What a bloody fucking night.

  The Gala’s gone from posh sophistication to a war zone in less time than it takes me to light a cig. It all went sideways the moment the first shots rang out, and in an instant, the so-called untouchable elite were dropping like flies—heads bursting like ripe melons, blood painting the floor. Never thought I’d see the Premier Society’s finest turned into a macabre dance of chaos and bullet-riddled bodies.

  Ava Grace, the world’s most famous face, drenched in red, shaking like a leaf—spared by some psycho with a god complex, whispering promises like she’s their bloody savior. And Arthur was all fire and fury, mowing down those bastards with a grin on his face that made it look like he was at some twisted carnival. Ivan’s got his sniper locked in like he’s playing the world’s deadliest game of chess, taking pieces off the board before they even know they’re playing.

  Now it’s just the three of us left standing in this ballroom-turned-battlefield, surrounded by the best in the world, or at least what’s left of them. Their lifeless eyes staring up at us, accusing, like we should’ve done something sooner. I can hear the buzz of Malleus’s machines, whirring in the silence, still recording, analyzing, computing the mess that’s been made tonight.

  I adjust my grip on The Whisper, the hybrid gun still warm in my hand, and glance over at Arthur and Ivan. The cowboy’s still got that smirk on his face, though his eyes tell a different story—focused, burning, ready for whatever comes next. Ivan’s as still as a statue, like he’s already a thousand miles away, calculating his next move.

  And me? I’m just waiting. Waiting for Malleus to finally speak up and tell us what the hell comes next. Because if tonight’s massacre was the opening act, I’m dead sure the main event’s going to be a right bloody nightmare.

  Malleus’s projection flickers back to life, the dim light casting a cold glow across the blood-streaked floor. But this time, it’s not another vision of Mars or one of his grandiose plans for humanity. No, this is something different, something that makes my gut twist the moment it appears.

  It’s a recording, grainy yet painfully clear, and I know exactly who it is before the image even sharpens. Tobias Kane and his wife, Lisa. They’re in the middle of what used to be a restaurant—now turned into a slaughterhouse. Bodies are strewn about like discarded puppets, blood pooling beneath their lifeless forms, soaking into the floors. Tables are upturned, chairs smashed to bits. This isn’t just a crime scene—it’s a goddamn massacre.

  Six armed men surround them, faces hidden behind stark white masks shaped like owls, the eyes hollow and haunting. They hold their weapons with the easy arrogance of predators who know they’ve cornered their prey. And then, before Tobias can react, one of the masked bastards comes up behind him, silent as a ghost. The jolt of the taser hits Tobias’s back, his body seizing up, and I watch as the man follows it with a brutal swing of his rifle’s butt, smashing it into the back of Tobias’s skull.

  Tobias drops to his knees, collapsing like a tower of bricks, and I can feel the rage rolling off Arthur beside me like heat from a furnace. His grin from earlier is long gone, replaced by a clenched jaw and eyes that look like they could burn through steel. I don’t blame him. Arthur’s like a brother to Tobias—closer than blood. For him, this isn’t just business; it’s personal.

  As for me, I’m no stranger to violence, and I’ve seen my fair share of betrayals and backstabbings, but this? Seeing my friend brought low like that? It’s a gut punch I didn’t see coming. Tobias isn’t just a comrade; he’s a mate, a brother-in-arms who’d never go down without a fight. And seeing him like this, at the mercy of these masked cowards, it’s enough to make my blood boil.

  Arthur’s fists are shaking, knuckles white as if he’s moments away from tearing the room apart. I don’t even need to look at him to know he’s ready to kill every last one of those bastards with his bare hands. And honestly, I’m right there with him.

  Malleus’s voice cuts through the room, its usual calm tone laced with something that might almost be frustration—if an AI could feel such a thing.

  “This recording,” Malleus begins, “is the last known footage of Tobias Kane before he vanished without a trace. Despite deploying every satellite, drone, and surveillance asset in my possession, I have found no sign of him since this moment.”

  That hits like a lead weight in the gut. Tobias Kane—gone, like a ghost, as if he’s been swallowed whole by the earth. And if Malleus, with all its endless eyes in the sky, couldn’t track him, then we’re dealing with a force unlike anything we’ve ever faced.

  The screen flickers slightly, zooming in on those masked bastards.

  “The men you see in this footage,” Malleus continues, “are part of an organization known as The Syndicate. They are not just any group of lowlifes; they are the most notorious terrorist faction born from the gutters of lower-society. These are the worst of the worst, forged in the fires of desperation and brutality.”

  I know these wankers. Oh, do I know them well. The Syndicate’s name isn’t new to my ears; I’ve danced with their smaller groups in the past. Had a job deep in the heart of China once, dealing with some of their so-called “foot soldiers” when the MSS needed a little cleaning up they couldn’t be seen doing themselves. That lot was nothing but thugs playing at being soldiers—amateurs. But these masked blokes on the screen? They’re a different breed, and this operation stinks of something bigger, something more orchestrated.

