The underground hall was hidden beneath a luxury hotel, known only to the wealthiest and the most dangerous people in the city. The ceiling was high, decorated with golden chandeliers that threw warm light over the crowd. Rows of velvet chairs filled the room, each occupied by men and women dressed in tailored suits, diamonds glittering on their fingers, eyes cold and hungry.
Guards lined the walls, tall and silent, dressed in black with earpieces clipped to their collars. They stood like statues, but the weight of their hidden weapons gave the room a constant sense of threat.
On the stage at the far end stood a long oak table. Resting in the center was a small wooden box. At first glance, it looked ordinary — polished, dark, square in shape. But as the guests leaned forward, they felt something different. The box seemed to hum faintly, like it carried a secret. The air around it felt heavier, charged, as though it didn't belong in this world.
The auctioneer, a thin man in a black tuxedo, cleared his throat and smiled politely.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice echoed, smooth and sharp. "What you see before you is a relic of unknown origin. Its history is lost, its true nature... yet to be revealed. But one thing is certain — it is priceless."
The opening bid started at one million dollars.
Hands shot up.
"One point five."
"Two."
"Two point five!"
The voices rose quickly, bouncing off the golden walls. Every bid made the crowd lean forward, more curious, more desperate.
Then a voice cut through the room like thunder.
"Five million."
Gasps filled the hall.
At the front row sat a massive man in a white coat. His body was thick with muscle, his hands scarred, his face carved with sharp angles. He leaned back calmly, his cold eyes daring anyone to challenge him.
No one did.
The auctioneer banged his hammer.
"Sold. To the man in white."
The box was covered with velvet and carefully carried away by four armed guards. Outside, the night waited with a convoy of six black cars — the central van carrying the relic, surrounded by protective vehicles.
But in the shadows of the hall, a second man clenched his fists. He wore a black suit, neat and sharp, his face hidden under the brim of his hat. His eyes burned with rage.
"That box..." he said softly. "It's mine."
It was evening, five o'clock. The city was alive with its usual noise — buses roaring past, bikes cutting dangerously between cars, rickshaws honking, and people rushing home after a long day. The smell of fried snacks mixed with smoke from exhaust pipes, and streetlights were just beginning to flicker on.
Through this chaos moved a convoy of six black cars. Their engines growled in perfect rhythm, their dark windows reflecting the last rays of sunlight. In the very center was a black armored van, larger and heavier than the rest. Its steel body was reinforced, its doors locked tight. Inside it rested the wooden box .
Three cars led in front, two followed behind, and one flanked the side. Each was filled with bodyguards in full white suits, their hands close to their weapons. To ordinary passersby, it looked like a politician's convoy. But those inside knew the truth: this was no ordinary transport.
The convoy moved slowly through the traffic, horns blaring as drivers pulled aside. For a few moments, everything looked under control.
Then the trap was sprung.
From the opposite side of the road, three more black cars suddenly appeared. They swerved violently, tires screeching, and blocked the path ahead.
The convoy braked hard. Screeeech! Sparks flew as tires dragged across the asphalt. Cars behind slammed their horns in panic.
And before the convoy could recover, another three black cars came racing in from behind. They cut sharply, boxing the convoy in from the rear.
Now the six convoy cars were trapped in the middle — three enemy cars blocking the front, three blocking the back. Every vehicle held fighters with guns. The air grew thick with tension, the entire road caught in a deadly cage.
Ordinary drivers panicked. Bikes toppled. People shouted, horns blared louder, and some abandoned their vehicles to flee to the sidewalks. The peaceful evening had turned into something terrifying.
Then it came.
From a narrow side street, a giant truck roared into view. Its horn bellowed like thunder, its headlights blinding. It barreled forward with terrifying speed, unstoppable.
"MOVE!" a guard inside the convoy shouted.
But it was too late.
CRASH!
The truck smashed straight into the black armed van. The impact lifted the van off its wheels. It rolled once, metal twisting, sparks raining. It rolled again, glass exploding into the air.
Screams filled the street. People ran in every direction. Cars smashed into each other as drivers lost control.
The van flipped a second time and then slammed violently into the roadside tea shop. Wood splintered, glass shattered, and benches snapped in two.
Finally, with a thunderous roar, the van skidded to a stop — upside down, its wheels still spinning helplessly in the air. Smoke hissed from its broken engine. The back door, cracked from the impact, hung open at a crooked angle.
