Hermes had been running for seven minutes, every second a frantic blur of survival.
He had survival by the skin of his teeth, but the terror remained. He had miscalculated. He had forgotten the most dangerous variables in the [Mafioso] game: The Mages. Carelessness had led him straight into a blind spot, and the image of that "old lady" crackling with blue electricity was a nightmare he would never forget.
He halted his run, gulping fresh air into his burning lungs. He recalled the warning from the newspaper: [Don't get too close to the enemies and also to the old lady.]
"I'm an idiot," he hissed, sliding a hand down his sweat-slicked forehead. If he hadn't lingered, trying to be the "good guy," he wouldn't be a hunted man right now.
Strangely, despite the exhaustion, his body was trembling—not just with fear, but with a bizarre surge of excitement. His heart hammered against his ribs, urging him to fight back rather than hide. He didn't notice the grim grin spreading across his face until a thin piece of paper slapped him directly in the eye.
Angrily, he ripped the paper away. The horrific, familiar melody of the [Newspaper] hummed in his ears.
[Objective Complete: Saving the 'Fake' old lady. Success!]
[Trophy Reward: Mask of Destruction Acquired.]
[New Objective: Save yourself. Escape if you can. Good luck.]
"Screw you!" Hermes exploded, tearing the paper into confetti.
He tucked his pistol securely behind his waist. His body felt eerily fine—the fatigue was there, but his muscles weren't failing him. It was as if something was stitching his stamina back together in real-time.
Two minutes later, Hermes reached the front gate of the Fourth District. He froze. The sound of heavy engines prompted him to dive into the nearby bushes. Two black light trucks screeched to a halt, and twenty-four men in sleek black suit-jackets descended. They moved with military precision, forming a line instantly.
Hermes crawled deeper into the shadows toward an abandoned shop. His Intuition Skill flared—a cold prickle at the base of his neck. He forcibly rolled over like a dog, holding his breath as a scout scanned the area he had occupied only seconds before.
"Ten-hut!" a voice commanded.
A red-haired man stepped out of the lead truck. He was stunningly handsome, looking more like a top-tier model than a killer, dressed in a black suit that cost more than a District 5 tenement. He pulled a cigarette from a pack and lit it with a casual snap of his fingers—using magic.
"Status report?" the leader asked, his voice smooth but lethal.
"Sir, the area is secured. No hostile spotted yet," a henchman replied, bowing low.
"Unfortunate. Are we too late to arrest the verdict? He must be here." The leader narrowed his eyes. "Form squads. Hunt him down. I want us to find him before the Lowkey group does."
"Sir! Footprints!" the henchman pointed to the dirt where Hermes had stumbled. "Fresh. I presume he rushed for the bushes."
"Ooh, what a great idea. Good job, lad. Proceed."
Hermes retreated into the abandoned beverage shop, his mind reeling. 'Why are they so organized? These aren't just bandits... this is a professional hit squad.'
The shop was a wreck—rotting wood, spiderwebs, and the smell of stagnant dust. Hermes removed his mask, gasping for air. He sat on a rickety three-legged chair, leaning his head on a table. For a moment, the weight of the "Villain" life crushed him.
"I want to go home," he sobbed quietly. "I want to eat the finest food..."
In this Otome game, he was supposed to be the weak, pathetic "wise guy" who used money to buy influence. Now, he was a mouse in a maze filled with cats.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
His intuition screamed. A hundred bullets shredded the wooden walls of the shop in an instant. Hermes reacted instinctively, flipping the heavy table to act as a shield. He donned his mask, gripping his pistol as the wood splintered and disintegrated under the relentless fire.
He looked at the window—broken glass, a possible exit. He lunged for it, but his body forced him to duck just as three men waiting outside opened fire, turning the window frame into toothpicks.
He was trapped. Surrounded. There was nowhere left to run.
"You won't take me alive!" Hermes roared, pointing his gun at the door as the boots of the soldiers thudded against the porch. "If you want me, then say hello to my little fri—"
CRACK!
Before he could finish his defiant boast, the floorboards—weakened by rot and the weight of his desperate stance—shattered. Hermes plummeted eight feet down into the darkness of a hidden cellar, his body hitting the hard earth with a sickening thud.
Hermes opened his eyes wide, gasping as he realized he was still alive. It took him a few agonizing minutes to force his upper body off the damp, packed earth of the cellar. To his shock, as he braced for the searing pain of a fractured spine or bruised ribs from the eight-foot drop, the sensation never came.
