The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
Bruce Dhark stepped out of his penthouse, black coat slung over his shoulders, shirt half-buttoned, phone still buzzing in his hand. His eyes were sharp despite the early hour, like he hadn't slept but didn't need to.
The hallway was quiet.
But outside—he could feel it.
Eyes.
Watching.
He paused at the top of the marble stairs, glanced casually toward the busy street below. The morning rush was already in motion. Vyre's high-class citizens in their tailored suits and dark coats. Drivers. Assistants. Runners. Tourists snapping pictures of things they didn't understand.
But Bruce saw them.
The ones who weren't really there.
A woman pretending to sip coffee, but her reflection didn't match her pace.
A man "fixing" a bike chain for too long while glancing at building windows.
A kid with earbuds who hadn't blinked in three minutes.
He smirked.
"Is she suspicious of me…" he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "No… that's not it. This is her way of trying to leash me."
He scoffed.
"Pathetic."
Down below, his car pulled up—a matte black Bentley with tinted windows. The driver, dressed in all gray, stepped out and opened the back door without a word.
Bruce didn't rush. He walked down the steps slowly, deliberately. The wind pushed gently through his hair, carrying the distant scent of rain and city fumes.
A woman passed him with her dog. She was too clean for this street. Dog too quiet. Earpiece behind the ear, sweetheart. Rookie mistake.
He gave her a wink as he passed. She froze. Dog barked.
He slid into the back seat.
"Drive."
The door shut with a soft thunk, sealing him inside.
Outside, the watchers moved subtly, blending in.
The man fixing the bike stood and walked off, leaving the chain hanging loose.
The woman with the coffee tossed the cup in a trash bin, then disappeared into the crowd.
The kid with the earbuds started moving, slipping into the metro.
They were trained.
Silent.
But they weren't invisible.
Not to him.
Inside the car, Bruce leaned back. The city blurred past the windows.
Talia had been right—Diana was rattled. And when Diana Halbrook got rattled, she got desperate. Called in people she couldn't control. Whispered orders to ghosts with knives.
But Bruce Dhark wasn't a politician.
He wasn't a pawn.
He was the kid that disappeared from a massacre and came back as a man the city couldn't quite read.
And right now?
He was done playing nice.
He pulled out his phone again, dialed a private number. Only rang once.
"Yes boss,"
"Kill them."
The line went silent for a second.
Then the voice on the other end spoke again—quieter this time.
"…All of them?"
Bruce stared out the window as the Bentley turned onto Blackridge Avenue, where the streets narrowed and the shadows deepened. Rain tapped soft against the glass.
"Every one of them," he said calmly. "The ones on foot, the woman with the fake coffee, the kid with the blank stare. All of them."
Another pause.
Then the voice spoke with a small chuckle, dry like old paper.
"Alright then, boss. Cleaning house."
The line went dead.
Bruce slid the phone into his coat pocket, eyes half-lidded as the city kept moving around him. But beneath the surface, something shifted.
Down the street, the woman with the coffee stopped under a flickering traffic light. She glanced around, touched her earpiece, and started walking fast, heading for a corner van.
She never made it.
A sharp sound—a high-pitched whistle—cut through the air like a blade.
Her body jerked once, then collapsed against the pole like a puppet with its strings cut. No blood, no scream. Just gone.
The man with the bike was halfway down an alley when something dropped behind him—too fast to see.
He turned.
Then he didn't move again.
The kid with the earbuds was in the metro, waiting near the edge of the platform. A girl walked up beside him, chewing gum, hoodie up, head down.
He didn't even register her until she leaned in close and whispered something.
His eyes widened.
Then he fell onto the tracks just as the train screeched in.
People screamed.
Chaos bloomed.
But none of it touched Bruce.
In the back of the Bentley, he sat still, a faint smirk on his lips as the car turned off the main road and slid into an underground entrance—a private garage hidden beneath a fake florist shop.
Outside, rain hit harder now. Vyre City was soaking in grey.
But inside the garage, the lights flickered on. Dim. Yellow.
And waiting for Bruce, standing next to a stack of crates and two laptops running static surveillance feeds, was a woman in combat boots and a red trench coat, hair buzzed short on one side, tattoos climbing her neck like vines.
She lit a cigarette and looked up.
"Messy morning," she said, smoke curling from her lips.
Bruce stepped out of the car.
"Efficient," he said. "But not messy."
She handed him a tablet. Surveillance feeds. Photos. Names. Kill-confirmed.
Bruce scrolled through them with one hand, then handed it back.
"They're getting bolder," she said. "What next?"
Bruce looked up at her. Then at the wall beyond her, where old maps of Vyre were pinned—sections of the underground tunnels, forgotten zones, red Xs and black circles.
"We move now," he said. "While they're off-balance. I want taps on Diana's direct lines, including the ones she thinks are off-grid. I want her home watched. I want her driver's route logged."
The woman raised an eyebrow. "You planning to take her out?"
Bruce turned, started walking deeper into the garage, toward a metal door at the far end.
"No," he said quietly.
"Not yet."
He opened the door.
Inside was a dark room—walls lined with screens, drawers of weapons, gear, and tech only whispered about in black market corners.
A base.
One of many.
Bruce stepped in, reached for the dark shelf, and pulled down a sleek black case.
"I have something big planned for her."