Inside the tea shop, two college students had been sitting only moments earlier — Jack Sandrof and his best friend Ryan. Their books and half-drunk tea cups still lay on the table.
The world exploded around them. Chairs flew, walls cracked, dust and smoke swallowed the air. Instinctively, Jack and Ryan dove under the table, curling into themselves, their hands over their heads.
For a few seconds, there was only silence — broken only by the hiss of smoke, the crackle of fire, and the sound of broken wood falling to the floor.
Jack's chest heaved as he gasped for air. His face was pale, his eyes wide with terror. Ryan's lips trembled, whispering prayers under his breath. Both of them shook uncontrollably, trapped in shock.
Slowly, shaking, they crawled out from under the broken table. The air was thick with dust, their throats burned as they coughed.
And then they saw it.
The overturned van loomed just a few steps outside the tea shop. Its shattered windows revealed broken bodies of guards, blood streaking down the steel. The smell of burning oil mixed with iron and dust.
Both boys froze, their faces pale with horror. But then something else pierced through the smoke.
A glow.
From the back of the van, through the cracked-open door, spilled a red light. Not ordinary light — it pulsed, alive, like a heartbeat.
Jack's breath caught. His wide eyes locked onto it, his body shaking as if something invisible was pulling him forward. Ryan's mouth fell open. He said softly, voice shaking:
"Jack... do you see that?"
Jack said nothing, but his feet moved slowly, crunching broken glass under his shoes. His expression was caught between fear and wonder, his lips shaking, his breaths shallow.
Ryan followed. His face was pale, but his eyes darted between the wreck and the glowing light, sharp and calculating.
The closer they got, the brighter it grew, painting their faces crimson.
Jack stopped at the door of the van, frozen in place. His eyes were wide, glowing red in the reflection. Fear gripped his chest, but curiosity pushed harder.
With shaking hands, he pulled himself inside the wreck. Smoke burned his eyes. The overturned seats were bent and broken. A lifeless guard hung upside down, his arm twisted unnaturally. But Jack's gaze stayed fixed on the object on the floor.
There it was.
The wooden box, cracked open. And from inside, something glowed — brighter now, alive, shifting faintly, as though breathing.
Jack stared, his lips parted. His face was filled with awe, confusion, and deep fear.
Behind him, Ryan's eyes widened. His voice cracked, but this time it wasn't fear. It was hunger.
"This... this is it. I've read about this... on the dark web." He stepped closer, his voice rushing now, full of excitement. "They said it was fake. A myth. Over ten thousand years old. Priceless. Infinite value. Only a handful of people in the world even know what this is... and now, it's here. Right in front of us."
He licked his lips, his face twisted with greed. "Jack... do you understand? If we have this... we're not just rich. We'll be untouchable."
Jack didn't answer. His body shook, his hands cold. The glow reflected in his terrified eyes. Unlike Ryan, he felt no greed — only dread. Something about the light felt wrong, dangerous, alive.
He reached out slowly, his fingers brushing the cracked wooden box. The red glow flared for a second, as if recognizing his touch. His jade ring grew warm on his finger. Jack snatched his hand back, gasping.
Ryan leaned in eagerly. "Come on! Close it. Take it before anyone sees!"
Jack hesitated, his chest pounding. But with shaking hands, he pushed the object back inside the box and shut the broken lid.
Together, they pulled it close and stumbled out of the van. Their faces were lit red for the last time before the glow dimmed.
The world outside roared with chaos — gunfire erupted between the two gangs, cars burning, horns blaring. But to Jack, it all sounded distant. His heart was trapped in fear, his mind screaming one thing over and over:
This isn't normal. This shouldn't be touched. This changes everything.
As they stepped back from the wreck, the box heavy in their hands, Jack's pale face said it all. Ryan's eyes burned with greed, but Jack's expression held only terror — as if he already knew their lives would never be the same.
The moment Jack and Ryan pulled the box out of the wreck, the street erupted.
BANG! BANG-BANG-BANG!
Bullets rained down like a storm. Sparks exploded off car doors. Glass shattered into clouds. The smell of burning oil filled the air.
Jack's skinny legs trembled as he clutched the wooden box tight against his chest. His pale face was drenched in sweat, his eyes wide with terror.
"Run!" Ryan shouted, grabbing his arm.
They sprinted, stumbling through the chaos. Fighters from both sides had seen them — two kids running with the box. Guns turned. Muzzles flared.
