Three Days Later
Liberty City pretended nothing had happened.
Three days after the docks burned and the sirens faded, the city had settled back into its usual rhythm—horns blaring in layered impatience, trains screaming through tunnels like they were late for something important, voices overlapping in a dozen languages that all somehow meant the same thing: move or get moved.
Cole moved with it.
He left Elizabeta's apartment just after noon, dressed down and forgettable—hoodie, worn jacket, scuffed sneakers. No armor. No weapons beyond a compact pistol riding low and hidden. Today wasn't about fighting.
It was about learning the city.
The Streets
Broker hit first.
He walked, hands in pockets, letting the sidewalks dictate his path. Vendors lined the streets, grills smoking with spiced meat and onions. The air was thick with exhaust, fried food, and wet concrete. A man tried to sell him a watch that looked expensive until you looked twice. A woman argued loudly into a phone while pushing a stroller like it was a battering ram.
Cole catalogued everything.
Corners with poor sightlines. Alleyways that smelled wrong. Buildings with too many cameras—or none at all. He noted which stores had panic buttons, which had bulletproof glass installed crookedly, which clerks watched the door instead of their phones.
Liberty City rewarded attention.
Ignore it, and it swallowed you whole.
He took the subway next.
The station breathed heat and noise, the smell of iron and electricity crawling up his nose. Trains roared in like animals, wind ripping coats and papers from careless hands. Cole stood near a pillar, back to concrete, eyes moving without seeming to.
Pickpockets worked in pairs. One distraction, one hand. He spotted three in under ten minutes. One noticed his stare and moved on.
Good instincts.
On the platform wall, a cracked map showed the arteries of the city—Algonquin, Bohan, Dukes. Each stop wasn't just a place, it was a mood. A risk profile. A different set of rules.
He rode the train anyway, just to feel it.
To learn how long it took to disappear into a crowd.
Algonquin was louder, sharper.
Music spilled out of clubs even in daylight, bass vibrating through glass and bone. Suits brushed past street kids like they occupied different planes of existence. Cole grabbed a slice of greasy pizza from a corner joint, ate standing up, watched the reflection in the window instead of the street behind him.
Nobody paid him any mind.
That was the point.
He ducked into a bar—dim, old, the kind where the floor stuck to your shoes and the bartender didn't ask questions. A TV played muted news footage of the docks fire. The headline crawled past: ONGOING INVESTIGATION.
Cole finished his drink and left before the second replay.
A gun store in Bohan caught his eye—not to buy, just to look.
Legal weapons sat behind glass, tagged and tracked, neutered by paperwork. He noted what people could get here versus what the System had already given him. The difference was staggering.
Outside, a pawn shop offered quick cash, no questions asked. A check-cashing place promised money in minutes with interest that bordered on predatory. Liberty City didn't hide what it was—it monetized it.
Cole respected the honesty.
By evening, he found himself near the docks again—but not those docks.
Different stretch. Different crowd. Fishermen drank cheap beer and argued about catches that got bigger every retelling. Cargo ships loomed like sleeping giants, their crews unseen.
Cole leaned against the railing, watching the water churn black beneath the fading light.
Cities like this had gravity.
People fell into them. Got stuck in orbit. Burned up trying to leave.
He felt the System stir faintly.
[WORLD FAMILIARITY INCREASED][USER ADAPTATION: POSITIVE]
"Yeah," Cole murmured. "I get it."
He returned to Elizabeta's after dark, shoes dirty, head full.
He hadn't fired a shot. Hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't left a mark.
But he'd learned more in one day than most people did in a lifetime.
Liberty City wasn't just a map—it was an ecosystem. Predators, prey, scavengers. Rules written in blood and enforced by indifference.
Cole laid back on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
Three days after the job went wrong, the city had offered him food, noise, movement, and anonymity.
It was an invitation.
And Cole was deciding how he intended to answer it.
....
Elizabeta didn't ask if Cole wanted to come to the party she was invited to.
She just tossed a jacket at him and said, "You lay low too long, you start looking like you hiding. Tonight, you breathe."
The party was already spilling into the street by the time they arrived.
Music pounded from inside the apartment—bass so heavy it rattled windows and shook dust from ceiling cracks. Colored lights flashed through cigarette smoke and bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. Spanish, English, patois, laughter, shouting—everything blended into a single, living roar.
Cole stayed near the wall at first, drink untouched in his hand, eyes moving constantly.
Too many people to track individually. Which meant patterns mattered more.
Groups formed and broke apart like schools of fish. Dealers moved subtly—hand to hand, nods, quick smiles. Elizabeta commanded space without trying, laughing loud, brushing past people who made room without realizing why.