  This isn’t just a gang or a rabble of misfits. The Syndicate is organized, cunning, and ruthless. They don’t just come from the lower-society; they rise from it, feeding on its chaos and despair. And seeing them here, in the same room where Tobias was taken, tells me one thing—they’re not mucking about anymore.

  The screen changed again, the same six bastards from the restaurant footage—the ones with the owl masks and rifles—are now moving barrels onto a freighter. The image shifts, revealing coordinates and a location stamp. Italy. A damn port in Italy.

  “This is the last trace of them,” Malleus intones, its voice smooth but now edged with a hint of something almost like urgency. “While Tobias Kane’s whereabouts remain unknown, this footage shows The Syndicate’s operatives at work. If we have any chance of retrieving him, this is where we start.”

  I lean in closer, my eyes narrowing at the sight of those masked goons, the way they move—like they own the place like they’re untouchable. And they’ve got no bloody clue what’s coming for them.

  “This mission,” Malleus continues, the projection casting an eerie glow across the room, “is simple. Eliminate them. Wipe every one of these scum off the map.” It pauses, and for a moment, I swear the AI is taking the temperature of the room, reading the tension seething off us like steam.

  Malleus seems to focus on Arthur, almost as if it can sense the fire raging inside him.

  “Arthur Marston,” it says, tone even but decisive, “they are yours. The nearest teleporter is roughly a three-hour car ride from this location. You can begin immediately.”

  Arthur doesn’t say a word. Not a grunt, not a nod—just this lethal quiet as he turns on his heel and strides toward the teleporter. The cowboy’s gone cold, all that easygoing charm frozen solid. I almost feel a pang of pity for The Syndicate.

  Almost.

  Arthur’s the deadliest gunslinger to walk this earth, but he’s also got a heart like a kitten. Gentle, kind, too soft for this world sometimes. But when you make him angry? When you target someone he considers a brother? God help you.

  The projection flickers off, leavin’ us in a room stained with blood and the metallic tang of death hangin’ heavy in the air. Malleus’s voice cuts through the silence, calm as a pint on a Monday like we’re not standin’ knee-deep in chaos.

  “The next mission,” Malleus states, cold as ever, “is to find and eliminate the killer of Dr. Callan Valor.”

  A new image flares up on the screen—Dr. Valor’s posh bedroom. All marble and luxury, the kind of place that makes you want to wipe your feet before you step in. We see Valor movin’ toward a massive wardrobe, his hand hoverin’ over the handle like he’s second-guessing his life choices. And right he should—’cause the second the wardrobe open, Valor gets knocked flat on his backside.

  Out steps the assassin—smooth, silent, and with all the grace of a viper striking from the dark. No panic, no rush, just that steely calm you only see in pros. The bloke raises a silenced pistol, aims, and—bang—Valor’s head snaps back, a single shot doin’ all the talkin’. Job done. Clean.

  “After exhaustive analysis, utilizing every resource at my disposal,” Malleus continues, the flicker of the holo-screen reflectin’ in his voice, “I have identified the assailant.” The image sharpens, and there it is—a name and face I’ve seen before in the darker files of my intel.

  “Jae-Hwa Kwon,” Malleus declares, steady as ever. “The best assassin in the world. Operating from the shadows, a ghost who’s evaded every agency from MI6 to Mossad. His name alone’s enough to give hardened operatives sleepless nights.”

  I flick a glance at Ivan. The Russian’s face is like granite—solid, unreadable, but with that dangerous spark in his eyes. He’s not just thinkin’ about catching Kwon; he’s plannin’ how to tear the bastard apart, bit by bloody bit. This ain’t just another mission for Ivan—it’s personal now, and if there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that he doesn’t leave loose ends.

  Malleus’s voice softens slightly, but it still has that cold, mechanical edge. “Kwon’s exact location remains unknown, but I’ll grant you access to every resource at my disposal, Ivan. Find him. Hunt him down. Your brother-in-law will be grateful.”

  Ivan just nods, a tight-lipped expression that doesn’t give away much, but I can see it—the fire in his eyes, the simmering rage beneath that iron mask of his. Without another word, he steps into the teleporter, and in a blink, he’s gone.

  And then it’s just me. Me, Malleus, and a room full of fresh corpses. The air’s thick with the stench of blood and burnt ozone, and the silence stretches long enough to make even me shift a bit on my feet. Guess that leaves one last mission then, eh?

  “What I’m about to share is highly confidential. Though, to be fair, I reckon a man of your talents, with all that knowledge and intel at your disposal, might already be aware of this.”

  The projection flickers back to life, and there it is—an emblem of a red X enclosed in a circle. The symbol of a shadowy underworld that’s so well hidden that most wouldn’t even know where to begin looking. But me? Oh, I know it all too well.