P-CHHK! TAT-TAT-TAT!
Bullets tore past them, ripping holes into walls, smashing the pavement. One grazed Jack's sleeve, another shattered the glass of a streetlamp beside Ryan. Shards flew across his cheek, leaving a thin red cut.
Jack gasped, his chest burning. Each step was heavy, each sound of gunfire crashing in his skull. He wanted to stop, to drop the box and collapse. But his legs carried him forward, as if survival itself dragged him along.
Behind them, rifles barked.
P-CHHK! P-CHHK!
Bullets sliced the air around them, smashing into shop walls, bursting car windows. A round skimmed past Jack's shoulder, hot air brushing his neck. He gasped, nearly tripping, but clung to the box tighter.
They sprinted down the narrow lane, lungs burning. Ahead stood the school compound — tall white walls, its green gate locked shut. The school day had ended, children had gone home. Only silence hung over the yard.
Ryan's eyes locked on the wall. "We jump!"
Jack's breath hitched. The wall was high, the concrete rough, but bullets screamed closer behind them. They had no choice.
Ryan leapt first, scraping his palms as he pulled himself up and over. Jack struggled, the box clutched in one hand, his thin body straining. His foot slipped once, panic flooding his eyes — then Ryan's hand shot down, yanking him over. Together they tumbled into the schoolyard.
For a moment, there was quiet. The sound of the city outside dulled, muffled by the wall. The yard was empty, rows of parked bicycles lined neatly, the sun casting long shadows across the ground.
But the silence was weak.
Shouts rose from beyond the gate. The gunmen had seen them. Boots pounded against the street outside.
Jack and Ryan bolted across the yard, past the empty swings and the closed canteen. They dashed toward the school building, its wide doors unlocked. Inside, the air smelled faintly of chalk and dust.
They ducked into a corridor, their shoes squeaking against the polished floor. Posters of science fairs and school plays clung to the walls. Lockers stood in neat rows. For a moment, it almost felt normal. Almost.
Then — the crash of the gate outside.
The fighters had climbed in.
Jack's chest heaved. "Ryan... they're coming..."
"Classroom. Hide."
They darted into the nearest room — a math classroom, rows of desks still in place, the blackboard half-wiped from the last lesson. They crouched behind the last row, Jack clutching the box tightly, Ryan peeking through the glass window.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Boots. Heavy, steady. Voices muttered orders in sharp tones.
Jack's lips trembled. His hands clenched so tightly around the box his knuckles turned white. His heart pounded in his ears.
The footsteps grew louder.
The door creaked.
A gunman stepped inside. His eyes swept the room, rifle raised. Dust shifted as he moved between the rows of desks. Each second stretched like hours. Jack's breath shook, his body pressed into the corner.
Then the man's eyes narrowed. He saw movement.
He took a step closer.
Something broke inside Jack. His body moved before his mind could. With a desperate cry, he launched himself forward, colliding with the gunman.
The rifle swung sideways, smashing against a desk. The man cursed, grabbing for the weapon — but Jack clung on with wild strength, skinny arms shaking. His pale face twisted with fear and rage.
The gun slipped. Jack's shaking hands seized it.
The gunman lunged for him — and Jack pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The blast echoed across the classroom. The man jerked, blood painting the blackboard behind him, then collapsed. His dead eyes stared blankly upward.
Jack froze. His whole body shook. His fingers slipped off the trigger. The gun clattered to the floor.
Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks. He looked at his hands — the same hands that had just ended a life. His lips quivered, whispering, "I... I killed him..."
Ryan grabbed him, face pale but urgent. "Jack! There's no time! We need to go!"
Jack's tears streaked across his cheeks. He wiped them roughly with his sleeve, his skinny frame shaking. But something inside had shifted. He picked up the gun again. His arms shook, but now he gripped it tighter.
He pushed open the classroom door. Shadows moved in the corridor — more gunmen.
Jack raised the rifle. His aim was clumsy, his breath uneven. But he fired.
BANG! BANG!
One fighter fell. Another ducked for cover. Bullets cracked back, sparking off the walls.
Jack shouted, voice breaking but fierce:
"Go, Ryan! Move!"
Ryan clutched the box and ran behind him as Jack led the way down the corridor, firing wildly, clearing a path through the dark halls of the school.
The schoolyard was dark and silent now, the classrooms locked, the gates closed. But outside, the world was still shaking with chaos. Jack and Ryan leapt the back wall, their hearts pounding, lungs on fire. Behind them, gunfire echoed in the streets, the clash of men hunting the mysterious box.