Cole relaxed—just a fraction.
This wasn't his environment, but it wasn't hostile either.
Then the music cut.
Not slowly. Not gracefully.
Dead.
A collective groan rolled through the apartment.
"Police!" someone shouted from the stairwell. "Noise complaint!"
Cole didn't tense. He didn't reach for anything. He just exhaled and shifted—no longer against the wall, now part of the crowd, jacket unzipped, posture loose.
The LCPD pushed in moments later.
Uniforms first, then plainclothes.
The mood shifted instantly—less laughter, more muttering. No one ran. That would've made it worse.
Cole spotted them at the same time they spotted the room.
Diaz entered like she owned the air. Peralta followed, scanning with curiosity rather than suspicion. Boyle hovered near the door, already apologizing to someone he hadn't spoken to yet.
Great.
The crowd compressed as officers moved through, checking faces, asking questions, killing time until the complaint felt resolved.
Cole stepped aside for a couple dancing badly near the kitchen.
That's when it happened.
A shoulder bumped his.
Solid. Intentional? No. Just momentum.
"Whoa—sorry, man," Peralta said automatically, steadying his drink.
Cole met his eyes for half a second.
Long enough to register.Not long enough to linger.
"No worries," Cole replied calmly, accent neutral, tone unremarkable.
Diaz glanced between them, eyes sharp—but found nothing to grab onto. No tension. No reaction. Just two people in a crowded room.
Boyle smiled awkwardly. "This place has great energy," he said, to no one in particular.
Elizabeta laughed loudly nearby. "You cops always say that."
Peralta shrugged. "Hey, as long as nobody's dying, I'm having a good night."
Cole shifted away, letting the crowd swallow him again.
The officers finished their sweep. Warnings were issued. The music stayed off—for now.
As the LCPD filed out, Rosa glanced back once more, scanning faces.
Cole wasn't looking at her.
He was already gone from her mental map.
Outside, the door shut. Sirens faded.
Inside, the music crept back in, softer this time, cautious but alive.
Elizabeta leaned close to Cole. "You good?"
"Yeah," he said.
His heart rate hadn't changed.
Across the city, the 99th walked away from the party with nothing more than a completed call and a vague sense of having missed something they couldn't name.
And Cole learned something important:
He could stand inches from the hunt—
And still remain invisible.
....
The next day smelled like rain and old money.
Cole already knew where he was going.
Jacob hadn't needed to explain much—the kind of gambling den Liberty City hid didn't change city to city. Same rules. Same lies. Same people who believed probability owed them something.
The steel door beneath the shuttered electronics store buzzed open after a single knock. Cole stepped inside without hesitation.
Smoke. Felt tables. Low voices.
Familiar.
He scanned the room on instinct—two guards, one bored, one sharp. Cameras mounted high, a dead angle near the back. A dealer with steady hands and dishonest eyes.
Cole took a seat.
"Buy-in?" the dealer asked.
Cole slid cash forward. Not his last. Not his best. Just enough.
The cards came.
He played clean at first, like he always did. Lost where he should. Won where it made sense. Let the table breathe. Let suspicion stay asleep.
Too early, he reminded himself.
Seventh Star wasn't a toy.
He'd learned that the hard way.
The skill didn't create luck—it bent probability until unlikely outcomes lined up, just briefly. Push it too hard, too fast, and the strain snapped back like a broken tendon.
Cole waited until the pot grew fat. Until eyes lingered. Until the room leaned in without realizing why.
Then he let it slip into place.
No activation prompt. No mental strain at first—just a quiet alignment, like clicking a weapon into safe hands.
The shuffle slowed. The dealer's fingers hesitated.
Seven.
A few raised eyebrows.
Next hand.
Seven again.
Someone laughed. Someone else swore.
Cole raised his bet.
Third.
Seven.
The table shifted. Guards straightened. The dealer's jaw tightened.
Fourth.
Seven.
Fifth.
Seven.
Whispers turned sharp. Accusations hovered but didn't land. No one could say how. Just that something felt wrong.
Cole's head throbbed faintly now—a warning, not pain.
One more.
Final hand.
Seven.
Silence.
Not awe. Not anger. Calculation.
Cole stood, already gathering the avalanche of chips and cash sliding toward him. He didn't wait for permission. He didn't rush either.
Confidence mattered.
One guard took a step forward.
Cole met his eyes—calm, flat, unreadable.
The guard stopped.
"House edge," Cole said mildly. "Comes and goes."
No one argued.
Outside, the rain had started properly now, soaking the pavement, washing the city clean of nothing at all. Cole tucked the money away and kept walking, the dull pressure behind his eyes fading slowly.
