The morning was biting, yet thick with the swirl of expensive perfumes drifting through the Arena District. This was the morning Ren had been waiting for. Dressed in a sharp tuxedo, complete with a silk vest and tie, he was a ghost in plain sight among the sea of the city's ultra-wealthy.
Before stepping out of the car, Ren performed his final ritual. He reached for the amber contact lenses that masked his identity and, with a fluid motion, peeled them away. In the pale morning light, his crimson retinas burned—a visceral, haunting sight. He was ready to face his enemy without a filter.
Ren stepped out from the back of the Santino sedan, his posture military-grade perfection. He didn't look back, giving a final command to his driver. "Go. Don't wait." The car pulled away, leaving him alone before the towering marble pillars and bronze carvings of the God Hands Art Gallery.
Armed with an encrypted device and twin black daggers concealed beneath his suit, Ren stepped inside. The interior was a labyrinth of glass displays and ancient statuary. He moved past the hollow compliments of the elite, his mind operating like a high-speed processor. His eyes—now a piercing, uncovered red—mapped CCTV blind spots, calculated thermal detection ranges, and gauged the response time of the nearby security units.
After an hour, the verdict was grim: Frey's security was overkill. Most vital areas were locked behind state-of-the-art biometric smartlocks.
The fire stairs aren't biometric, but they're crawling with armed guards. I could drop them for access, but it's too loud. Too risky. Ren wrestled with the logic. He couldn't afford to be reckless.
He found himself in a quiet side corridor, standing before a reinforced steel door guarded by a sophisticated palm scanner. He pulled a gloved hand from his pocket and pressed his hacking device against the interface. In the tense silence, the screen flickered, struggling to crack the encryption. Then, it flashed red. Access Denied. Frey's tech was too new; Ren's hardware wasn't up to the task. For the first time in years, he had hit a digital wall.
To avoid looking like a man staring at a blank door for too long, Ren exhaled a silent breath and retreated to the gallery's opulent bar. He ordered a lemon soda, ignoring the bartender's offer of top-shelf whiskey. He had neutralizing pills for toxins, but he still loathed the taste of alcohol. It dulled the senses.
Leaning against the cold marble, he tried the hack again, his fingers dancing across the screen. Nothing. The frustration was a dull ache. He was so focused on his digital failure that he almost didn't notice the pair of eyes watching him.
Then, out of the boring hum of social chatter, she appeared. Without an invitation, Vera slid into the seat next to him, a copita of Tequila in her hand.
"You look busy, sir. And very angry at that little gadget. Has technology failed a professional on his day off?" she asked.
Behind the smooth tone, Ren heard the fake empathy. His gaze shifted to her—blue hair, a striking red dress. She was a visual anomaly, exactly the kind of person he preferred to avoid.
What's with the hair? And that dress? Ren thought, his irritation spiking.
"I'm more interested in my business than yours. Get lost," Ren replied flatly. "I hate witnesses. Especially the loud, flashy kind."
Vera ignored the bite in his words. "I'm not a witness, I'm Vera. And I'm interested in a very specific kind of frustration. That blinking code... the non-alcoholic drink. Let me guess: a pure-bred assassin being choked out by the new Rich City firewalls. Am I close?"
Ren felt a jolt of electricity. Who is she? I haven't even let out a hint of killing intent.
He forced a thin, artificial smile, trying to analyze her. Was she a Royalist? One of Daniel's? He couldn't deny her read on the situation was perfect.
"Alcohol is bad for hunting rats," Ren said. "Besides, my signal is being jammed by the new First Class Protocol they just activated in this sector. I'm used to manual methods. This digital logic is a knot I can't cut with a blade."
"I get it. Digital failure," Vera nodded, her expression deepening. "I have the opposite problem. They put a biometric lock on the main server port. I need five seconds to break it, but in this crowd, five seconds is an eternity."
Ren caught the calculated look in her eyes. The name clicked. Network Vera. The ghost of the underground who could ghost through any firewall.
He turned fully toward her, his red eyes glowing faintly. "I remember. A few years ago, the underworld was buzzing about 'Network Vera.' It turns out you're still vulnerable to physical barriers. And I'm vulnerable to digital ones. An annoying situation... or a profitable one?" He tapped his fingers on the marble.
Ren looked at his device, then back at Vera. She was listening to someone in her earpiece—likely a handler confirming the jammer's leak. His gaze turned from annoyance to cold calculation.
"That's right," he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "The jammer just went live. A direct mission now would be suicide. But..." A lethal idea flickered in his eyes. "I can trigger a structural instability in that large installation over there. Protocol dictates that the security system will kill all biometric locks for emergency evacuation. Ten seconds of perfect chaos."