  “Yes, sir, the bloody Underworld.” I said.

  “I created the hierarchy of humanity based on their contributions and their value to society’s progress. But the lower society, those who dwell in the darkest gutters of our world, they also have their own hierarchy—a ranking system that suits their twisted mindset. They rate themselves not on intellect or innovation, but on savagery, violence, and the depths of their cruelty.”

  The projection shifts, showcasing a series of faces—hard, unyielding, some with dead eyes that long since forgotten mercy. “The number one killer, the number one assassin, the top black-market weapon dealer, drug lord. All these rank at the top of their twisted food chain.”

  I feel a sneer tug at my lips. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill criminals; they’re a bloody carnival of horrors. My mind rolls through the list of every filthy profession imaginable: human traffickers, who snatch innocents off the streets; bioterrorists, who’d poison entire cities just to make a point; hackers who make the world dance to their twisted tunes; warlords who rule over wastelands like kings; kidnappers and extortionists who thrive on fear.

  This isn’t just a collection of criminals. It’s a goddamn league of nightmares. The worst of the worst, crawling out of the cracks in the earth, each one more despicable than the last. And the sick part is, I know they’ve all banded together under that red X—The Underworld. A mirror image of our Premier Society only reflected through a glass darkly.

  There’s a bloody good reason why every intelligence agency in the world—CIA, MOSSAD, MSS, MI6, you name it—keeps a wide berth from these groups. It’s not out of respect or some code of honor; it’s sheer survival instinct. These bastards aren’t just outlaws—they’re phantoms, operating in shadows so dark, not even the most advanced surveillance can track ’em down.

  If you reckon the Premier Society is untouchable, believe me, these lot are beyond it. Untouchable doesn’t quite do ’em justice; they’re like bloody myths come to life, a force of nature that no one dares provoke. Not because they’re invisible—but because when they do show up, they bring hell with them. The Underworld doesn’t just break the rules; they rewrite them to suit their own twisted game.

  All this time, people’ve had it in their heads that Malleus is the one pulling the strings, controlling society from the top down like some all-seeing god. Truth is, they’ve got it twisted. Malleus might bring order and keep everything neat and tidy, but when it comes to true control? That’s The Underworld’s territory. They’re the ones that hold the real power, lurking just beneath the surface, keeping the balance in check, deciding who plays and who gets played.

  It’s almost poetic, in a twisted sort of way. All these years, they’ve kept themselves hidden, letting the Premier Society prance about in their ivory towers, believing they’re untouchable. But now, it seems like these shadows have decided to stretch out, to reach for the top. They’re not just stirring the pot anymore; they’re flipping the damn table. Whether it’s one man pulling the strings or a collective decision among their twisted ranks, they’ve made their move.

  And from the looks of it, they’re aiming straight for the Premier Society’s throat.

  Malleus’s voice drips with a rare hint of frustration as the projection shifts once more.

  “I believe that whoever managed to hack into my systems tonight is one of them. Someone from The Underworld,” he says. “I have no clue exactly who, and I’m sure you don’t either. He’s too good—too damn good. They call him the number one hacker for a reason.”

  And I can’t help but nod in agreement. Even my own Intel, the lad I usually call a bloody wizard, wouldn’t stand a chance against this hacker. The bloke’s on a whole different level, playing a game most of us don’t even know the rules to.

  “But I did manage to dig up one vital piece of information,” Malleus continues. The projection flickers to reveal a series of bank transactions, numbers so large they might as well be straight out of a fever dream. Billions of credits moving like water, vanishing into thin air.

  “Adrian Voss,” Malleus declares, his voice cold and precise. “The richest man on Earth. I suppose even an empire of wealth couldn’t satisfy his boredom.”

  I let out a low whistle under my breath. Voss—the bloke with enough dosh to buy and sell small countries—has his grubby hands in this? Now, that’s a twist.

  “He’s been suspicious for a while,” Malleus continues, and I can practically hear the calculation in its tone. “My Intel has gathered enough information to suggest that he’s not just involved—he’s likely the one funding and possibly ruling The Underworld.”

  The projection displays more transactions—unfathomable sums of money flowing in all directions, each one a thread in Voss’s tangled web.

  “He’s been spending billions,” Malleus says, its voice growing tighter, “building The Underworld, hiring mercenaries, killers, the worst of the worst—all to topple the Premier Society. To topple us.”

  And then, the clincher. Malleus’s tone takes on a sharper edge. “Tonight was supposed to be the night Adrian Voss made an appearance at the Gala. He said he’d be here, mingling with the rest of the elite. But my records show no sign of him. Not a single trace.”

  “So, you want me to take him down?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, already calculating the odds in my head.

  “It can wait,” Malleus replies, its tone as cold as the grave. “I have a more pressing matter.” The projection shifts to show a slum in Liberia, a rough patch of land so bleak it might as well be the end of the world.