Seventh Star always took its due.
But Liberty City had just paid him back in full
....
Cole stepped into a quiet corner of a Bohan street, the rain dripping from his jacket and pooling in the cracks between broken sidewalk tiles. The cash from the gambling den pressed heavy in his pocket, a small victory—but victories in Liberty City always came with a warning.
A pulse hit the base of his skull. The faint hum of the System, always present, always watching, flared sharp.
[SYSTEM ALERT]NEW MISSION: INITIATE CONTACTTARGET: ANTELOTTI CRIME FAMILY – DON VINCENZO ANTELOTTIOBJECTIVE: Establish a personal introduction and secure preliminary alliance.RISK LEVEL: HIGHREWARD: ACCESS to logistical network, potential operational support.
Cole paused, eyes narrowing.
Of course, he thought. The city's already hot, and now I'm supposed to walk into the lion's den.
"System," he muttered under his breath. "You could have warned me about the welcoming committee."
[NO WARNING ISSUED. STRATEGY REQUIRED.]
Cole studied the flow of people around him. He didn't need the System to tell him this: the Antelotti family didn't advertise. They didn't throw parties in public squares. Their influence seeped like oil—slick, invisible, deadly if stepped on wrong.
[SUGGESTED METHODS OF APPROACH:]—Indirect introduction via known associates—Demonstrate value through a secondary operation—Offer protection, services, or intelligence—Observation and intelligence gathering for a phased approach
Cole exhaled slowly. He already knew which method he preferred: demonstrate value.
It had worked before. Show your competence. Stay visible enough to be noticed. Invisible enough to avoid being crushed.
He pulled the phone out, checking for contacts. Little Jacob's number glowed faintly. Maybe he could broker something low-risk—at least a foot in the door.
No, Cole thought. This isn't about favors. It's about presence. And presence costs nothing but control—and my timing.
Cole's fingers brushed the cash in his pocket. Not for bribery. For leverage, if leverage was ever needed.
He scanned the city: the docks, warehouses, high-rise balconies, the alleyways where business ran and rumor carried faster than news.
First, he decided. I learn the layout. I find the key people. I leave traces that matter. And then… I step into the light they can't ignore.
[SYSTEM STATUS: MISSION INITIATED]
Cole smiled faintly. Not the thrill of a gamble. Not the rush of bullets. But the kind of satisfaction only comes from stepping into a problem the size of a city—and knowing you're the only variable it hasn't accounted for yet.
And for once, Liberty City's chaos felt like an opportunity.
He moved.
The streets, the night, the rain—they bent around him, subtle and unnoticed.
For now.
The Antelotti family didn't know he existed.
And that was exactly how he wanted it.
...
Cole left Elizabeta's apartment just before dusk, the streets of Liberty City wet with leftover rain and humming with a lazy, dangerous energy. He laid out his gear in the alley behind the building, checking each piece with the methodical care of someone who didn't want to need luck but was going to use it anyway.
Seven mattered.
He checked his sidearm first. The magazine was removed, rounds counted carefully.
One.Two.Three.Four.Five.Six.
The seventh round went back in last, seated with a satisfying click.
Cole didn't smile. Seventh Star didn't cost him anything. It didn't drain him. It didn't punish him. All it required was the presence of seven in time, sequence, or chance—and reality would bend in his favor.
Cole checked his watch. 6:58 PM. Perfect.
The docks in Broker were alive with overconfidence—the kind of confidence only criminals believe lasts forever. Containers stacked high, forklifts idle, guards rotating like clockwork. All perfectly predictable.
Cole moved quietly, keeping to shadows. Not watching the men. Watching the numbers, the sequences, the subtle patterns that no one else noticed.
6:59 PM.
A guard lit a cigarette. Another adjusted his radio.
7:00 PM.
Cole stepped into the open.
The effects of Seventh Star activated instantly. Probability leaned.
A cable shifted under one guard's boot; he stumbled. Another laughed, looking the wrong way as a truck rolled forward six inches—perfectly blocking a camera. The steel door resisted for a heartbeat, then the seventh pin in the lock clicked, the mechanism giving way silently.
Inside, a man spun with a gun raised.
Cole fired once. Seventh round.
The man's gun jammed mid-motion. His boot slid on oil that shouldn't have been there. He collapsed, unconscious before his head hit the concrete.
Cole moved again.
He didn't need Seventh Star to carry him through the crates, past the guards, and to the shipment.
