The moment the door clicked shut, sealing them in, Ren yanked Rena's arm forward while the other terrorist shoved the former Minister. Rena, already tuned into Ren's silent frequency, caught the signal. She grabbed the old man's arm, and together they faced the wooden wall—eyes clamped shut in a suffocating, heavy silence.
Behind them, death moved without a sound.
Ren reached out, his hand wrapping around the guard's throat in a single, surgical motion. There was no rustle of fabric, no desperate gasp for air. Only the sickeningly soft crunch of vertebrae before Ren lowered the body to the floor, guiding it down so it wouldn't make a sound.
The terrorist leader, oblivious and drunk on his own perceived power, strutted toward the expensive leather sofa. He sat, crossing his legs and adjusting his black mask—preparing to savor the prize he'd been promised.
"Now then," he drawled, "let me see that sweet little—"
The sentence died in his throat. The body of his guard, which had been standing rigid a moment ago, suddenly folded, slumping like a pile of discarded laundry. Standing behind the corpse was Ren. His mask was gone, revealing amber eyes that burned with a concentrated, lethal intent.
The leader flinched, his face draining of color. "Who the hell are you?!" His hand flew to his earpiece to scream for backup, but Ren was already moving. It wasn't a run—it was a pounce, a blur that defied the eye.
Crack. Ren crushed the comms device in his fist, leaving nothing but a painful whine of static in the leader's ear before seizing the man's jaw with a brutal grip.
Ren wasn't interested in games. He gripped the man's jaw until the joints groaned, forcing him to stare into the abyss of his eyes—eyes that held no mercy.
"You talk too much," Ren whispered, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure contempt. "An amateur like you doesn't even deserve to speak the name Higanbana. Watch closely. This is how the real thing works."
The former Minister, peering through a sliver of his eyelids, froze. He was witnessing the work of a true apex predator.
Ren's left hand blurred—his blade hissed through the air, a sound so thin it was almost imagined. The Minister watched, eyes wide with horror, as Ren executed the target with terrifying precision. No struggle. No waste. Just an absolute, final silence.
In seconds, the leader hit the floor without so much as a whimper. Ren stood over the cooling body, pulling a white silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the crimson stain from his blade. His expression remained hollow, flat, soul-dead—a stark contrast to the blood splattered across his cheek.
He wiped the smudge on his face with the back of his gloved hand, as if the blood were nothing more than annoying dust.
The Minister slammed his eyes shut and turned back to the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs. He realized then that the man who had "saved" him was infinitely more dangerous than the terrorists who had died.
The moment the private door swallowed the terrorists and their hostages, the atmosphere in the hall shattered. As if triggered by a silent command, Clarissa and Erebos lunged upward like released springs.
Erebos moved first—a silent, oncoming storm. As a veteran, he didn't need a weapon to be lethal. With one massive stride, he tore through the nearest guard's defense. His hands, like iron clamps, seized the man's wrist just as he reached for a blade, twisting it until the bone snapped with a wet pop. He followed with a short, brutal punch to the solar plexus that folded the agent instantly. Erebos fought with a terrifying efficiency, a living barricade ensuring no one reached the guests.
Clarissa moved with a contrasting, jagged grace. She treated the environment like a parkour course. When an agent lunged at her with a flick-knife, she snatched a silver tray from a nearby table, using it as a shield to deflect the steel before slamming the sharp edge into the man's temple. She didn't stop; she kicked a wooden chair into the path of another attacker, creating just enough of a window to land a spinning kick to his jaw.
Nadia wasn't about to be left behind. The second Clarissa sliced her bindings, Nadia sprinted for the confiscated gear. She snatched her favorite wooden sword with a low, guttural snarl.
"You picked the wrong day to play God," she hissed.
Thwack. Thump.
The sound of solid wood meeting flesh and bone echoed through the hall. Nadia fought with flawless Kendo form. Her bokken moved in precise, lethal arcs, shattering the wrist of an agent holding a dagger before delivering a crushing blow to a kneecap. Even in wood, in Nadia's hands, it was a weapon of war.
The three of them formed a perfect triangle of defense amidst the chaos. The terrified guests stayed huddled in the center, protected by Erebos—the unshakeable pillar; Clarissa—the wild fire sweeping the flanks; and Nadia—the sharpened tip of the spear.
The Higanbana pretenders were finally realizing their mistake. They thought they were penning in sheep. They had no idea they had locked themselves in a room with three wolves.
Back in the private room, the air had turned cold, heavy with the weight of the lives just snuffed out.
"It's done," Ren said coldly. He stepped forward, his fingers moving with practiced skill to untie the former Minister.
Rena turned slowly, her eyes immediately drifting toward the dark, viscous pool creeping out from behind the expensive sofa.
"Don't look at things you don't need to see," Ren commanded. His voice stopped her gaze just before it hit the bodies.
As the bindings fell away, Ren stuffed the crumpled silk tie into his pocket with total indifference. The corpses were hidden, tucked away neatly, but the sharp tang of iron in the air told the whole story. Beside him, the Minister stood on trembling legs, his face ghostly, looking at Ren with a fear far greater than he'd shown his captors.
Ren didn't waste time on pleasantries. He stood by the window, eyes scanning the parking lot with cold calculation.
"Our opponents are amateurs—they aren't even carrying firearms," Ren analyzed. "They wanted a ransom. And patterns like this always have an extraction team. There's another group waiting in the lot with their engines running."
Ren turned, pinning Rena with his gaze. "We're going to use them. I'll handle the crowd to clear a path. Your job is simple: hijack their car and get the Minister to safety. Find a surveillance drone or the nearest precinct. Report this, and don't look back."
Rena flinched, her hands trembling as she clutched her coat. "But... me? Alone?"
Ren stepped into her space, his aura of dominance absolute. "That is your job. Mine is to keep them off your back so you can focus on the wheel. You expect me to drive and fight them at the same time? Use your head."
Rena fell silent. There was no arguing with that logic.
Despite her fear, she saw the lethal certainty in those amber eyes. She swallowed hard and gave a small, sharp nod.
"Fine." After all, this was the price for the 'golden ticket' he had promised.
They moved quickly down the emergency stairs toward the basement. The air was damp and dim. And there, as predicted, nestled between the concrete pillars, were two black SUVs—engines humming, waiting for a leader who would never come.