  “Here lies their number one warlord,” Malleus continues, its voice layered with disdain. “He commands an army that could overthrow nations with the snap of his fingers. He’s the backbone of countless terrorist cells worldwide, the man who supplies the manpower to fuel these militant groups.” The screen zooms in on the warlord’s face—hardened, ruthless eyes that speak of a lifetime of violence.

  “But,” Malleus goes on, the faintest hint of strategy in its voice, “this group relies heavily on their leader—Kabaka Jafari. If someone were to take him out, the entire network of terrorists under his control would crumble into chaos and disband overnight.”

  I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of that name—Kabaka Jafari. The bloke’s a legend in all the wrong circles. The kind who’d make even the devil reconsider his career choices. And the thing is, I’m not hearing this name for the first time. The bloody CIA offered me this very job just yesterday.

  Wanted me to fly out to Liberia and handle Jafari like I’m swatting a fly. I told ’em to bugger off. Needed a bit of a break, you see. Maybe put my feet up, have a pint, not think about blowing holes in the heads of warlords for a change. But looking at Malleus now, I reckon there’s no walking away from this one.

  Guess the holiday’s over, and it’s back to work.

  “To be precise, he is located right here.” Malleus shifts the projection, zooming in on a place that somehow manages to look even worse than the slum from before—West Point. The infamous slum of Monrovia, Liberia. It’s the kind of place where misery’s on tap, and the only thing more broken than the streets are the people who live there. The worst slum in the world, with the most desperate and dangerous people.

  Nice. Just my bloody luck.

  “Tell your Intel that I’ve granted him full access,” Malleus continues, its voice colder than ice. “So he can finally stop hacking my drones and satellites every time he thinks no one’s watching.”

  I smirk. Finn’s antics never get old. The kid’s got more talent than sense, always poking the bear just because he can. But hearing Malleus give him the keys to the kingdom? That’s a new one.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “And remember Victor,” Malleus adds, voice dropping a notch like it’s trying to hammer this into my skull. “You won’t be dealing with just one man. You’ll be up against an entire army. Plan accordingly.”

  “Cheers for the reminder,” I say, cracking my knuckles as I size up the task ahead.

  “Happy hunting,” Malleus says, its voice dripping with that calculated detachment, just before I step into the teleporter.

  The world blurs, and when it comes back into focus, I find myself at my base of operations—a place so hidden, so off the grid, even a satellite would have to squint to see it—somewhere deep in the jungles of Vietnam, tucked away in a natural cave that I’ve turned into my fortress. Reinforced with steel walls and security tech that would make the CIA green with envy. This place could outclass most government facilities—except I don’t have a hundred analysts running around with lanyards and buzzwords.

  No, there’s just one guy.

  One bloody kid, to be precise.

  Finn O’Reilly, my Intel prodigy. He’s all energy and mischief, fingers dancing over a keyboard like a concert pianist, surrounded by a sea of monitors and gadgets. The glow from his screens reflects on his face, a grin permanently plastered there like he’s up to no good—which, to be fair, he usually is.

  “Oi, Finn,” I say, shaking my head at the setup. “You really need to stop messing about with Malleus’s tech. You’re making the poor sod paranoid.”

  “Bruh, chill,” Finn replies, not glancing up from his screen. “Man’s gotta learn how to secure his crib, no cap. Like, Malleus should be thanking me for stress-testing his system. I’m basically doin’ him a solid, fr.”

  Before I can respond, Malleus’s voice cuts in through the comms, its tone a bit more tense than usual.

  “I have good reason to be paranoid, Victor. Someone managed to breach my system tonight—without detection. A hacker of that caliber is... unprecedented.”

  Finn’s eyes widen, and for once, he actually stops typing, looking genuinely stunned.

  “Deadass? Someone actually hacked Malleus?” He blinks rapidly like he’s trying to process the impossible.

  “Bro, whoever did that isn’t just a hacker, they’re like... a straight-up cyber deity. Like, bow down. This person’s basically a coding god-tier legend.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Now shut up and do your job. I got a new mission,” I mutter while peeling off my suit jacket, tossing it aside, and slipping into my tactical gear. It’s not your standard-issue kit—it’s custom-built, head to toe. The fabric is a reinforced Kevlar weave, light as air but durable enough to stop small-caliber bullets. The suit has integrated thermal regulation, keeping me cool in the sweltering jungle or warm in freezing conditions. Hidden compartments house various gadgets, ammo, and a compact first-aid kit, all easily accessible. And the best part? It’s equipped with chameleon tech that mimics the surroundings when I stay still—a gift from Malleus and Milady herself.

  “Okay, boss,” Finn says with a smirk, fingers already dancing over the keys. “Where to? What’s the move?”