He didn't need it to lift crates that would have crushed a normal man's arms. But he did. Quietly, subtly. The shipment of vehicles, stacked in crates far too heavy for anyone else to manipulate, moved as if they were empty, all in Cole's hands without a single grunt. His inhuman strength, a gift from the System, remained invisible to any observer. No bent metal, no broken doors, no raised eyebrows. Just a smooth, flawless execution.
Every guard misstep, every minor distraction, every perfectly timed coincidence—all aligned with Seventh Star.
By the time the shipment was transferred to the waiting Antelotti truck, there had been no alarms, no injuries, no witnesses. Just precision, control, and results.
That night, Cole met Salvatore, one of Don Vincenzo's lieutenants, at a dimly lit lounge in Broker.
"You moved a shipment nobody else could," Salvatore said, eyes sharp. "No noise. No loss. Did you do it alone?"
Cole checked the wall clock behind the bar. 7:14 PM.
"Alone," he replied, voice calm. "Timing and care."
Salvatore's gaze sharpened. "You rely on luck?"
Cole leaned back slightly, unphased. "I rely on outcomes. Luck is just a convenient label for results people don't understand."
Salvatore nodded slowly. "The Don will want to meet you. Soon."
Cole stood, jacket settling over the duffel that contained the remains of the shipment he'd handled so effortlessly. Outside, the city's chaos hummed and pulsed around him, oblivious.
Seven had guided him.The System had given him power beyond normal limits.And Liberty City still had no idea the inhuman event thag had just moved unseen through its streets, accomplishing what no ordinary man could.
For now, he was invisible.And completely untouchable.
....
Three days after the shipment job, Cole was still waiting on the Antelottis to make their move. No summons. No invitation. Just silence. That suited him fine. Silence meant he hadn't disappointed anyone important yet.
Brucie, on the other hand, had called him fourteen times in one afternoon.
"BRO, I GOT A THING. A BIG THING. CARS. FAST ONES."
So now Cole stood across the street from a fenced import lot in Broker, rain-slick asphalt reflecting sodium lights, the air thick with oil and ocean salt. The lot sat wedged between a warehouse and a closed-down diner, chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, cameras mounted high on poles. Inside: twelve luxury cars under tarps. Fresh shipment.
Brucie crouched beside his Super GT like he was about to storm a beach.
"Okay, okay," Brucie whispered loudly, vibrating with nervous energy. "So the plan is speed, intimidation, muscle—"
"—and absolutely no planning," Cole finished, hands in his jacket pockets.
Brucie grinned. "Exactly!"
Cole sighed, eyes already cataloguing the scene.
Two guards on foot, one in a booth. Camera sweep was mechanical, predictable. Every pan paused a fraction too long at the far right before snapping back. Cole checked his watch. 6:53 PM.
Seven minutes until the next rotation.
"Why are you just standing there?" Brucie hissed. "Do something!"
"I am," Cole replied calmly. "I'm waiting for the city to cooperate."
Brucie blinked. "That's not how cities work!"
Cole stepped off the curb anyway.
He crossed the street at an unhurried pace, hood low, posture loose. A truck rumbled past at the exact moment a camera panned away. Coincidence. Convenient ones stacked quickly.
At the fence, Cole stopped, fingers brushing the chain link. He didn't climb it. Didn't need to. A maintenance gate sat ten feet to the left, padlock old and poorly seated. The seventh pin inside gave way without resistance. The lock opened soundlessly.
Inside the lot, the smell of new leather and gasoline hit him immediately.
A guard turned.
Cole moved first.
Not fast. Precise.
The man's radio crackled just as Cole stepped into his space, palm striking the center of his chest. Not hard—just enough. The guard's feet left the ground for a split second before he stumbled backward, slamming into a stack of tires and going limp.
Cole dragged him behind a sedan and kept moving.
Another guard rounded the corner, flashlight sweeping. He froze when his beam caught Cole's face.
"Hey—"
Cole raised the pistol, finger resting lightly on the trigger. Seventh round chambered.
The guard's gun clicked. Jammed.
Cole tilted his head. "Huh."
One step forward. A quick, controlled strike. The man folded.
Cole didn't linger.
He reached the cars.
Twelve of them. Engines pristine. Alarms primed. Keys nowhere in sight. Cole popped a hood, fingers working fast, movements economical. One alarm chirped once, then died. Another never activated at all.
Brucie's voice crackled in Cole's earbud.
"BRO I THINK THEY KNOW SOMETHING'S UP."
"Relax," Cole replied. "If they knew, you'd already be screaming."
"That's not comforting!"
Cole slid into the seventh car from the entrance—a sleek black Sultan RS. The engine purred to life on the first try. He smiled faintly.
The booth guard finally noticed something was wrong.