They didn't stop. They couldn't.
The narrow lanes twisted downward toward the sea. The scent of salt and fish grew stronger with each step. Their shoes slapped against the cracked pavement as they sprinted, clutching the box like it was life itself.
At last, the lanes opened into the harbour.
The evening sun had dipped low, painting the water in streaks of crimson. Rusting cargo cranes loomed against the skyline. Waves slapped against the concrete pier, boats swaying with the tide.
And there it was — an old warehouse, towering at the edge of the dock, its sliding door half-open, its inside dark as a cavern.
"This way!" Ryan gasped, and they darted inside.
The warehouse swallowed them whole.
Stacks of cargo crates rose on either side, steel beams groaning above. The air reeked of rust, oil, and rotting fish. Shadows shifted with every flicker of the dim lights, making the place feel alive.
Jack pressed his back against a crate, gasping. His skinny chest rose and fell sharply, his pale face dripping with sweat. He shoved the wooden box into Ryan's hands.
"Take it," Jack said, his voice tight, urgent. "Get to the boat. I'll cover you."
Ryan shook his head. "No—Jack—"
"You have to!" Jack snapped. "If we both carry it, we're dead. Go!"
Before Ryan could argue, the ground shook.
BOOM!
A grenade exploded in the center of the warehouse. The blast ripped crates apart, wood splintering, dust raining down. Chains swung wildly as the shockwave echoed. Both boys hit the floor, their ears ringing.
Through the haze, dark shapes stormed in — gunmen, rifles flashing.
"Run!" Jack pulled Ryan up, and together they dashed between the crates, weaving desperately as bullets tore past them, striking wood, sparking off metal.
At the far side, a faint light glimmered — an opening that led to the bridge.
They burst out, stumbling onto the narrow wooden planks. The sea stretched black and endless below, waves hammering against the dock. At the far end of the bridge, a small fishing boat bobbed, tied loosely, swaying with the tide.
"Go, go!" Jack cried, shoving Ryan forward.
Bullets chased them, smashing into the wooden rails. Splinters sliced their arms as they ducked low, running until their lungs burned.
At the end of the bridge, two cargo crates stood like barriers on either side. They dove behind them, gasping, the boat just feet away.
Ryan clutched the box to his chest, eyes darting to Jack. "What now?"
Jack peeked out, his rifle shaking in his hands. His thin body shook, but his eyes burned with a desperate fire.
"You go. I'll cover."
Ryan's lips trembled. "Jack—"
"Don't argue! Just go!"
Jack leaned out, firing wildly. BANG! BANG! BANG! His shots forced the enemies to duck back into the warehouse doorway.
Ryan sprinted for the boat. He leapt in, clutching the box, his fingers fumbling over the engine. It coughed once... twice... then roared to life.
Jack saw it start. For a second, his lips twitched into the faintest smile.
Then the enemies surged forward.
His rifle clicked empty. Out of ammo.
Jack tossed it aside, his hands shaking. He looked back at Ryan, safe in the boat, then stepped into the open pier.
"Goooo....."
For a heartbeat, under the dull yellow dock lights, he looked impossibly weak — a thin, bony boy standing against killers with rifles. But in his eyes, there was no fear. Only resolve.
He took a step forward—
CRACK!
A single bullet tore through his shoulder. Jack's scream rang across the dock as blood sprayed. His legs buckled, his arms flailed—
"JACK!!!" Ryan cried from the boat, his voice raw.
Jack toppled sideways, his body crashing into the sea.
Splash!
The black water swallowed him. Blood drifted upward in ribbons, staining the waves.
Ryan gripped the box, sobbing, shaking his head in disbelief. "No! No, Jack! NO!"
Bullets smashed against the pier, forcing him down. With shaking hands, he pushed the throttle forward. The boat roared, cutting across the dark sea. His cries drowned under the engine's howl.
The gunmen reached the pier too late, their shots trailing uselessly into the night.
Beneath the waves, silence swallowed everything.
Jack drifted downward, unconscious, his thin body limp, blood curling in the water like smoke. His pale face looked lifeless.
But as his hand floated upward, the green jade ring began to glow, faint at first, then pulsing softly in the darkness.
The light spread across his fingers as the ocean dragged him deeper, the glow steady, alive...
...until both boy and ring vanished beneath the wave.