  “West Point, Liberia,” I reply, zipping up my suit and pulling on the combat gloves.

  Before I even finish strapping my boots, Finn’s already hacked into Malleus’s satellite network—again—and pulls up a live feed of the area. The screen shows the tangled mess of the worst slum on the planet, a patchwork of rusted metal shacks, dirt paths, and bodies moving like ants. It’s almost midnight over there, perfect.

  “Boom, there it is, West Point. Let’s light up this hellhole, fam,” Finn says, eyes glued to the monitor.

  “Nay, we’re goin’ quiet, lad,” I say, shaking my head. “This ain’t a ‘boom-boom’ job. We’re ghosts tonight, yeah? No fireworks.”

  Finn lets out a dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up like I’ve just ruined his world. “Bro, you’re killin’ my vibe here! I got the whole loadout ready to pop off. Drones in stealth mode, thermal scans that could see through walls, and wait for it—EMP bursts that’ll fry every bit of tech in the whole block. We could turn West Point into a freakin’ Fortnite endgame, no cap!”

  I give him the side-eye as I strap on my last tactical glove, the gear settling into place like a second skin. “I said quietly, you little muppet. We’re slippin’ in and out, clean as a whistle. No tech-frying, no fireworks. We’re not here to flex; just keep me covered and keep those eagle eyes on all the exits. Got it?”

  Finn leans back in his chair, looking like I’ve just cancelled his weekend plans but still nodding with that goofy grin on his face. “Aight, aight, say less. We’ll play it low-key, fam. Just holla when you want me to light up the streets. Oh, and by the way, no teleporter right in the middle of West Point—’cause, like, who in their right mind would beam into that dumpster fire? Nearest one’s about a ten-minute trek near the industrial zone.”

  I nod, already plotting out the quickest path in my head. “Figures. A place like that ain’t worth the tech, is it? Just make sure you’ve got eyes the second I touch down. And for the love of God, keep it subtle.”

  Finn grins wide, throwing me a cheeky salute. “Bet. Keepin’ it chill, no cap. No tricks, no flashy plays, just straight vibes. Let’s do this, King!”

  I can’t help but shake my head, a smirk tugging at my lips.

  “Good lad. Now, let’s get to work.”

  When I stepped out from the teleporter again, I landed in the dry night air of Monrovia, Liberia’s capital city. The place has that sticky, humid feel—like the whole city’s holding its breath. West Point is just around the corner, tucked away in its own misery. The streets are quiet, too quiet, but I know the slums are gonna be crawling when I get there.

  I keep my head low as I move through the shadows, the city lights barely reaching this far. On my way, I spot a few militia lads loitering around, AKs slung over their shoulders like fashion accessories. They’re puffing away on cheap cigarettes, swapping stories, completely oblivious to the fact I’m just a few feet away. If they knew who was walking past, they’d probably drop those smokes and leg it. But nah—I’m a ghost. They don’t see a thing.

  “Oi, Finn,” I whisper into the com, keeping my eyes on the street ahead. “How’s the sky lookin’? You got eyes on me?”

  Finn’s voice crackles through, buzzing with excitement. “Oh, you know I got you, King! Got the drones hoverin’ like a Fortnite lobby—high ground secured, fam. Thermal vision locked on, and I see every step you take. You’re basically John Wick with cheats, no cap!”

  I roll my eyes but can’t help the smirk creeping up. “Just keep those drones steady and don’t get too trigger-happy. We’re not blowin’ this place to bits unless I give the word, alright?”

  “Say less, G! I’m on full stealth mode, not even a ripple in the matrix. Just give me the wink if you need me to light it up, though. I got missiles on standby like it’s a Call of Duty killstreak. Bet you didn’t know Malleus had that kinda heat in his toy box, huh?”

  “Yeah, well, let’s not go full gamer on this one,” I mutter, easing into the darker alleys where the militia presence thins out. “I’d rather sneak in and out without them knowing what hit ’em.”

  Finn laughs, the sound crackling in my earpiece. “Aight, keepin’ it one hundred, Vic. We’re playin’ this one ghost mode. But don’t say I didn’t offer to turn this slum into a whole-ass rave if it goes sideways. You do your sneaky thing, and I’ll be your eyes in the sky, no cap. Just holler when you need me, King.”

  “Good lad,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s get to work then.”

  I pick up my pace, slipping through the alleys like a shadow, knowing that the real fun’s just about to begin.

  As I reach the gates of West Point, I realize I’m not alone. Four beat-up trucks roll in, clattering like skeletons, each packed to the brim with bodies—men clutching AKs like they’re their lifeline. Fresh meat, by the looks of it. Reinforcements? Soldiers? Could be both?

  I slip into a dark alley, letting my suit do its thing. It bends the light around me, rendering me nearly invisible. To the naked eye, I’m nothing but a ghostly shimmer in the night.

