Bang!! The sound detonated through the room, sharp and final, like the crack of judgment itself. Draven’s arm moved once, clean and brutal. Luke’s severed head sailed through the air before landing at Veyron’s feet. It rolled once, slowly, as if reluctant to stop, before coming to rest against the edge of the bed. Blood sprayed across the white sheets. Veyron did not move. He stared at Luke’s head for several seconds, his mind fighting the truth clawing at it. His gaze traced the slack mouth, the lifeless eyes, the familiar scars that once carried terror wherever Luke went. Luke was not a regular man. Luke was Veyron’s weapon. Not just any weapon, Luke was devastation incarnate. The kind of man whose presence alone ended conversations, whose shadow caused men to reconsider their decisions. Luke was Veyron’s weapon of mass destruction. And now…. “How’s this even possible?” Veyron thought, slowly lifting his gaze back to Draven. Draven stood unmoving, framed by the doorway li

Veyron growled, the sound torn from deep in his chest as pain and shock ripped through him at once. His eyes widened, veins bulging at the corners as realization slammed into him like a late, merciless blow. He didn’t expect it. The hall seemed to tilt, the torches lining the walls blurring as his breath came out uneven, sharp, almost feral. His body strained against the ropes instinctively, but the damage had already been done. The moment had passed. “Boss..” A few of Veyron's men that were barely alive muttered. Draven kicked a chair aside with his boot and calmly spun another into position, sitting as if this were nothing more than a private meeting rather than a public execution waiting to happen. He leaned back slightly, posture relaxed, dominance settling around him like a second skin. “A man that betrays another man,” Draven said evenly, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall, “has already proven himself to be a good traitor, and a bad ally, a worse friend, and th

At Northgate Command Bastion… The huge bronze doors opened slowly, their weight announcing themselves with a deep, grinding groan that echoed through the stone corridors. A tall figure stepped through the widening gap, his silhouette briefly framed by the dim light behind him. The doors shut just as slowly. BOOM. The reverberation rolled through the boardroom, sealing his entry like a verdict. General Shaw paused. The boardroom was unusually dim, far darker than protocol allowed. The fluorescent bulbs above were lit, yet their glow seemed muted, swallowed by shadow before it could fully touch the walls. The long marble table reflected faint outlines rather than clear shapes, as though the room itself refused clarity. Why is no one here yet? General Shaw thought as he walked forward, his brows knitting together in unease. The sound of his shoes striking the marble floor echoed sharply, each step amplified, bouncing from wall to wall. The silence pressed down on him

“Veyron’s close ally, Midas Sultan, a renowned drug lord from the deadliest underworld drug gang, The Red Serpent Cartel.” Kylen said, standing at attention close to the smart board. The room was heavy with a silence that felt deliberate, like the walls themselves were listening. The glow from the smart board cast a cold, bluish hue across the chamber, reflecting faintly off polished steel surfaces and marble accents. It illuminated Kylen’s rigid posture and the sharp lines of his uniform, but it did nothing to soften the tension thickening the air. Before him sat Draven. His legs were crossed in unbothered dominance, one elbow resting against the marble desk as though the weight of the world could not touch him. His posture was relaxed, yet it carried an unspoken authority—pristine, calculated, and terrifying. “Midas Sultan.” He muttered with a smirk. The smirk wasn’t amusement. It was recognition—the kind that came before destruction. “I fished out his hidden crime records fro

As the night shimmered, the ocean stretched endlessly beneath the moon, its waves frantically rolling toward the shore as a cool breeze swept through the palms, making them sway like restless witnesses. The air smelled of salt, danger, and something older—something patient. From the dark belly of the sea, a military submarine surfaced slowly at the coast, cutting through the water without sound, its presence deliberate and controlled. The waves parted obediently around it, as though recognizing authority. The doors flung open. A tall figure stepped out. His tuxedo was immaculate—black pressed to perfection, fabric absorbing the moonlight rather than reflecting it. Designer shoes kissed the wet sand without hesitation, untouched by salt or grime, as though the earth itself refused to stain him. Draven Khaelis had arrived. “Sir!” a few soldiers saluted, their spines straight, boots aligned with military precision as they stepped out behind him. Their eyes did not linger. None of t