Local Gangs Meeting — Again.
The mood in the room was funereal. Gangsters sat around, fidgeting with their phones, picking at their nails, avoiding eye contact.
"So… he's really dead?"
"Yeah. Rocket launcher."
Silence.
"So… what now?"
"I think we should release the info on White Rat."
"But that's our ticket to the big leagues."
"You need to be alive to enjoy the money, genius."
Another chimes in. "Yeah, I haven't stepped outside in days. I flinched at a car backfiring and nearly stabbed my own fridge."
"I threw a Molotov at a cat because it startled me."
"What have we become?"
They all sat in collective shame. Once-feared gangsters, now hiding under their beds because cartoons got too loud.
Suddenly—BANG! The door slammed open.
A trembling lackey: "Boss! The police—they're here!"
Panic. Chairs screech. Guns drop. People bump into walls, each other, doors.
"RU—"
"STOP!" the boss yells.
Everyone freezes mid-chaos.
He sighs deeply. "We surrender."
"WHAT!?"
"Why!?"
"Because I don't want to be vaporized by a bazooka, that's why."
He walks out first—hands in the air, weapons ditched.
And then… he sees it.
Armored trucks. Drones overhead. Snipers on the roof. A full SWAT line. And… was that a tank?
He drops to his knees—part fear, part survival instinct.
Officer Grad steps forward, calm as the eye of a hurricane.
"Do you know about the White Rat?"
The boss exhales. "Yes."
Grad nods. "Good."
Then he turns.
"Boys—blast it."
BOOM.
The building behind the boss erupts into fire and ash. All those still inside—gone.
The boss screams, "WHY!? They were surrendering!"
Grad adjusts his collar. "We only needed one guy to talk."
Silence.
Dust.
Sirens fade as the police caravan pulls away, leaving nothing behind but a crater and one very traumatized man.
---
Scene: Giant Syndicate HQ.
The room is tense. Men in suits. Phones buzzing. A map of the city on the wall like it means something.
"Boss," one underling says. "The police got him. The guy who knew about the White Rat."
The boss exhales like a man escaping jury duty. "Good. Now we don't have to deal with this circus. Everyone—back to business. Forget the White Rat."
Silence.
Then:
"…What about the Lion King?"
The boss closes his eyes. Please. No.
"Why would you say that out loud," he mutters, rubbing his temples.
The silence thickens. People start to murmur.
Someone whispers, "Maybe the Lion King isn't fake after all…"
Momentum builds. Confusion becomes confidence. Confidence becomes dangerous ideas.
The boss sees it happening in real time.
BANG! The door slams open.
He doesn't even look. He hurls a whiskey glass.
"AGH! Boss! It's me! I was just late for the meeting!"
"…My hand slipped," the boss says flatly. I need to remove that door.
Then another man bursts in—gasping, sweaty.
The boss groans. "Are you also late for the meeting?"
"No, boss. Urgent news."
Of course it is.
"Black Bear just made a move."
What.
The boss stands up slowly, eyes blank.
"They were supposed to be out. Why are the bears moving again?"
No one has an answer.
He looks around the room.
And he finally says what everyone else is thinking:
"What is this again?"