[…Adam reaches the heart of the disaster.

  Blood. Ruins. Silence.

  He slowly removes his sunglasses.]

  “Oh…”

  A long, amused whistle—

  completely wrong for the scene.

  “They’ve been busy.”

  “What a lovely… party.”

  He smiles.

  Pulls a sleek electronic pipe from his vest pocket,

  lights it with a clean, almost aristocratic motion.

  Inhales.

  Exhales.

  “And I wasn’t even invited.”

  “How rude.”

  He strolls through the damage.

  His eyes aren’t looking at “a murder.”

  They’re reading a language.

  He stops in front of a blown-out wall

  where something—a bone fragment—is embedded in the bricks like a bullet.

  He tilts his head slightly.

  A half-smile.

  “Not a bomb…”

  He steps closer. Squats.

  Brushes a dark stain on the asphalt with one finger.

  Brings it near his lips. Unhurried.

  He doesn’t need more.

  It’s enough.

  He closes his eyes for a second,

  like he’s tasting something.

  When he opens them again, they gleam.

  “Interesting.”

  He stands. Adjusts his vest

  like after a good toast.

  “This is going to be fun.”

  A minimal hand gesture.

  His men slide back into position, moving like a disciplined pack.

  Adam heads back toward the car.

  Before getting in, he stops for a beat—

  and looks at the alley the way you look at prey

  that doesn’t know it’s prey yet.

  Then he vanishes into the dark.

  The perimeter stays frozen.

  OPOM forensics paralyzed,

  unable even to catch their breath.

  The officer with the tablet doesn’t lower his gaze.

  He grips it tighter.

  And the feeling plants itself into the scene like a knife:

  the hunt has begun.

  OPOM INTELLIGENCE OFFICES — A FEW DAYS LATER

  Two polished shoes strike the glossy floor.

  Tac. Tac.

  Decisive stride. No hesitation.

  The Intelligence corridor is long and cold—a surgical tunnel:

  smooth metal walls, unforgiving white light,

  cameras at the corners, guard posts behind dark glass.

  Absolute silence.

  Not peace.

  Enforced order.

  The man advances.

  Impeccable jacket. Dark tie.

  OPOM badge on his chest.

  In his hand: a black folder. Thick.

  Seals. Security codes.

  He stops at a reinforced door.

  Badge to the reader.

  BEEP.

  The door opens.

  INTERIOR — HEAD OF INTELLIGENCE OFFICE

  Wide, minimalist office.

  Massive desk. Screens dark like closed eyes.

  On the side wall, a hologram on standby: maps, feeds, threat levels.

  Behind the desk, a reinforced window looks out over a distant city.

  A figure stands with his back turned.

  Too calm.

  The agent enters without asking permission.

  Not arrogance.

  Urgency.

  The folder hits the desk.

  THUMP.

  Paperweights vibrate.

  Blurry photos, pressure graphs, 3D reconstructions, coordinates spill out like open wounds.

  Jaw clenched.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “Sir…”

  Half a breath.

  “You need to see this.”

  Silence.

  The figure at the window doesn’t turn right away.

  Outside light carves the outline of his shoulders.

  Still.

  Like he’s counting to ten.

  Then, slowly…

  he turns.

  A face worn by controlled fatigue.

  Eyes that have seen too much to be easily shocked.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “Talk.”

  The agent points to the scattered files.

  AGENT

  “Alley scene. Reconstruction complete.”

  A quick motion—

  the hologram ignites above the desk.

  A central point.

  Compact shockwaves bursting outward like a strike—

  not a bomb.

  The Chief watches without expression.

  AGENT

  “Not conventional explosives.

  Compressed pressure. Directional. Precise.”

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “We know that.”

  The agent swallows.

  Here comes the real weight.

  AGENT

  “Vessen appeared on site.”

  A clean second of emptiness.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “…Adam Vessen?”

  AGENT

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Chief steps to the desk. Picks up a photo:

  an elegant silhouette under blue lights. A smile out of place.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “What the hell was a Regent of the Immortal Mafia doing on our perimeter?”

  AGENT

  “He didn’t engage. No casualties among the guard patrol.”

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “So he was in a good mood…”

  Pause.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “Good. Otherwise we’d be talking escalation right now.”

  The agent nods, but doesn’t relax.

  AGENT

  “He crossed the tape like it wasn’t there.

  He observed. He… sampled the scene.”

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “He’s looking for something.”

  The agent activates a second hologram layer.

  City map. Two highlighted points.

  One: the alley.

  Two: a park three kilometers away.

  AGENT

  “And it’s not an isolated event.”

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “Go on.”

  AGENT

  “At the park: initial call for an extremely loud noise.

  Then multiple follow-ups.

  A large tree taken down… as if hit from the inside.”

  Images roll across the hologram:

  – trunk split diagonally, shards radiating outward

  – parked cars scratched and dented

  – debris scattered like after a cannon blast

  AGENT

  “Forensics say: same type of signature. Different intensity.”

  The Chief stares at the map.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “So: same weapon. Different output.”

  AGENT

  “…or the same phenomenon. Controlled.”

  The Chief picks up a graph—

  a sudden spike, a brutal drop-off.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “A field test.”

  AGENT

  “That’s our working theory.

  Black market. Experimental weapon. Or—”

  He stops. Chooses carefully.

  AGENT

  “—an active enhanced individual not on record.”

  The Chief lifts his eyes.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “Classification?”

  AGENT

  “At the park: upper Grade B.”

  The Chief doesn’t blink.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “And in the alley?”

  The agent hesitates—just a fraction—then delivers it.

  AGENT

  “In the alley it’s not B.”

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “Say it.”

  AGENT

  “Potential A…”

  Half a breath.

  “…near Grade S.”

  The words hang like a blade.

  The Chief tightens his jaw.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “There’s no potential like that roaming the city without leaving a trail.”

  AGENT

  “I know, sir.”

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “Unless someone is erasing it.”

  That line chills the room.

  The agent lowers his voice.

  AGENT

  “Clandestine subject with forged records…

  or an enhanced who shouldn’t exist.”

  Pause.

  One word. Heavy. Said once.

  AGENT

  “Or… an inside job.”

  The Chief looks at him. One second.

  Then cuts it.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “Don’t jump.”

  He steps toward the desk.

  Points to the map with two fingers: alley. Park.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “First the signature. Then the intent.”

  Silence.

  The Chief sets the papers down slowly.

  One by one. Like lining up ammunition.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “If Vessen moved… it means they felt the tremor too.”

  AGENT

  “Yes, sir. A hornet’s nest got kicked.”

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “And when the Immortal Mafia catches a scent…”

  He walks to the reinforced window,

  looks at the city like a target.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “…it’s never good news.”

  He turns back to the agent.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “Full alert on the entire zone.”

  “Cross-check: hospitals, acoustic reports, anomalous structural damage, urban feeds.”

  “Any pressure spike. Glass blown out without cause.”

  The agent nods, already building the list in his head.

  AGENT

  “And Vessen?”

  The Chief doesn’t answer right away.

  Then—

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “Vessen is a symptom. Not the disease.”

  One finger on the alley. One on the park.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “This is a test.”

  His eyes harden.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “And whoever tests… is preparing something.”

  Silence.

  The agent feels the weight of what isn’t being said.

  AGENT

  “What a mess…”

  The Chief cuts him off.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “No.”

  Pause.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “It’s a war that’s starting to speak in whispers.”

  One last look at the dossiers.

  INTELLIGENCE CHIEF

  “And we can’t afford to listen too late.”

  Pistol Boy.