The shop house on Roses Street stood arrogantly among rows of shabby buildings that seemed to have long surrendered to poverty. Behind its steel doors, Claude's football gambling operation pulsed like a dark heart, pumping dirty money into the mafia boss's pockets while the surrounding residents struggled to survive. Eduardo shut off the engine of the stolen sedan two blocks from the target. Pale blue dawn light washed across the asphalt, casting long shadows that looked like the fingers of death. "I can't believe you actually brought me here, Boss," Gord whispered while struggling with the zipper of his jacket that had jammed again. His cursed luck at work as usual. "This place is the most heavily guarded spot in the district. These guys aren't the market thugs you shot earlier. These are Claude's elite crew. They carry real toys, not rusty pistols." Eduardo did not look at him. His red eyes, the result of exhaustion and the strain of the system, stared coldly at the

The neon light on the motel ceiling flickered, creating a visual rhythm that matched the pulse throbbing in Eduardo’s temples. On the wooden table, its surface peeling with age, the pile of hundreds of millions in cash sat in silence. Its smell, a mixture of damp paper, ink, and the sweat of thousands of human hands, filled the cramped room, competing with the musty odor of rarely washed sheets. Eduardo sat on a rickety wooden chair, his eyes fixed on the bag. His mind was a shattered battlefield. On one side, there was a primitive satisfaction. He had secured his family’s survival. On the other side, a black hole yawned inside his memory. His mother’s face. He tried to summon it again, straining his brain until the veins in his neck bulged. But all that appeared was a cold gray fog. “Edu...” Emily’s voice broke the silence. Eduardo did not turn. He felt that if he looked into his wife’s eyes, she would see the monster gnawing at his soul from withi

The pungent stench of household garbage and rotting food scraps greeted Eduardo and Gord as they arrived. This slum district on the edge of the city was a black hole where hope died, and where gambling addicts and life’s losers gathered to wait for death. Eduardo walked forward in his polished leather dress shoes, a stark contrast to the muddy asphalt smeared with black sludge. Beside him, Gord looked far more “blended” with the surrounding environment. “Boss, you sure that genius is here? This place smells worse than my armpits after a week without a shower,” Gord said, pinching his nose while his eyes darted around at the crowd of homeless people staring at them hungrily. “The information I get is never wrong, Gord. Belerik went broke after Claude seized all his assets. He has nowhere else to go except here,” Eduardo replied coldly. His gaze swept across rows of cardboard shacks. [System Suggestion: Subject ‘Belerik’ detected 50 meters ahead. Mental Status: Unsta

The asphalt of the outer ring toll road leading to North Harbor glistened under the pale glow of mercury streetlights. It was two in the morning, an hour when the world should have been asleep. But for Claude’s black-market industry, this was peak business time. The distant rumble of diesel engines began to echo through the night, signaling that The Butchers’ “fish” logistics convoy was approaching. On the dark roadside, a black sedan sat parked with its lights off. Eduardo sat in the back seat, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Beside him, Belerik hunched over a laptop, fingers dancing across the keyboard with nervous speed. “Boss, are you sure about this plan?” Belerik whispered, his voice trembling. “Those trucks weigh dozens of tons. They’re not going to brake just because they see someone standing in the road. Claude’s drivers are trained to run over anything that blocks their logistics routes.” “Relax, Baldy,” Gord chimed from the driver’s seat. He chewed a bana

The air inside the northern sector logistics warehouse felt heavy, a mix of rotting fish, machine oil, and tension that was close to exploding. Eduardo stood in the middle of the dim, cavernous space, lit only by a single light bulb that swayed gently as the sea wind slipped through the high ventilation slats.“They’re coming, Boss. My luck says this is going to be a very red night,” Gord whispered. He stood beside a stack of wooden crates, gripping two iron pipes whose ends had been sharpened into crude spikes. His usual goofy expression was gone, replaced by the wild stare of a shepherd dog ready to tear into prey.Belerik, on the other hand, looked like a trapped rat. He crouched inside an old fiberglass fish barrel, leaving only his eyes peeking out in terror.“Eduardo, if we die here, make sure my laptop gets destroyed. There are transaction records that cannot fall into anyone’s hands.”“Shut up, old man. Just focus on not pissing your pants,” Gord snapped.VROOOOOM!The roar of