect. I’m betting they’re located above the stage in the lighting rig. Grimes, keep eyes on security patrols, cameras, and anything out of place. Carter, stay on the backend and keep those devices stable. I’ll run interference if anyone gets too close.”

  Kranch smirked faintly. “And if something goes wrong?”

  “It won’t,” Reed said. But the edge in his voice betrayed the uncertainty gnawing at him.

  Carter glanced up from his tablet, his brow furrowed. “One more thing—you all need to know something about Barry’s backup plans.”

  Reed’s attention snapped to him. “Go on.”

  “I’ve been digging through the encrypted files from The Darkroom. Barry’s contingency layers have contingency layers. If something goes wrong during his keynote—if anything feels even slightly off—he’s got trigger protocols in place. We’re talking venue lockdowns, scrambled feeds, and enough false evidence to frame us as rogue operatives in real-time.”

  Grimes exhaled sharply. “So, in short, we’ve got one shot.”

  “One shot,” Carter confirmed. “If we miss it, Barry flips the narrative, and we become the villains.”

  Reed’s jaw tightened. “Then we don’t miss.”

  The four men stood in silence, the weight of the mission pressing down like an anvil.

  Finally, Carter shut his tablet with a sharp snap and tucked it back into his bag. “Alright, gentlemen. We’re officially out of prep time. It’s go-time.”

  Reed looked at each of them, seriously. “Stay sharp. Stay invisible. We move when the light hits.”

  They nodded in unison before dispersing into the labyrinth of the convention center, each man vanishing into the carefully constructed chaos.

  Above them, SYNC: A New Vision banners fluttered under the hum of air conditioning.

  Grimes moved through the backstage corridors with the casual confidence of someone who belonged there. His Event Organizer badge hung prominently from his neck, and a tablet was tucked under his arm. Every step, every glance, every conversation was calculated.

  He stopped frequently—chatting briefly with technicians, nodding at security guards, blending seamlessly into the organized chaos.

  At the main control booth overlooking the auditorium, Grimes leaned over a technician’s shoulder, pointing at a screen. “Barry wants those transitions flawless. Double-check the timings on all slides. If anything stutters, it’s your job on the line.”

  The technician nodded, oblivious to Grimes discreetly slipping a small, inconspicuous device onto one of the primary control routers.

  A SIGINT (Signal Intelligence) transmitter.

  It would give Carter remote access to Barry’s terminal during the presentation, funneling every keystroke, every action, straight into their system.

  Grimes straightened, his eyes briefly scanning the screens before moving on. Barry’s rehearsal was locked in today from 2:00 PM to 4:00 PM, and the keynote was set for tomorrow at 8:00 PM sharp.

  “Schedule’s tight,” Grimes muttered into his earpiece. “Barry’s keeping a close leash on rehearsals. We have no room for error.”

  Kranch moved like a shadow high above the stage, crouched low in the tangled metal framework of the lighting rig. Dust hung heavy in the air, and the faint smell of ozone from recently tested stage lights clung to every surface.

  Below him stretched the vast auditorium—rows of empty seats, the gleaming LED backdrop glowing faintly, and the podium standing at the center like an altar waiting for its sermon.

  It was perfect. From here, Kranch could see everything without being seen.

  Then—movement.

  Barry entered below, flanked by the Hollywood director and a small entourage of aides. The director gestured wildly toward the LED screens, his voice carrying faintly but incomprehensibly in the cavernous space.

  Kranch froze, pressing himself flat against the rigging as Barry paused near the podium.

  Barry’s sharp gaze swept the stage, pausing on a stack of crates near the lighting controls. Then—his eyes caught something.

  A wrench. Carelessly left behind on the stage floor.

  Kranch’s heart pounded.

  Barry stepped closer, picked up the tool, and inspected it briefly. His brow furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Get this cleaned up,” Barry said sharply, tossing the wrench onto a crate. “This is supposed to be perfect.”

  One of the aides nodded, scurrying to obey.

  Barry lingered a moment longer, his gaze sweeping upward toward the rigging. His eyes narrowed briefly before turning back to the director.

  “Let’s run it again. From the top.”

  Kranch remained frozen in place until Barry and his team moved further downstage. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he whispered into his earpiece, “That was too close. I’m staying put for now. Barry’s paranoid, but he didn’t see me.”