"Argh, my back... What? No pain?"
Hermes patted his torso in disbelief. He felt strangely limber, almost numbly efficient, as if the impact had been absorbed by something other than his bones. He had no time to ponder the medical miracle; the heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the floorboards directly above his head.
"Shit, I need to go now," he whispered, quickly snatching up his fallen pistol.
The group above broke into the shop with a crash, but their target had already vanished into the gloom of the basement. Rag and his team found nothing but a ruined table and the jagged remains of the floor.
"Where is he?" Rag muttered, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and fear. "Where the fuck is he?"
"Sir, the terrace is clear," the blond-haired man shouted from the porch.
"Kitchen is clear. He's not here either!" another henchman added.
"Sir!" The bald man pointed his rifle at the dark opening in the floorboards. "There's a huge hole here. He must have fallen through or jumped down to escape."
"Boys, I don't care if our superiors want him alive or what they want to do with that child," Rag declared, his face hardening. "No matter what happens, don't let him escape our hands. Follow him!"
Hermes sprinted through a narrow, secret drainage tunnel, the dark, damp walls blurring past. He had been lucky to find this subterranean path, but his relief vanished when he hit a literal dead end. Above him was a rusted manhole cover, but the smooth, narrowed walls of the shaft offered no ladder or handholds.
"Damn it," Hermes clicked his tongue, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Think properly. There's gotta be a way up."
He heard the echoing shouts of the bandits entering the tunnel. His gaze swept the area until it landed on a series of recessed bricks and a narrow ventilation slit. A subconscious, desperate grin spread across his face.
When Rag and his men arrived at the dead end minutes later, the leader was on the verge of a breakdown. "Where the fuck is Hermes Archnemesis?!"
"Sir, there's a manhole above us," the blond man suggested, looking up.
"Use your brain! How can a magicless teenager climb that without a ladder?" Rag stomped his foot, the sound echoing in the confined space.
"Boss, look at the walls—there are scuff marks," the bald guy countered, pointing his flashlight. "I assume he braced his back against one side and his feet against the other, shimmying up like a rock climber. It's a narrow fit; it's the only plausible way he got out."
"Then what are you fools waiting for? Get a rope and get up there!"
The group successfully climbed into the room above, which turned out to be the same warehouse fitting room where the chase had originally begun. Rag leaned against a peeling wooden wall, massaging the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted, his nerves frayed to the breaking point. His men fanned out to search the perimeter, leaving him alone in the dim light.
Rag reached for his cigarette case, his fingers shaking, only to find it empty. "Shit. They're gone."
"Here," a young, calm voice offered from the shadows beside him, extending a small, cylindrical object.
"Thanks, wait a—"
Rag's eyes turned a frantic, terrified blue as he looked at his palm. It wasn't a cigarette stick; it was a gleaming .45 caliber bullet. He lunged for his holstered weapon, but he was far too late. The cold, heavy barrel of a pistol was already pressed firmly into the center of his forehead. The bullet slid from Rag's trembling hand, clinking rhythmically as it hit the floor.
"Hey there, Mr. Rag. Do you miss me?" Hermes adjusted his mask with a flick of his index finger, his scarlet eyes peering through the slits.
"Ever—! H-how did y—"
"Sssh, quiet," Hermes whispered, pressing the barrel deeper until Rag's head thudded against the wall. "How did I get behind you? I just used the same trick you guys did. My body got a bit stiff hiding in that dark corner you didn't bother to check—you were all too busy playing detective to look at the shadows right next to you. Thanks for the help, and congratulations on becoming my new hostage. You're very unlucky, Mr. Rag. Don't worry—there's a cure for PTSD if you feel the need."
"Y-Y-You brat," Rag spat, his teeth clenching so hard they audibly ground together as he slowly raised his hands in surrender. "You won't escape from here. We've already surrounded the place. There's no way in hell you're getting out alive."
To a normal child, Rag's words would have been a death knell, but the young Don didn't even flinch. He simply tilted his head, looking bored, and tucked his pinky finger into his ear. The casual disrespect was a sharp contrast to the adrenaline-charged atmosphere of the dusty warehouse. Outside, the wind whistled through the corrugated steel sheets, sounding like the low moan of a ghost, while the distant, rhythmic thud of boots signaled that the search party was tightening the noose.
