In the interrogation room of the NYPD, a tall Black man sat shackled to a steel chair. The harsh fluorescent light reflected off the sweat on his forehead.
Across from him sat Captain George Stacy, his gray suit crisp, his expression cold.
"Who ordered you to do this? Where are your accomplices?" Stacy's voice was calm but heavy with authority. "Tell the truth, or you'll regret it."
The man sneered. "I told you already, Captain. It was just a robbery gone wrong. They refused to hand over the cash, my partner panicked, and... the gun went off. That's it. No orders. No boss."
"Do you take me for a fool?" Stacy slammed his palm on the table. "You expect me to believe you just happened to rob one of the Morgan family's armored convoys?"
"Believe it or not," the man muttered, looking away, "that's all I know." He shut his mouth tight and refused to say another word.
Outside the one-way glass, Loren Morgan watched the interrogation feed, a faint, almost feral smile on his face. He knew how to make a man talk — though his methods weren't exactly NYPD-approved.
He rose slowly and turned to the senior city officials standing behind him. "Cut the cameras," he ordered. "I'll handle this myself."
The officials exchanged uneasy glances before one of them stammered, "Master Loren, that's beneath you. Let us send someone. We'll make him talk, I swear it."
Loren ignored them. The Morgan family's influence reached far beyond Wall Street. Senators, judges, even the Oval Office — all danced on invisible strings tied to the Morgans' hands. And yet, someone had dared to strike at them.
That wasn't something Loren could delegate. He needed answers, and he needed them now.
But before he could take a step toward the door, the lights suddenly flickered — then died completely.
The monitors went black.
Loren froze. His instincts screamed danger.
Then came the gunfire — deafening, chaotic. A second later, a high-explosive round ripped through the outer wall like a thunderclap.
The shockwave tore through the observation room, flinging men and furniture across the floor.
At the last instant, 2B moved — faster than human reflex should allow. She threw herself between Loren and the blast, her sleek combat frame taking the full brunt of the impact.
Concrete dust filled the air. Alarms screamed in the distance. Loren, coughing through the haze, felt the sting of shrapnel slice across his cheek. Blood ran warm down his face.
"Boss, are you all right?" 2B's voice was steady, but the dents on her armor told a different story.
"I'm fine," Loren said, his tone cold as steel. "Not dead yet."
Then 2B's sensors flared red. Her head snapped toward the breach.
"Get down—!" she shouted.
Just as Loren was speaking, several men in black armed with submachine guns burst through the gaping hole in the wall. Without hesitation, they opened fire on everyone inside, clearly intent on leaving no survivors.
Reacting instantly, Loren dove to the floor and rolled behind a section of collapsed wall, narrowly avoiding the hail of bullets.
"2B!" he barked. "Kill all these bastards!"
"Yes," she replied crisply.
In a blur of motion, 2B launched herself forward like a predator unleashed. In one bounding step she was already in front of the nearest gunman. The man froze for half a heartbeat—stunned by the sudden appearance of a beautiful woman amid the chaos—but his hesitation was fatal.
Before he could pull the trigger, 2B's hand shot out and clamped around his throat. She twisted sharply. Crack. His eyes went dim before his body hit the floor.
The remaining gunmen raised their weapons and opened fire, but 2B was already moving. She seized the fallen man's pistol and returned fire with mechanical precision.
"Bang. Bang. Bang."
Three quick shots. Three corpses hit the ground, each with a neat bullet hole between the eyes.
Within seconds, the room fell silent. The air was thick with gunsmoke and the smell of blood.
"Mission complete. All hostiles eliminated," 2B reported after scanning the area, her voice calm and cold.
Loren stood, brushing dust from his suit jacket. "Excellent work," he said, stepping out into the ruined room without so much as glancing at the bodies.
The place was a slaughterhouse—more than ten corpses sprawled across the floor. Among them were not only the attackers, but several high-ranking officials who, moments earlier, had been groveling at Loren's feet. He didn't waste a thought on them. His mind was already elsewhere.
He turned toward the corridor just as Sheriff George Stacy strode up, his face spattered with blood and his expression grim.
"Mr. Loren," Stacy said tightly. "The suspect in the interrogation room is dead."