VANDERBILT MANSION AT 06:00The sound of a buzzing blender breaks the silence of the marble-topped kitchen the area can be used for playing futsal.Marco Rossi stood in front of the kitchen island, wearing a black silk bathrobe. In his hand, he held a glass containing a thick, greenish-gray liquid. It was a mixture of raw egg whites, protein powder, spinach, and a high dose of vitamin supplements."Breakfast of champions," Marco muttered blankly.He downed the liquid in one gulp.GLUK. GLUK.No taste.No fishy smell of eggs.No bitter taste of spinach.Just a cold, thick sensation that slid down his esophagus, filling his stomach which never felt full. This is just maintenance. Machine maintenance. The System's modified body needed 4,000 pure calories every morning just so that its heart wouldn't stop beating due to running out of energy."Arcy? Are you awake?"Maria came into the kitchen. She was neat in white tennis clothes, her hair tied in a ponytail, her face fresh and beautiful.

pier 4, NEW YORK 01:00A thick fog enveloped the port, mixed with the exhaust fumes of low roaring container trucks. The atmosphere that night felt tense, not because of ghosts, but because of the type of cargo that was being unloaded. Marco stood on a pile of containers, letting the sea breeze hit his face. He was still wearing the clothes from last night's dinner party—a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and trousers whose edges were stained with oil.The cell phone in his pocket vibrated.Caller ID: Edward Thorne.Marco picked it up."You said delivery next week," Marco said directly, without further ado."Plans change, Partner," Thorne's voice sounded cheerful, as if he was ordering pizza, not smuggling illegal weapons. "My client from the Middle East is impatient. The cargo ship 'The Volga' docked at your dock five minutes ago. Make sure the goods move to the truck without Customs sniffing around.""I've already bribed Customs. The problem isn't them," Marco glanced at the

ST. JUDE'S ELITE ACADEMY UPPER EAST SIDE 10:00The private elementary school is more like an art museum than a place for children to study. The walls are dark red brick covered in ivy, the floors are marble that is polished every hour, and the annual tuition fee is more than the price of a kidney on the black market.But this morning, the elegance of St. Jude's was tarnished.In the cafeteria that served organic gourmet food, there was a commotion. A tray of carbonara pasta was scattered on the floor.A fat boy named William Sterling—the son of a famous investment banker—was sitting on the floor holding his bleeding nose. He cried loudly.In front of him, stood Sofia Rossi.Sofia's small hands clenched into fists. His knuckles were red. His breath was ragged. Her hair ribbon was loose, and her expensive uniform was stained with sauce."My mother said your father was a murderer!" William shouted in between sobs, pointing at Sofia with a shaking index finger. "My father said your money

VANDERBILT MANSION 8:00 PMTonight, Marco Rossi's palace shone brighter than usual.Spotlights swept across the Long Island night sky. Luxury cars—Ferrari, Bentley, Maybach—queue up the curved driveway. The red carpet was rolled out from the gate to the front door.This was Marco and Maria Rossi's 11th Wedding Anniversary Party.But for Marco, this felt like a funeral for his love that was held at a cost of one million dollars.Marco stood in front of the mirror in his spacious bedroom. He wore an ivory white tuxedo—Maria's request to match the party's "White&Gold" theme. Dia terlihat gagah, tampan, dan berbahaya. The gray hair on his temples actually adds to the charisma of a precocious leader.In his hand, Marco holds a blue velvet envelope.It's not a love letter. It contained a certificate of ownership of a private island covering an area of ​​50 hectares in the Caribbean Islands. Isla de la Rosa.Harganya? $15 Million."I bought a house, she's still not satisfied. I bought an isl

FOUR SEASONS MANHATTAN HOTEL SUITEAT 14:00 (SAME DAY AS THE RAID)Maria Rossi sat curled up in the corner of the velvet sofa of the five-star hotel suite. She hugged her knees, biting her thumbnail which no longer had polish until it bled.In the next room, Sofia was sleeping—or pretending to sleep—after crying all day asking to go home.But "home" to where?To the house whose walls were broken into by the FBI? To a house where the furniture was slashed with knives? To the house that was now marked with yellow police tape?"Federal prison..." Maria muttered softly, her eyes staring blankly at the dead TV screen.Agent Parker's voice still rang in her ears like a broken record. Ten years in a concrete cell. Orange shirt. Stale porridge. No skincare. Without friends.Maria trembled. He's not strong. She is not an iron lady. She's just a poor woman who wants to live comfortably. He never signed up for the guerilla war against the United States government.The cell phone on the table vib