Texas, two days before Vayunesh's capture.
The sound of gunshots and yelling echoed through the shattered streets of what was once a peaceful neighborhood.
Now?
It was Red Wolf territory.
Darian Wolfe, draped in a long red coat marked with the claw insignia of his gang, stood at the center of the chaos. His men moved swiftly, breaking into homes, threatening civilians, and extorting the last scraps of wealth from the already broken people of Texas.
"Line up! You know the drill!" barked one of the Red Wolfs.
The residents gathered — trembling, hollow-eyed, clutching what little they had. Some carried crumpled paper bills. Others offered food, jewelry, or scrap metals. A few had nothing.
"They're back…" someone whispered in fear.
Darian strolled forward, cocky and cruel. He looked down on the people like they were insects.
"Well, well," he said, smirking. "Did you manage to gather enough for us, puny civilians?"
There was silence.
Until a small voice spoke up.
"Just because Uncle Théodore Marchand left, doesn't mean you can do whatever you want!"
It was a young boy, no older than eight, his fists clenched in trembling defiance.
The crowd froze.
A Red Wolf thug instantly kicked the boy to the ground. He yelped and clutched his side, coughing.
Darian's eyes narrowed.
"Don't. Say. His. Name.""You hear me, kiddo?"
The boy began to cry as his mother rushed to him, wrapping her arms around him protectively. The other civilians stared at the ground, not daring to make eye contact.
The gang continued their forced collection, grabbing money, jewelry, anything of value. Those who couldn't pay were shoved, slapped, or heavily warned.
"Why us…?" whispered a broken man in the line.
And quietly, barely audible, the child muttered under his breath:
"You'll pay for this… someday."
No one heard him.
Except his mother.
"Quiet!" she hissed, panic in her voice. "Do you want to get us killed?"
The boy bit his lip, silent once again.
Later: Inside the Red Wolfs Base
The gang returned to their stronghold — a renovated factory turned fortress, outfitted with gun racks, stolen power generators, and scrap metal plating for walls.
Inside the meeting room, the lower administrators of the gang laid out the earnings for the day on a rusted table.
Darian stepped in, unstrapping his gloves and eyeing the count.
Stacks of ragged cash. A few small gold chains. And… only 10 TUNS.
Darian's smile faded.
"Ten?" he asked quietly.
One of the lieutenants nodded nervously. "Y-Yes, sir. It's all we could get today. Most of them… they're tapped out."
Darian's voice hardened.
"Next time, don't show them mercy.""We run this land. They exist because we allow them to."
He turned away, shaking his head.
10 TUNS.Only 1800 USD in value.
A pitiful amount — especially in a world where every TUNS counted. A world where the global currency was no longer based on nation or gold, but on something much more... sinister.
About the Currency – TGACS
TUNS — short for "The Global Assembly Council Sponsored" — was the only valid currency left after the collapse of most world economies.
Created and controlled by the Global Assembly Council, TGACS became the standard of survival. It wasn't just money. It was access: to food, to healthcare, to weapons, to power.
And while few understood the true reason for the creation of TUNS… those who did knew one thing for sure.
Control the TGACS...and you control the world.