  The militia pile out of the trucks, moving like a well-oiled machine. They’re barking orders, their language a mess of clicks and guttural sounds—probably some local dialect mixed with code. Can’t make heads or tails of it, but one thing’s clear—they’re on high alert. More than a hundred of them, all guarding the entrance to West Point, like they’re expecting trouble.

  “Oi, Finn,” I murmur into the com, my voice barely a whisper. “You seeing this?”

  Finn’s voice buzzes back instantly, laced with a hint of his usual cheek. “Sheesh, yeah, Vic! That’s a whole-ass army, not a welcoming committee. These lads are stacked up like it’s a Black Friday sale at the ammo shop. No cap, fam—they look twitchy as hell.”

  “Twitchy’s putting it lightly,” I mutter. “They look like they’re expecting the bloody apocalypse.”

  “Newbie vibes all over ’em,” Finn adds. “They’re fresh off the truck, ready to pop off at anything that moves. Just say the word, and I can light up their comms, maybe even drop a distraction. Or we sticking to the ninja plan?”

  I keep my breath steady, tucked in the shadows of the alley, eyeing the entrance to West Point. Four trucks packed to the brim with armed thugs—AKs slung over shoulders, fingers twitching on the triggers—like a wall of muscle and metal daring anyone to make a move. The whole setup screams trouble, and these aren’t your average hired guns. There’s more than a hundred of them now, all stationed at the gate, the entry sealed tight as a drum.

  Right then, time to think. My mind kicks into overdrive, running through strategies faster than a train barreling down the track. Go quiet, I tell myself. Slip through unnoticed, use the darkness, let the suit blend me into the night. But no, it’s too risky—too many eyes watching from every angle. A ghost routine’s out, especially without the toys to play with.

  I consider going in hard and fast—maybe target the weak points, pick ’em off with The Whisper, my trusty hybrid firearm. See, The Whisper isn’t just any ordinary gun; it’s a work of art. It can shift from a sleek handgun to a full-blown automatic rifle at the flick of my wrist. Silent as a shadow, lethal as a viper. But even with its precision and quiet punch, there’s too many of them. Going solo with this lot swarming like bees around the hive? It’d be a suicide run.

  I grit my teeth, weighing the odds. No matter how I slice it, sneaking past this lot without drawing attention seems about as likely as finding a needle in a bloody haystack. The chances of getting through clean are slim to none, and I’m not one for impossible bets.

  Alright, sod it. If there’s no subtle way in, might as well kick the front door down.

  I take a deep breath, flexing my fingers around the grip of The Whisper, feeling its familiar weight. The kind of weapon that makes sure every shot counts—whether it’s one headshot in the dark or a hailstorm of bullets lighting up the night. The time for stealth is over; we’re doing this the loud way.

  “Finn,” I say into the com, keeping my voice steady, the kind of calm that only comes before chaos. “Change of plans, mate. We’re going loud.”

  “Heck yeah!” Finn whoops in my ear. “You about to go full John Wick on these fools or what?”

  I let out a small chuckle, shaking my head. “Nah, lad. I’m going, Rambo.”

  There’s a pause on the other end, then Finn’s confused voice crackles back through the com. “Rambo? Who the hell’s Rambo?”

  I sigh, feeling older than ever. “Never mind, kid. Just prep the drone.”

  The Whisper is locked and loaded in my hands, ready to switch from its silent handgun mode to full-auto rifle mode at a moment’s notice. I give a nod, signaling Finn. “Light it up.”

  Without hesitation, the silent drone above hovers into position and unleashes a missile straight into the heart of their convoy. The explosion rips through the night, a violent burst of fire and smoke that tears their ranks apart. Metal and debris scatter in all directions, bodies flung like rag dolls. The gate of West Point is now a flaming wreck, the once-quiet slum erupting into chaos.

  “Boom! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Finn shouts in my ear, the excitement buzzing through his voice.

  I step out from the shadows, The Whisper now in rifle mode, its sleek barrel glinting in the orange glow of the fires. Shouts and panic ripple through the militia, eyes wide with shock, scrambling to regroup, weapons raised in a blind frenzy.

  “Who’s Rambo, eh?” I mutter to myself with a grin, lining up my first target. “Well, mate, you’re about to find out.”

  And with that, I pull the trigger. The night’s silence shattered, but so was their will to fight.

  The chaos erupts like a wave, crashing over the slum. Smoke and fire spread through the air, disorienting the militia as they scramble in panic. Shouts and cries blend with the crackle of burning debris, the whole scene a twisted symphony of confusion. It’s exactly what I need.

  With The Whisper in hand, I move like a ghost through the smoke, slipping from shadow to shadow. The tactical suit’s adaptive camouflage blends me into the background, the sleek fabric shifting with the light and the rubble around me. Finn’s voice crackles in my ear, his tone almost too casual for the chaos he’s directing.

