The night in the United Federation was cloaked in a deathly silence. The streets were swallowed in darkness, and the streetlights flickered like the dying breaths of a man on his last legs. Amid that stillness, one house remained dimly lit by the flicker of a lone candle. Wind howled through the window cracks like the whispers of wandering souls.

  Inside, the air was suffocating and tense, like a taut string stretched to its limit. Four people sat around a massive square table — not the familiar coffee table of this “family.” Each sat on a different side, as if to mark the lines not of blood, but of stance, calculation, and suspicion.

  The square table — once a symbol of equality — had become the stage for an unofficial trial. A political chess match arranged by the members of the “family” themselves.

  Elly sat on the side facing the main door — traditionally considered the “seat of hidden power.” Her shadow stretched long across the wall, a vague silhouette like a ghost about to pass judgment. She folded her arms, her gaze as cold as untouched steel, devoid of mercy. Her voice rang out — soft, yet dripping with disdain:

  “So... someone proposed that brilliant solution, didn’t they?”

  No name was needed. The remaining three pairs of eyes turned toward Victor — who maintained his courteous smile, as if everything remained firmly within his grasp.

  Tom was the first to break the silence.

  “Two-Face, got anything to say in your defense?”

  His voice was colder than the winter night.

  Helen tilted her head slightly, but her eyes never left Victor.

  Victor exhaled softly, his smile unwavering.

  “First of all, there were only two options at the time — either downplay the severity, or escalate it to the extreme. Neither choice was good. Just one better than the other.”

  “And all of you agreed to it.”

  Silence fell again, as if time itself had paused at the unveiling of truth. Victor continued — calm, measured, calculated:

  “So, we can conclude this: ‘Unpredictable’ made a misstep that put the entire group under suspicion. To prevent further fallout, ‘Two-Face’ proposed a viable response. ‘Madness’ chose to escalate it to the maximum, and ‘Ruthless’ backed that decision. In the end, the plan was unanimously approved.”

  With just three sentences, Victor had dismantled the siege — shifting from accused to narrator of the tale. A verbal chess move sharp enough to chill the spine.

  And as if to close tonight’s performance, he smiled:

  “Lay down your arms. The trial is over — with a verdict of not guilty.”

  Elly stared at him for a few seconds, a dangerous glint flashing in her eyes. Then she lightly twisted her wrist — the two-meter-long scythe quivered, then vanished into thin air. Tom nodded, finally lowering the handgun he’d been holding all this time, while Helen folded her knife shut.

  No one said another word. There was no need.

  Outside, the wind continued to howl. And the candle burned quietly — a silent witness to a trial that would never be recorded.

  "Alright."

  Elly spoke. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough to thicken the already heavy air.

  "Next matter. It's 10 p.m. now. If nothing changes, by tomorrow morning, we'll be escorted to Central Prison."

  No one reacted — no one needed to ask “why” or “how.” They all already knew. Every recent move, no matter how precisely calculated, couldn't escape the watchful eyes of the United Federation's surveillance network. The net had been cast, and it was only a matter of time before it tightened around their necks.

  Elly looked at each of them, her gaze sharp as a blade.

  "So — are you all ready?"

  They all nodded, nearly in unison. No complaints. No signs of panic.

  Tom adjusted the concealed handgun beneath his shirt sleeve, then folded his arms and leaned back into the chair. Helen wiped her blade clean and slid it into her pant leg like she was stroking a pet. And Victor — still wearing that same smile, as if he were performing in a play whose ending he had already written — silently drew his two-meter spear and gave it a practiced twirl.

  Elly nodded once.

  "Good. Then… to the next location."

  Without another word, all four of them pulled out a card — matte black, unmarked. Each card bore a single small button in the center, no bigger than a fingernail. No one counted — as though it were a ritual rehearsed hundreds of times — they pressed the button simultaneously.

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  A faint mechanical click echoed from each card. No louder than a ticking clock, but it marked a shift — from the personal to the mission, from family to organization.

  "That’ll save time on prep."Victor’s voice was soft as the wind, laced with his usual smugness.

  Moments later, all four donned heavy, long black fur coats that draped from shoulder to ankle. These weren’t just clothing — they were a symbol. The insignia of “Those Who Refuse to Submit.”Each of them picked up a black suitcase — containing not just gear, but their pasts, their futures, and their final escape plans.

  The house door swung open. Outside, the fog had thickened, and the wind howled louder. They stepped out — without looking back.