Ren knew he needed this connection. A digital scalpel for his physical blade.
Vera's pupils dilated. It was the answer she had been waiting for. "Ten seconds is more than enough. I've already got a safe extraction point ready for the aftermath."
"I'll make sure no eyes turn your way," Ren promised, his voice hard. "No blood spilled—unless they force my hand."
Vera suddenly drained her tequila. Her face paled, an expression of sudden dizziness washing over her. She leaned into Ren, her head resting on his rigid shoulder.
Ren's instincts screamed danger, but he didn't move. He realized instantly this wasn't physical weakness—it was a mask. With the jammers active, normal audio was too risky for sensitive codes. He tilted his head, letting his body act as a physical cloak for her.
In the space between cold breaths, she whispered: "Frequency jammer is hot. Audio leak risk. Listen close. Lima-dash-Golf-Romeo-one-one-nine."
Without waiting for a response, she pulled away and sat back as if nothing had happened. Her face went stone-cold again.
Ren didn't react. He just processed the string. L-GR 119. The meet-up point. Her car.
The deal was struck—a cold, lethal pact made over tasteless cocktails. Ren set aside his business with Frey; a connection with Vera was too valuable to pass up. He moved with a predator's grace, shifting from the bar into action.
For fifteen minutes, Ren created the perfect physical backdoor. No trace, no blood. An access debt that Vera would eventually have to pay in full.
He walked out of the gallery as the chaos began to subside, his eyes scanning license plates in the parking lot. He found the van tucked away in the logistics area. He slid into the passenger seat. Vera was already behind the wheel, the scent of cold sweat and expensive perfume filling the cramped space.
"As promised. I pulled their eyes north. Expensive distraction, but it worked. Your turn," Ren said, back in transactional mode.
Vera exhaled sharply. She reached out and placed her earpiece into Ren's ear. Their first physical contact was brief—a touch of skin in the dark, a transfer of one system to another.
They discussed the "Red Line"—the terms of their alliance. Vera had one rule: no children involved in the work, or the deal was off. Ren didn't care. His targets were the old rats of Rich City. He wasn't in the business of wasting energy on targets that didn't serve his vengeance.
The "Cube" had a new physical backdoor. Ren had a digital scalpel. He couldn't hide his satisfaction.
Before he left, Vera asked the one question that mattered. "What's your name, Mr. Assassin?"
Ren smirked. It was the look of a predator finding an equal. "Call me Ren."
LATE NIGHT | BARON FREY'S PENTHOUSE
Frey's penthouse was a dome of glass and steel floating above the Arena District, casting a cold, distant light.
Baron Frey arrived at his private office, the aura of elegant exhaustion clinging to his cashmere suit. He hadn't even sat down before a knock came at the door.
"Come in."
The Head of Security, a rigid man with a glowing earpiece, stepped in. He looked tense. Frey didn't need to hear the report; even a small ripple in the elite world was a tidal wave for him.
"The God Hands incident this morning?" Frey guessed, his tone cynical.
The security chief nodded. He handed over a tablet showing red logs. "Comprehensive report, Baron. The Horus Angkasa installation was shifted, sirens triggered, and the guests panicked. Biometrics were down for ten full seconds for emergency evacuation."
Frey scrolled through the CCTV feeds, his sharp eyes filtering out the terrified socialites. He wasn't looking for the effect; he was looking for the anomaly.
He froze on one frame. In the middle of the chaos, there was a man in a tuxedo moving with a calmness that didn't belong. Frey zoomed in. The quality was grainy, but it was there: the striking crimson retinas glowing cold under the gallery lights. No fear. Only calculation.
"Baron," the chief began, "Should we involve the Rich City Police for a formal statement?"
Frey raised a hand. "Absolutely not. No police. I won't have the media speculating on the Frey family's vulnerability." He stared at his reflection in the glass. "Tell the press it was a server instability in the AEGIS port. That's enough to save face."
Frey pointed at Ren's face on the screen with a look of disgust. "Who is this... 'nobleman'?"
"We're running facial recognition, Baron. But his file is empty."
Frey's face hardened. His arrogance turned into a dangerous rage. "I don't care how you do it. I want a name, a connection, and a report on my desk by morning. And..." he paused, his voice dropping an octave. "I have a feeling this reeks of something specific."
This was too crude for a rival elite. It smelled like the dregs of the old mafia.
"Investigate any ties to the Santino syndicate."
This wasn't just a disturbance anymore. It was a declaration of war. Frey leaned back, watching the distant lights. Ren, without knowing it, had just set fire to the most powerful circle in Rich City.
"Let's see," Frey hissed. "Which little clown thinks he can play games in my gallery?"