"Yeah, yeah, everyone knows that. Boring," Hermes countered. "Anyway, I have a few questions for you before your men, or whatever your rank is, discover us."
Hermes had already concluded that these weren't mere street thugs. The coordination, the equipment, and the presence of a high-tier Mage proved they were a professional Mafia unit operating under a bandit's disguise.
Hermes slowly stepped to the right, maintaining a perfect line of sight, his gun never wavering from Rag's forehead.
"Who ordered you to do this? Don't play dumb. I also want to know who the tactician is—the one behind the plot who can predict my moves and calculate an accurate strategy to capture me. I'm not talking about that old hag, but the Intelligence working in the shadows. Is she a witch? Answer me. We both know I'm not the kind of person who bluffs." Hermes smiled, though, behind the mask, it looked more like a predator baring its teeth.
"R-r-right, chill down, kid! Please, show some mercy," Rag stammered, cold sweat matting his hair to his forehead.
Hermes's lips curled into a crescent moon. He gestured with the barrel of the gun. "Drop to the floor. Arms behind your head. Now."
Rag obeyed, his dignity crumbling as he hit the dirty floorboards. He was terrified of dying at the hands of a boy half his age. He didn't realize Hermes was partially bluffing about the killing part—but he was certainly willing to put a bullet in Rag's shoulder if the answers didn't come fast enough.
"The first question... we were ordered by our Boss," Rag panted. Despite his professional status, he was careful not to reveal the specific name of his clan to this "taboo" ruler. "And the second... I don't know who she is. Believe me! I only heard from the rumors that our Intelligence has a special ability to foresee the future. I don't know if she has the blood of a witch, but from the perception of our Boss, she is a powerful being we wouldn't dare provoke."
Hermes smugged. A witch? Witches were incredibly rare in this world. In his previous life as a developer, he remembered a co-worker adding background stories about the game world, but he never expected to face a Seer working as an intelligence officer. A foe who could predict his movements was a nightmare scenario.
"Give me details. A specific description of this intelligence operative," Hermes demanded, backing away five centimeters to maintain his advantage.
"According to her profile, she is a girl who always wears a blue cloak," Rag whispered, his voice so low it barely carried over the creaking of the building. "Her face is hidden by a hood. She wears a crescent moon necklace with a valuable gem in the center—a relic of a fallen empire that can turn men to stone if she wishes. That's all I know! If you want more, ask the Underboss!"
'Underboss?' Hermes tilted his head. That was a new character. 'Did my junior add this without my permission?' He tried to synchronize the game's timeline in his head, but the pieces weren't fitting.
"Nevermind, I don't care. If she wants a fight, she'll get one. But one last thing, Mr. Rag. Answer honestly."
"W-what now? How many questions—"
Hermes shoved the barrel of the pistol into Rag's mouth. The metallic taste of the steel silenced him instantly. "Shut your mouth or I'll blow your head off," Hermes dared.
"Ib... sobby," Rag mumbled, his eyes wide with terror. From his position on the floor, the young Don looked like a monster in the form of a teenager. He began to question every piece of intel his group had gathered. This wasn't a "magicless, weak brat." This was a demon.
"Your people," Hermes's face turned black, his scarlet eyes shining like twin embers as the moonlight illuminated his position through the holes in his mask. His shadow stretched long and jagged against the wall, resembling a devil from the deepest pit of hell. "Did you guys perhaps find where Justin is?"
Rag gulped around the cold steel. "We know about him... but we haven't found him. Our only objective was to capture you before he arrives to save you."
Hermes sat down in a duck-sit position, leaning his head on his left palm while keeping the gun aimed. "Seriously? So that moron is still out there somewhere," he muttered with an annoyed groan. "Good. At least he hasn't been caught by you idiots. Crap—your men are coming."
The sound of heavy boots echoed just outside the door. Rag closed his eyes, expecting the trigger to pull. But for reasons unknown to Rag, Hermes's instincts had sharpened to a razor's edge. Sensing the crew, the young Don vanished, dashing toward the rear exit with supernatural speed.
Rag lay there for a second, then screamed for help.
"Sir! The area is secured. The brat isn't here!" The bald man burst in, then stopped, confused. "Why are you screaming on the floor, sir? And—where is the target?"
Rag blinked, coughed to regain his composure, and scrambled to his feet. "What the fuck are you standing there for?! He went that way! Call everyone, ASAP! Chase him down!"