  At the front gate, no goodbyes were exchanged. None were needed. They had already survived things far worse than death. The four stood in line, and then — without a word — split off in four different directions, like tributaries flowing toward the same sea.

  They would meet again. At the destination.

  In the darkness, their shadows stretched out and slowly disappeared into the night like ink bleeding across white paper.Each with a path.Each with a fate.

  And behind them, the small house — once a temporary bastion, once the stage of a fateful midnight trial — now stood empty, save for a burned-out candle, leaving behind a faint wisp of smoke curling upward like a soul departing its body.

  Dawn had yet to arrive. But the operation had already begun.

  5:59 a.m.

  The silence was uncanny, as if the entire world were holding its breath, waiting for something to begin. The light of dawn had yet to reach the aging rooftops of the Western District of the United Federation. A cold wind swept through the trees, rustling the dew-soaked leaves with a whisper. It was so still one could hear the ticking of a clock, counting down the final seconds of a fateful hour.

  5:59:59

  6:00:00

  BANG!

  The sound shattered the night like thunder. The door of the house — the same house where the trial had taken place just hours earlier — was kicked open, its hinges torn from the wooden frame as if ripped away by some invisible fury. Immediately afterward, eight heavily armed operatives stormed in, splitting into teams and sweeping through the house with practiced, surgical precision.

  Beds were overturned. Bookshelves ransacked. Every door, every floor tile was scrutinized, as if a national secret were hidden beneath them.

  6:05 a.m.

  A young officer rushed out of the house toward a man in a high-ranking police uniform standing beside a sleek, black armored vehicle.

  "Sir, there's no one inside," he reported, his voice tinged with discomfort.

  Major General Martin wasn’t surprised. His face remained calm, the look of a man long accustomed to playing games of life and death. His aged eyes stared at the house, now nothing more than an empty shell, wind whistling through its cracks.

  "They’re already gone. Likely… before the Council even officially approved the arrest order," he muttered, his voice hoarse — from the cold, from exhaustion.

  "Sir, we found... a letter."

  Another agent ran up, holding a neatly sealed envelope — thick, fine paper, carrying the faint scent of expensive ink. Martin took it, opened it, and scanned the handwritten lines — elegant strokes, but laced with a cold, mocking venom:

  "The East Coast of America is just so… dull, isn’t it?Why don’t we meet at Denali?Watch some grizzlies, maybe a polar bear or two…Catch a few salmon and king crabs — just for fun.We’ll be waiting…"

  Martin clenched the letter, eyes narrowing.It wasn’t a taunt.Not a careless mistake.It was a message.An invitation.A location.

  Denali.The highest peak in North America, deep in the frozen wilds of Alaska.A lawless place. No exits.Untamed. Frigid. Perfect — for a final showdown.

  Martin issued the order without turning back.

  "Contact the Alaska station."

  And just like that, as the first rays of sunlight stretched over the rooftops and cast their shadows, the game had officially begun.

  But this time, the prey was no longer just four names on a file.

  It was an organization.A "family."A legend.

  The Alaska Surveillance Station — isolated amidst snow-covered mountain ranges, where temperatures could kill a person within minutes without proper gear. It was usually so quiet that even the howling wind had become a familiar background melody. But today, everything had changed.

  The air inside the command center had grown unnaturally thick. On the radar screens, control panels, and communication systems, signals from the United Federation streamed in nonstop. The phrase “ORGANIZED CRIMINALS – EXTREMELY DANGEROUS” flashed over and over, blood-red against the white-and-blue interface — like crimson spreading across untouched snow.

  “Do we have confirmation yet?”“No.”“We can’t place the entire station on alert based on a vague letter!”“Maybe there’s something only officers like Major General Martin from the capital can see. He wouldn’t raise an alarm over a prank.”

  Arguments flared across workstations, overlapping with the rapid clatter of keyboards and the constant blinking of security alerts. Some were frantically calling Northern Command. Others scrambled to schedule checks at entry points and patrol paths.

  But amid the chaos, in a quiet corner of a small rest room tucked behind the coordination hub, a dog — not quite young, not quite old — lay curled up in a thick fleece blanket, sound asleep on a sofa.

  It belonged to a night-shift engineer. They kept it there because it was considered one of the warmest places in the station.

  Until that moment.

  A sound rang out.

  Very faint.

  Very soft.

  Even in a silent room, it was barely distinguishable — so quiet it could’ve easily been mistaken for something else.

  Beep — beep — beep — beep…

  The dog opened its eyes.

  Then closed them again.