The sudden knock on the warehouse door cut through the criminal proceedings like a fire alarm at a funeral. Every gun in the room swiveled toward the entrance while twenty million dollars worth of drugs and cash sat forgotten on the metal table.
The Russian enforcer—a man built like a refrigerator with anger management issues—exchanged glances with the warehouse manager. Neither recognized the interruption as part of their carefully planned evening of organized crime.
"Who's there?" the Russian barked, his accent thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Just a concerned citizen," came the cheerful reply from outside.
Concerned citizen. Right. In this neighborhood, at this hour, during a major drug transaction. The Russian's finger tightened on his trigger.
"I don't know who you think you are," the Russian snarled, "but you picked the wrong night to play hero. Walk away, or we'll carry you away."
"That seems unnecessarily hostile," the voice replied with the sort of calm reasonableness that suggested either profound stupidity or genuine confidence. "Why don't we discuss this like civilized people?"
"Discuss this!" the Russian roared, but his words were cut off by the sound of metal grinding against metal.
The warehouse door began to swing open, revealing a young man in jeans and a jacket who looked like he'd wandered in from a college campus rather than a criminal summit. What made the scene truly surreal, however, was the collection of C4 explosive charges strapped to his chest like the world's most dangerous fashion accessory.
Red lights blinked in steady rhythm across the devices, accompanied by an electronic beeping that suggested things were about to become very educational, very quickly.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Noah said, stepping into the warehouse with the casual confidence of someone attending a neighborhood barbecue. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
Every finger froze on every trigger. Twenty seasoned criminals, men who'd built their careers on violence and intimidation, suddenly found themselves in the unfamiliar position of being genuinely terrified.
The Russian enforcer felt sweat beading on his forehead despite the warehouse's refrigerated air. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with? We're the Russian mob. We have resources, connections, people who will hunt you down—"
"That's nice," Noah interrupted, walking further into the warehouse and casually closing the door behind him. The metallic click of the lock engaging sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
He locked himself in with us, the warehouse manager realized with growing horror. And the explosives.
Noah surveyed the room like a real estate agent evaluating property values. Frozen meat carcasses hung from ceiling hooks, poker chips scattered across the table suggested interrupted gambling, and enough automatic weapons lay within reach to supply a small army.
"Cozy place," Noah observed. "Very atmospheric. The industrial decay really complements the criminal enterprise aesthetic."
"Look," the warehouse manager said carefully, "I don't know what your problem is with us, but maybe we can work something out. Money, territory, whatever you want—"
"What I want," Noah said, settling into a chair at the metal table like he'd been invited to dinner, "is for everyone to relax and keep their heart rates under control."
The beeping from his explosive vest seemed to quicken slightly, and everyone in the room went rigid.
"See, here's the thing," Noah continued conversationally. "These devices are calibrated to my biometric readings. If my heart rate exceeds 120 beats per minute, well..." He gestured at the blinking lights. "Let's just say it would be bad for property values in the immediate area."
The Russian enforcer's face had gone pale beneath his permanent five o'clock shadow. "You're insane."
"I prefer 'methodical,'" Noah corrected. "Though I admit the line gets blurry sometimes. The point is, as long as I stay calm, we can all have a pleasant conversation. But if I get startled, or excited, or—God forbid—someone does something stupid like trying to shoot me..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. The mathematical implications were clear to everyone present.
"Put the guns down," the warehouse manager hissed to his men. "All of them. Now."
Weapons clattered to the concrete floor as criminals suddenly discovered religion.
"Much better," Noah said approvingly. "See how much more civilized this is? Now, I believe you gentlemen were in the middle of a business transaction?"
The Russian enforcer was breathing like he'd just run a marathon. "What do you want? Money? The drugs? Territory?"
"Nothing so mundane," Noah replied. "I'm more interested in... quality assurance. You see, I've been conducting research into the criminal justice system, and I've discovered some disturbing gaps in how society deals with truly dangerous individuals."
He gestured at the room full of armed drug dealers and money launderers.
"Take yourselves, for example. Here you are, trafficking millions of dollars worth of narcotics, corrupting communities, destroying lives—and yet somehow the system fails to properly categorize you as the genuine threats to society that you obviously are."
The warehouse manager's left eye was starting to twitch. "I don't understand what you're talking about."
"Don't worry," Noah said cheerfully. "You will. See, I've developed a new approach to criminal rehabilitation. It's very direct. Very permanent. And it starts with making sure you all qualify for the appropriate level of intervention."
The beeping from his vest seemed to echo louder in the sudden silence, each electronic pulse marking time like a countdown to some unnamed catastrophe.
"So," Noah continued, "shall we begin with some light conversation about your various crimes against humanity? Or would you prefer to jump straight to the practical demonstration?"
Twenty pairs of eyes stared at the blinking red lights, and twenty criminal hearts suddenly found it very difficult to stay below 120 beats per minute.
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