  “Alright, Vic, you’re clear on the right. Duck down that alley, quick-like,” Finn says, his voice a steady beacon guiding me through the madness.

  I pivot, ducking into the narrow alleyway just as two militia soldiers rush past, their eyes wide with panic, completely unaware of my presence. I press myself against the wall, waiting for the right moment to strike, but their confusion is doing most of the work for me.

  “Straight ahead, then take a left,” Finn instructs. “Oh, and hold up—gimme a sec.”

  A silent whistle pierces the air as another missile streaks from the drone, slamming into a cluster of fighters ahead. The explosion is precise, blowing their cover to bits and sending them scattering like ants under a magnifying glass.

  I smirk, moving forward under the cover of smoke and debris. I’m hidden in plain sight, blending into the environment like a shadow slipping through the cracks. Every step is calculated, every movement precise, letting the chaos around me be my shield.

  One of them stumbles out of the smoke, eyes wild, his rifle swinging toward me. In a flash, I switch The Whisper to handgun mode and put a clean, silent shot right between his eyes. He drops without a sound, swallowed by the madness around us.

  “Mate, you’re like a ghost out there!” Finn laughs in my ear. “These jokers are running around like headless chickens, and you’re just vibing in the middle of it!”

  I don’t respond, too focused on the next wave. More of them pour out from a crumbling building, their attention fixed on the explosion site. I slip past them with ease, my tactical suit keeping me unseen. But as I get closer to the warehouse, a few sharp-eyed soldiers catch sight of me, their rifles snapping up.

  No time to be quiet now. I switch The Whisper back to rifle mode, its burst of fire a staccato beat in the chaos. Three quick shots, three more down. It’s almost too easy.

  “Take the next left, then a quick right. There’s a big group converging near you,” Finn says, his voice cool as ice. “Want me to clear the path?”

  “Hold off,” I reply, slipping through another wave of panicked militia. “I’ve got this.”

  In the midst of the madness, I’m untouchable. The chaos Finn and I create is my cover, the noise, the confusion—my allies. Every time I’m almost spotted, I’m already gone, moving to the next position like a phantom.

  Another soldier breaks through the smoke in front of me, weapon raised, eyes locked. I take him down with a clean shot before he can shout, his body crumpling to the ground without alerting the others.

  “Man, this is turning out better than I thought,” Finn says, sounding almost giddy. “You’re practically invisible out there, Vic.”

  “Just another day at the office,” I mutter, squeezing the trigger again as I press forward, hidden in plain sight and deadly as ever.

  I crouch low, taking in the sight of the warehouse—a beacon of order amidst the chaos. It stands out like a sore thumb, too clean, too well-maintained for a place like this. The lights glint off its metal siding, and I can practically hear the villain monologue echoing through my head, wondering how someone could ever discover such an “inconspicuous” hideout. Amateurs.

  But it’s not gonna be a walk in the park. The warehouse is locked down tight, with snipers positioned in each corner tower. Their scopes scanning the smoke-filled mess below, and the militia stationed at the gate, twitchy fingers on their triggers, ready to mow down anything that moves.

  “Finn,” I whisper into the com, eyes locked on the towers. “I need those snipers out of the picture. Use the drone, and make it clean.”

  “You got it, boss!” Finn replies, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Silent mode engaged, snipers about to get clapped.”

  I don’t even have to look up. A few seconds later, the drone’s muffled shots whisper through the air, and one by one, the snipers drop like rag dolls, their bodies slumping silently in their nests. The towers are clear, the threat eliminated without a sound. Good lad, that Finn—makes the impossible look easy.

  “Snipers down,” Finn confirms, a hint of a smirk audible in his tone.

  “Nice work,” I reply, already reaching into my tactical suit. My fingers close around the cool, solid shape of a grenade.

  With a smooth motion, I pull the pin and lob the grenade straight into the middle of the gathered militia. There’s a brief moment of panic in their eyes—barely enough time for them to realize what’s about to hit them.

  And then—BOOM.

  The explosion rocks the entrance, scattering the guards like leaves in a storm. Smoke and fire engulf the gate, the force of the blast ripping through their defenses in a flash of light and chaos. Screams echo through the night, and the militia’s organized stance crumbles into disarray.

  “Well,” Finn says, a hint of pride in his voice, “that’s one way to knock.”

  I smirk, stepping out from the shadows and into the open.

  As I ready myself to make the final push into the warehouse, Finn’s voice crackles over the comm, distorted and jittery. “Oi, Vic! Someone’s messing with the signal. I’m getting hacked, mate—same bloody bastard who breached Malleus, I reckon.”

  I grit my teeth, gripping The Whisper tighter. “Finn, listen up. Keep that hacker out of our system, yeah? We’ve got too much intel in there—stuff that could bring down this entire bloody world if it got leaked. Do whatever it takes.”

  “Copy that, boss. I got this.” And then, the comm goes dead.