  “Stay sharp,” Reed’s voice crackled in response. “We’re too far in to slip now.”

  Down on the stage floor, Reed crouched behind a curtain stage-left. In front of him lay an open black equipment case, revealing sleek connectors and a tablet interface.

  This was the link—the critical hardline connection between the devices planted at The Darkroom and the live broadcast feeds being prepped for Barry’s keynote.

  Reed worked quickly, snapping cables into place with precise clicks. Each sound felt amplified, each second stretched thin.

  The auditorium was mostly empty now—save for a handful of technicians running final checks and one manpacing near the podium.

  A tall figure in a sharp suit.

  Reed froze. The man wasn’t a technician.

  He was one of Barry’s operatives.

  The operative’s gaze swept the stage, landing on Reed. Their eyes locked—just for a second.

  Reed ducked his head, pretending to fumble with one of the connectors.

  The operative’s brow furrowed, suspicion flickering in his eyes. He took a step forward, his hand brushing the earpiece tucked discreetly in his ear.

  Reed’s pulse roared in his ears. Move. Think. Now.

  But before the operative could advance, his radio crackled sharply.

  “Unit Six, report to the southeast entrance immediately. We’ve got an issue with the VIP logistics.”

  The operative hesitated, eyes still on Reed. But duty pulled louder than suspicion. He turned and strode offstage, disappearing through a side door.

  Reed exhaled slowly, his breath measured as he pulled out his phone.

  Text to Carter: That was too close. Stick to the plan.

  The reply came almost instantly: Always.

  Reed tucked the phone away, his hands returning to the cables. Every movement felt heavier now, every moment tighter.

  Above him, Kranch was still in position. Grimes was watching the feeds. Carter was stabilizing the backend.

  They were in place. But the clock was ticking.

  Barry’s operatives were everywhere, and every second felt like borrowed time.

  Reed finished the final connection and zipped the equipment case shut. He melted back into the shadows, slipping away from the stage just as two more security agents entered the space.

  For now, they were still invisible.

  But invisibility wouldn’t last forever.

  The auditorium stood as the epicenter of an empire. Towering video walls showcased PPI branding and polished statistics, painting Barry's organization as an unstoppable force.

  Strategic beams of light carved sharp patterns across the stage, converging on the podium at center—a pulpit from which Barry would deliver his carefully crafted sermon. Overhead, hidden speakers pulsed with the glory of an orchestral soundtrack, crescendos swelling and falling with cinematic precision.

  Barry stood at the podium, one hand gripping its edge, scanning the rows of empty chairs stretching into the dim shadows. His sharp suit caught the glow of the stage lights, casting faint shadows behind him.

  Offstage, the Hollywood director paced nervously, tablet in hand, frustration etched into his furrowed brow.

  “Mr. Cox, I’m telling you—if we don’t smooth out the pacing in the third transition, it’s going to feel rushed. The emotional weight—”

  Barry cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “No. The pacing is exactly right. The audience doesn’t need to dwell; they need to be moved. They’ll feel what I want them to feel.”

  The director hesitated, but Barry’s icy glare kept him silent.

  Barry stepped out from behind the podium, walking the length of the stage with the measured confidence of a man who owned the air he breathed.

  "This isn't just a speech," Barry said, his voice calm, assured. "This is the moment they see me as the only leader. Every light, every sound, every pixel delivers one message: without me, there is no PPI."

  The director nodded stiffly, scribbling notes onto his tablet.

  Barry paused, squinting into the sea of empty chairs. For a moment, his sharp eyes scanned the upper rigging of the auditorium—the shadows where Kranch had been just minutes before.

  “Security protocols,” Barry said suddenly, his voice dropping an octave. “Bring them up.”

  A junior aide scrambled forward, tablet in hand. “Yes, sir. All entry points are sealed. Keynote access is restricted to credentialed personnel only. Surveillance feeds are running constant sweeps.”

  Barry snatched the tablet, his eyes flicking across the data points. The security map displayed grids of camera coverage, patrol routes, and restricted zones.

  “There’s an anomaly logged here.” He jabbed a finger at a highlighted sector near the side entrance.