Too late.
Cole rolled the car forward just as Brucie smashed through the front gate with his Super GT, shouting something incoherent about testosterone and victory. The remaining cars followed in staggered order, each started and moved with mechanical precision.
No alarms. No sirens.
Just confusion.
Brucie whooped as they tore down the street, tires screaming. "DUDE. HOW DID THAT EVEN WORK?!"
Cole took a turn sharply, merging into traffic like he belonged there. "Good planning."
"You didn't plan anything!"
Cole smirked. "Exactly."
The drop-off was a half-abandoned garage in Dukes. Engines cut. Doors opened. Men stared at the cars like they'd just appeared out of thin air.
One of them finally asked, "So… who the hell are you?"
Cole leaned against the Sultan, lighting a cigarette. "Someone who doesn't like wasting time."
Brucie clapped him on the shoulder. "This guy's a freak. In a good way."
Cole exhaled smoke. "I prefer mysterious professional with a high tolerance for stupidity."
No one laughed. They weren't sure if he was joking.
Cole checked the time again. 7:21 PM.
Still waiting.
The Don would call when it mattered.
Until then, Cole let Liberty City think he was just another shadow that moved too cleanly to notice—someone who always seemed to know when to step forward, and when to disappear.
....
The garage smelled like oil, rubber, and victory—mostly victory, according to Brucie. He paced between the stolen cars like a proud father at a graduation, flexing at reflective surfaces and shadowboxing invisible opponents.
"BRO. Did you see their faces?" Brucie laughed, throwing an arm around Cole's shoulders. "They had no idea! That's elite-level chaos right there!"
Cole allowed the contact for exactly two seconds before stepping out of reach. "You rammed a gate with a sports car. Let's not pretend subtlety was part of the plan."
Brucie grinned wider. "Subtlety is overrated."
They ended up back at Brucie's apartment an hour later. Loud music, protein shakes, dumbbells everywhere, motivational posters that looked suspiciously homemade. Brucie talked—about cars, about rivals, about fights he may or may not have won. Cole listened, occasionally interjecting with dry comments that only half-landed.
"So where'd you learn to do all that?" Brucie asked eventually, dropping onto a couch. "Military? Special ops? Underground fight club?"
Cole sipped his drink. "Bit of this, bit of that. Mostly learned what not to do by watching other people screw up."
Brucie laughed. "Man, you talk like you've already seen the end of the movie."
Cole's lips twitched. "Spoilers ruin the experience."
That earned a long look. Brucie didn't press.
They watched some garbage late-night TV, talked about cars again, argued about which engine sounded better. It was… normal.
Disarming, even. Brucie was loud, insecure, desperate for approval—but loyal. That mattered.
Across the city, the mood was less celebratory.
The stolen car lot was lit up like a crime scene carnival. Flashing lights. Tape everywhere. Officers moved between tire marks and empty spaces where cars had been hours earlier.
Captain McGintley rubbed his temples. "Let me get this straight. Twelve high-end vehicles stolen. No alarms. No usable prints. No witnesses."
Jake Peralta crouched near the busted gate, squinting at twisted metal. "I mean, this is technically impressive. Like, Ocean's Eleven impressive, if Ocean was allergic to subtlety."
Rosa Diaz stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes scanning everything. "I don't like it."
"You don't like anything," Jake replied.
She ignored him. "Too clean. No blood. No panic. Whoever did this knew exactly when to move."
"Or they were just… lucky?" Boyle offered hopefully.
Rosa shot him a look. "Luck doesn't erase evidence."
Jake straightened up. "So we're looking for a ghost?"
McGintley sighed. "We're looking for nothing. And I hate nothing."
They reviewed footage. Camera glitches. Convenient blind spots. Vehicles passing at the wrong moment. Every lead collapsed under scrutiny.
"No faces," Jake muttered. "No plates. No ID. It's like the cars just… walked off."
Rosa stared at the monitor a moment longer than the rest. Somewhere in the back of her mind, something didn't line up—but there was nothing to grab onto.
"Pack it up," McGintley finally said. "We'll flag the cars and move on."
Reluctantly, they did.
Back at Brucie's apartment, Cole stood at the window, looking out over Liberty City's lights. Sirens wailed in the distance, moving farther away, not closer.
Brucie followed his gaze. "You always do that. Look like you're waiting for something."
Cole shrugged. "Just making sure the city's still doing what it does best."
"What's that?"
"Missing the important stuff."
Brucie laughed, unaware of how true that was.
Cole stayed a little longer, learned a little more, said very little. When he finally left, he did so quietly, blending back into the night like he had never been there at all.