  Now it’s just me, the night, and the mob of armed savages spilling out of the warehouse. They’re pouring out like ants from a disturbed nest—guns in hand, eyes wild, faces twisted with rage. I size them up, my mind calculating every move, every angle.

  Time to get through this lot and reach their bloody head honcho. No sweat.

  I take aim with The Whisper, the barrel as steady as a sniper’s heartbeat, and pull the trigger. One precise shot, then another. Bodies drop before they even realize what’s hit them. I move like a shadow through the chaos, The Whisper doing its lethal work with its perfect silence.

  The automatic rifle morphs into a handgun in my hands as I close the distance, firing off rapid shots, each one landing with pinpoint precision. These blokes never stood a chance. I’m not just plowing through them—I’m dismantling them. I dodge between crates and debris, using the darkness and disorder to my advantage. They can’t see me coming until it’s too late.

  Advancing steadily, I carve my way closer to the warehouse doors, each step taking me deeper into the belly of this hellhole. The militia’s panic is almost palpable, their shouts and gunfire now a frantic mess. Sure, they’ve got the numbers, but I’ve got something they don’t—a cold, relentless focus that turns chaos into my weapon.

  As the last of them crumple to the ground, I find myself standing at the threshold of the warehouse. It’s time to finish this.

  Before making my move, I reach into my suit for a silencer bomb—a compact beauty designed to stun, blind, and choke all at once. I crack the door open just a hair, catching the muffled sound of boots shuffling and weapons being raised inside. Perfect.

  With a flick of my wrist, I toss the bomb in. It rolls across the floor, and a heartbeat later, it detonates. A flash of blinding light, a thunderous bang that pierces the eardrums, and a cloud of tear gas fills the room instantly. The chaos inside is immediate—shouts turn to choking gasps, and panic spreads like wildfire.

  Normally, I’d charge in guns blazing, but tonight, I let them squirm. I give them a few agonizing seconds to stumble, blind and gagging, struggling to make sense of the hell they’ve just been thrown into. I wait until the confusion peaks—until they’re nothing but targets in a shooting gallery.

  Then, I move. The Whisper is in my hand, and I sweep through the room like a storm, each shot as precise as the last. I drop them one by one, no mercy, no hesitation.

  When the smoke finally clears, all that’s left is silence. The floor is littered with bodies, sprawled out like discarded puppets. And there, among the fallen, is Kabaka. The warlord lies motionless on the cold concrete, eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Dead before he could even lift a finger.

  When the dust settles and the silence finally wraps around me like a shroud, I take in the warehouse for what it truly is. It’s not as large as I’d imagined—just an empty cavernous space, save for the lifeless bodies that litter the concrete floor. Their blood pools like shadows, the stench of gunpowder and death lingering thick in the air. But then, my eyes catch something at the far end of the room.

  Screens. A wall of them flickering in the dim light. Each one alive with images that seem to pulse with a sinister intent. I walk towards them, a growing dread crawling up my spine. And as I get closer, I feel my heart lurch—stopping dead in my chest.

  The first screen shows a scene in China. A line of soldiers stands rigid, their uniforms crisp and their weapons gleaming. But there’s something off. I narrow my eyes at their faces—these aren’t Chinese military. No, they’re not officials. These are mercenaries, private soldiers, a ghost army hiding in plain sight.

  My gaze shifts to the next screen, and this one’s worse. India. What I see isn’t a battlefield—it’s a breeding ground. Women shackled to metal-framed beds, their faces hollow, stripped of hope. They’re being forced to breed, to give birth to the next wave of soldiers—children born not for a life but for a death sentence. The image shifts again, showing rows of kids, no older than twelve, clutching AK-47s like toys, grinning widely into the camera as if this is all a game.

  I clench my jaw and move to the next screen, but the horror doesn’t let up. It’s the Philippines this time—a line of trucks packed to the brim with human beings. Their faces are gaunt, their eyes wide with terror. Human trafficking victims, stolen from their homes, forced into servitude as cannon fodder. Turned into soldiers, stripped of identity and humanity, their lives reduced to a currency for this twisted war.

  Screen after screen, it just gets worse. Each one displaying military compounds sprawled across the globe. Complexes filled with stockpiles of missiles, tanks, and weaponry that would make any superpower nervous. It’s like I’m staring at an arsenal that could rival that of Russia or the USA—a nightmare force hidden in the shadows, waiting to strike.

  We are wrong all this time. This is not just The Syndicate. This isn’t just an uprising. It’s a goddamn army—a global operation—an entire network of darkness, and they’ve been building it under our noses the whole time.

  In the stillness, my comms crackle to life, but instead of Finn’s usual banter, Malleus’s voice cuts through the static.

  “Victor, I bring grim news. Milady Madelyn was just found dead—minutes ago.”

  What the fuck is about to happen next?

  To be continued...