  “It was a maintenance error, sir,” the aide stammered. “Technicians reported a minor equipment malfunction earlier. It’s been resolved.”

  Barry’s lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the report. Then, just as quickly as the tension rose, it deflated.

  “Minor equipment malfunctions,” Barry muttered, tossing the tablet back to the aide. “We’re surrounded by incompetence. If I want something done right, I’ll have to do it myself.”

  The aide flinched as Barry turned sharply back to the director. “Start the sequence again. From the top. I want every cue hit perfectly this time.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cox,” the director said, his voice tight with forced compliance.

  The stage lights dimmed, casting Barry’s figure in stark silhouette. The massive screens behind him erupted with dazzling visuals—PPI’s sleek logo followed by inspirational imagery of sprawling cityscapes and dignitaries shaking hands in photo-perfect compositions.

  Barry closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply as the soundtrack swelled around him. When he spoke again, his voice carried through the empty hall like a monologue rehearsed a thousand times.

  “Leadership isn’t claimed. It’s earned. It’s forged in the fires of challenge, sharpened by adversity, and wielded with vision. Tonight, the world will see the light—and they’ll know who holds it.”

  The final note of the soundtrack lingered, hanging in the silence that followed.

  Barry exhaled slowly, his confidence absolute.

  “Lock it in,” he said, turning away from the stage. “Tomorrow, we own the world.”

  The director and aides scrambled to follow him as Barry strode offstage, his shadow stretching long across the polished floor.

  High above in the rigging, Kranch remained motionless as Barry exited below. Even from this distance, he could feel the force of Barry’s confidence—his absolute certainty that every detail was under control.

  But Kranch knew something Barry didn’t: cracks had already formed in the fa?ade.

  In the dim corridors beneath the stage, Reed moved with careful precision, double-checking the connections at the feed junction.

  Backstage, Grimes monitored live surveillance feeds from his tablet, fingers moving across the screen as he adjusted camera angles and flagged blind spots.

  And somewhere, Carter worked silently from his remote station, the glow of his screens reflecting in his focused eyes.

  They were already inside.

  Barry might have controlled the stage, the lights, and the music—but in the shadows, Reed and his team were setting their own traps.

  The team regrouped in a dimly lit service corridor, huddled around Reed as he spread a detailed map of the auditorium across an overturned crate. The rustling of the convention floor buzzed through the walls, distant but ever-present.

  Reed’s voice was low, steady, carrying the weight of the moment. “Barry’s the architect of his own downfall. All we’re doing is turning on the lights.”

  Kranch let out a slow breath, his chest tightening slightly. “And what if those lights shine on us too, Reed? What if these messages you’ve been getting are leading us into a trap?”

  Grimes glanced between them, tension etched into his expression. “He’s got a point. We’ve been following breadcrumbs from someone we can’t see, can’t name, and definitely can’t trust.”

  Reed’s gaze lingered on the map before him, his brow furrowed in thought. “Whoever’s been sending these messages—they’ve kept us alive. They’ve gotten us this far. But you’re right… we have no idea what their endgame is.”

  He hesitated, his voice lowering. “We could be walking into something worse than Barry.”

  Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the faint drip of a leaky pipe somewhere down the corridor.

  Kranch spoke first, his voice quieter now. “So, what do we do?”

  Reed looked up, meeting their eyes one by one. “We stick to the plan. If someone’s playing us, they’ll have to work harder to stop us. Tomorrow, the truth goes public. Barry’s empire crumbles. And if someone else is waiting in the wings…” His jaw tightened. “…then we deal with them next.”

  No one spoke, but the weight of their unspoken agreement settled over them like a final seal on their fate.

  In the dim control room, Reed’s gaze locked onto a monitor showing Barry pacing the stage. His voice echoed through the cavernous hall, amplified by the empty silence.

  “PPI is more than a network—it’s a force that shapes the world.”

  Reed’s knuckles whitened against the edge of the console. His voice was low, resolute. “Not after tomorrow, Barry. Not after tomorrow.”

  The monitor flickered briefly, static crackling along the edges before stabilizing again.

  Tomorrow, Barry’s empire would rise.

  Or it would fall.

  Reed turned away, his figure dissolving into the shadows.

  On the stage, Barry remained under the lights—confident, composed, and blind to the storm about to consume him.