12:05:23 A.M.
The rain poured hard, washing over the flashing red and blue lights. Sirens wailed, and the Oak Street neighborhood buzzed with murmurs. An officer stood at the front, blocking bystanders from crossing the yellow tape another cop had just rolled across the gate — CRIME SCENE: DO NOT ENTER.
Inside, the air was thick — the smell of blood and gunpowder hit like a punch to the nose. A detective tried wearing a mask, but the stench still slipped through.
A female detective stepped into the living room, her hand flying to her mouth as she saw the horror laid before her — severed arms and legs arranged to spell out one name:
MARQUEZ!!!
"…Who would do such a thing?" she whispered, looking away. "This is just—horrible."
A green-haired officer ran up to her. "Detective Smith! There's more bodies in the basement!"
Smith lifted her hand, signaling him to wait. "Give me a second," she said, steadying her breath before stepping deeper inside. The bodies were bagged and carried out one by one, their blood painting the floor beneath them.
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"I was asleep when I heard gunshots inside that house," an old lady said shakily. Her frail hands trembled as she spoke.
"Uh-huh," replied Officer Paul Murry, scribbling notes in his pad. "Did you see the suspect's face?"
She shook her head. "Oh, I'm so sorry, officer, I didn't."
"It's okay, ma'am. No need to apologize. Thanks for your help." His voice was gentle but tired.
As she left, Paul glanced back at his notepad — the name MARQUEZ!!! written in bold ink.
"Seriously… who the hell uses limbs to spell words?" he muttered. "This isn't some random killing. This is a damn lunatic."
His eyes wandered until he noticed a small surveillance camera on the neighboring house — facing the crime scene.
————————————————————
The soft glow of a TV filled the messy room next door. On screen, a drama played:
"I was in love with you, okay!? It took me seven seasons to admit it!"
A long-haired boy sat cross-legged, holding a cup of strawberry ice cream. "Bruh, it took him seven seasons to confess? Mid."
A knock at the door interrupted his peace.
He opened it to find Officer Murry standing there, notebook in hand. "Good evening, sir. Sorry to bother you, but we need your help. Cooperation would really speed things up."
"Uh, okay? What's this about?" the boy asked, tilting his head.
"You're aware of the incident at house number 76, right?"
"…No?"
Paul sighed, rubbing his neck. "Your neighbors were murdered tonight. We noticed your camera's pointed right at the house. Mind if we check the footage?"
The boy blinked. "Oh—yeah, sure. Come in."
The room was chaos — clothes everywhere, tissues scattered across the floor, and a huge anime figurine silently judging from the corner.
Paul cleared his throat. "Let's roll it back to 11:00 P.M."
The footage started. Nothing unusual. Paul leaned closer. "Fast forward."
Two men in black armor appeared on-screen, standing at the entrance of house 76. One raised a silenced pistol—two small flashes, no sound. They slipped inside. Moments later—gunfire. Then an explosion.
"Fast forward again."
The camera jumped to when police arrived. An officer kicked the door open.
A few seconds passed… then a blinding flash and a deafening KRAKOOM! erupted on-screen.
After that — nothing. The two men had vanished.
Paul exhaled slowly, closing the notebook. "Thanks, kid. I've seen enough."
————————————————————
Forty minutes later
A helicopter platform opened on a rooftop. A sleek black sports car sped up the ramp as the metal door sealed shut behind it.
Fred bowed as Derek stepped out, wiping blood off his cheek. "Very impressive, Mister Derek."
"I hope Marquez saw that," Derek smirked. "Would be fun if he tried to hit back."
Fred tilted his head. "And if he does… how would you respond?"
Derek laughed under his breath — this wasn't his first mess. From a disobedient private in the 42nd Urban Assault Team to a full-blown psychopath in The Phantoms.
As Fred removed his gear, Derek stretched his arms and said, grinning, "I'll get my hands dirty again."
Fred turned toward Hollist, who sat quietly in the corner, still in stealth gear. "Did you get the Encyclophin?"
Hollist just nodded once — silent as a ghost.
Derek leaned his back against the metallic door, "I wonder what that Marquez guy looks like."
Beside him was a massive weapons rack. He grabbed an unloaded shotgun and ran his hand along the barrel like it was a toy.
"I'm gonna blast that bastard's face till he's unrecognizable," he added, a stupid little smirk curling up.
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Inside the huge penthouse located near the Wood Valley Casino was stupidly-massive, like you can fit a whole basketball court in there and still have more room for a pool table.
Expensive crap was everywhere—marble floors, leather couch, and a fancy whiskey half-empty on the counter.
At the far end of the room, a huge flat-screen television flicked to life, blasting the news.
"Good evening, everyone," she began, papers shuffling softly on the desk in front of her.
"We're bringing you breaking news from Oak Street, where a gruesome crime shocked an entire neighborhood just after midnight."
The camera cut to a live shot — yellow tape, flashing lights, and rain pouring over the chaos.
"Authorities responded to gunfire and an explosion at house number seventy-six," she continued, her eyes flicking between the teleprompter and the camera.
"Inside, officers discovered multiple victims… dismembered, with body parts arranged to form a single word — Marquez."
Her voice cracked slightly, though she tried to mask it behind a forced smile.
"Investigators say the crime appears methodical — deliberate, even. Surveillance footage shows two unidentified suspects in black tactical gear entering the home moments before the explosion. The motive, for now, remains unknown."
