The door to the warehouse banged open, hard enough that everyone inside jumped.Carla spun, gun raised. Boyd was already halfway out of his chair, reaching for his own piece.Then they saw him.Van. He staggered inside. Blood streaked down one temple, jacket torn, eyes wild. Breathing like he’d outrun death itself."Jesus Christ," Carla gasped, lowering her gun."Van—"But he was already collapsing against the wall, sliding down, chest heaving. The door creaked shut behind him, sealing the dark back in.Louisa dropped the flash drive she’d been clutching for hours and ran to him. "Are you—are you hit?"Van waved her off, voice raw. "Not shot. Just… tired of running."Boyd knelt, grabbing his shoulder hard. "Talk to me. What happened? Did the deal go bad?"Van laughed — harsh, bitter, humorless. "Wasn’t a deal. Was a damn execution waiting to happen. Ramos sold me out to Barron’s people. Seven men with guns. All set to take me in — or take me out."Dan groaned from his corner, cradling

Van checked his watch. 2:43 AM. Everything about this felt wrong. Too quiet. Too easy. He and Boyd crouched in the shadows behind the old warehouse near Pier 19. The place was supposed to be one of Barron’s cash drops — lightly guarded, ripe for the hit. But Van’s gut twisted. His instincts, sharpened by prison and street wars, screamed: trap. Boyd adjusted the strap on his rifle, eyes darting. "You sure about this, V? Feels like we’re walking into a coffin." Van’s jaw clenched. He glanced at the dim lights flickering in the warehouse windows. No movement. No lookouts. Nothing. "It’s bait," Van muttered. "Barron wants me here. Wants this to go loud." Boyd cursed under his breath. "So we back out?" Van shook his head, cold and steady. "We go in. But smart. You flank left. Dan’s crew cuts the power. No hero moves. If it smells off, we pull back. Understood?" Boyd nodded, swallowing hard. This wasn’t some street scuffle — this was war. In the distance, Dan’s team fanned out.

The hotel suite was silent except for the low hum of jazz from the sound system. Moses Wilson sipped his scotch with slow deliberation, staring out at the midnight skyline. Lagos never slept. Neither did his paranoia.Behind him, a shadow shifted. Barron’s man. Silent. Suited. Soulless.“Is it done?” Moses asked, still looking out the window.The man replied with a clipped nod. “The ambush failed. Van escaped.”Moses exhaled hard through his nose. “Then what the hell are you standing here for?”The man didn’t flinch. “He has the tapes. The girl delivered them.”Moses spun around. “What tapes?”“Bianca’s.”Moses froze.That name still hit like a blade between the ribs.The past — the lies, the betrayal, the fear.She was supposed to be buried.He set the glass down, slower than necessary. “She promised me… she swore she destroyed them.”The man shrugged. “She lied. Van’s seen them. And now he knows about you.”Moses walked slowly to the liquor cart, but his hand trembled as he reached

Van didn’t speak for a long time.He just stared at the photograph, the edges frayed from age, the faces too familiar. Barron in his early thirties, standing beside another man in a charcoal suit, his hand resting on a briefcase.The man was smiling.Van’s father.Van didn't know much about his father but from what he remembered, he was a well respected person in society. Now this photo was telling another story.“Tell me this is fake,” Van said, voice low, eyes locked on Raúl.Raúl looked older in the Vault’s flickering light. Tired.“I can’t.”“Then tell me why.”Raúl gestured to the files scattered around them. “Because your father helped build it. The machine. The system. He wasn’t just in it—he was one of the architects.”Rita sat down slowly, mouth parted in disbelief.“But why would she hide this?” she asked. “Bianca loved Van. She wanted him to clear his name.”Raúl nodded. “And that’s why she buried this folder behind every wall she could build. Because if it got out… no one

The building didn’t have a name. No signage, no records, no address in any public system.Just a black tower wrapped in mirrored glass, hidden in the sprawl of Victoria estate like a cancer cell pretending to be clean.They called it Torchlight.... And it was the beginning of everything.Van sat in the back of a stolen SUV, staring up at it. He wore a maintenance uniform. ID forged. Eyes steady. Heart cold.Dan was on comms. Rita stayed in the field car two blocks away, satellite scans rolling across her screen.There was no backup. No police and no press.Just a man with nothing left to lose — and a mission that couldn’t wait another day.“Security’s lighter than I expected,” Dan murmured.“Which means,” Rita replied, “they’re watching another way.”Van stepped out, fastened his gloves, and walked straight through the side entrance. The guard barely looked up.He moved like he belonged. That was the trick.Inside, the silence was sterile. No echoes, no chatter. Just carpeted wealth a