The footage rolled — a shaky camera view, bright flashes, then static.
"Residents of Oak Street are advised to remain indoors until further notice," she added, taking a quiet breath. "The police have yet to release any official statement regarding the suspects or their possible affiliation."
The news anchor's tone softened, almost whisper-like.
"Once again, a horrific discovery tonight on Oak Street — where silence now replaces the sound of gunfire. This is Karen Delano, Channel Seven News, reporting live."
somewhere behind the couch, cigar smoke curled up like lazy ghosts; a certain man in a buzz-cut wearing a black T-shirt—his arms covered in tattoos.
He pinched the cigar; hard enough to snap it before throwing it away, "That japanese man really wants me to reply huh?" He said, his voice stern.
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Back at Shinji's mansion, the crew settled around the dinner table again, joined by Shinji's maids and his ever-patient butler, Fred.
The room buzzed with chatter, punctuated by the occasional clank of a spoon hitting a plate.
Derek was doing his usual thing—scooping mashed potatoes with a ladle like it was a trophy. Hollist, Riles, Fred, and even Shinji ate like normal people.
To Shinji, Derek's antics barely registered anymore. Honestly, at this point, what can you even do about it?
"Hey Hollist," Riles called him during mid-bite.
"Hey," he replied, mid-chewing.
"Not gonna lie you nailed that one by sneaking—you're like a ghost."
Hollist chuckled it off, shoveling a spoonful of vegetables into his mouth. He shooked his head,"It's nothing, the title belongs to Shinji's adopted psycho." He whispered.
Riles expression went from impressed to disgusted, his face crumpled like a paper, "Now I lost my appetite, after you mentioned him—I felt like an innocent boy watching something brutal through the internet."
"HAHAHA," Hollist suddenly realized something, "What would Shinji do with those Encyclophin?"
"Shinji will run a few test with those drugs."
Hollist blinked twice, "T-that's it?"
Riles gaze shifted to Shinji then back to Hollist, "Yeah, our main mission is to get rid of Marquez. If the link breaks the rest will fall."
"I believe you and Derek are the perfect weapon," he added, before taking a sip of his water.
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Officer Paul Murry leaned back in his chair, feet propped on his desk, eyes fixed on the evidence board. A single paper was pinned there:
"MARQUEZ."
Years on the force had made him numb to blood, chaos, and criminals—but this case? This one felt different.
No leads. No suspects. No clue who—or what—Marquez was.
He slipped a photo of the crime scene onto his desk, scanning every inch for something, anything. Minutes passed. Nothing.
Until—he noticed it. The tattoo on one thug's arm: a pitbull symbol. Something about it felt familiar.
He spun in his chair and opened his laptop, fingers flying over the keys. First, he searched "pitbull tattoos."
The results were useless—random tattoo designs, real pitbull photos, nothing that connected to Marquez.
He tried "Marquez" next. Same deal. His screen filled with celebrity photos and random articles. Not a single clue.
Paul rubbed his temples. "Great. Just what I needed… a ghost with a pitbull tattoo."
He tried combining the two words: "Pitbull tattoo Marquez."
For a second, nothing. Then—ding. One result popped up. Just one.
Paul's eyes widened. "Finally…" he muttered, clicking on it.
The page loaded slowly, the old laptop fan wheezing like it was about to give up. Then the headline appeared:
"Street Dogs — a mafia founded by Cristiano Marquez in 2006."
Paul leaned closer, scrolling down. The article was written by something called United Secret Organization.
"United Secret Organization? The hell is that?" he whispered, brows furrowing.
He kept reading:
'Recently, the mafia known as Street Dogs has been in ongoing conflict with a covert syndicate called The Phantoms, led by a Japanese man—Shinji Tasaki.'
Paul froze. That name hit like a punch.
He slammed the laptop shut and grabbed it by the edge, rushing toward the evidence board. Papers rustled, pen caps flew.
"Cristiano Marquez… The Phantoms… Street Dogs… conflicts…" he muttered under his breath as he scribbled them down, drawing lines between each name with a thick red marker.
The sound of the pen scratching across paper echoed through the dim office.
Paul stepped back, staring at the messy web of connections forming on the board. His cigarette burned low between his fingers.
"…So this isn't just a murder," he said quietly, eyes narrowing.
"This is a damn war."
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At Shinji's bedroom, the darkness has swallowed it whole, the quitness filled the room punctuated with the sound of Shinji's finger tapping the keyboard on his phone.
Inside Shinji's bedroom, darkness swallowed everything whole. The only light came from his phone screen, painting faint glows across his face. The room was dead silent—except for the soft, steady tap-tap-tap of his fingers dancing across the keyboard.
On the screen, a blank avatar and the username Anonymous_956 blinked at him.
Anonymous_956: We got the message. We'll make sure you bleed.
Shinji thumbed a reply, calm as ever.
Shinji: Do whatever you like. I'll be waiting.
Three little dots appeared in the bottom-left of the chat—those stupid wiggle-dots that mean someone's typing.
Shinji narrowed his eyes and watched the dots. The room felt colder somehow, the silence pressing in.
Then the reply came.
Anonymous_956: This town you and your shitty U.S.O. have been "protecting" will turn to dust like 2007.
Anonymous_956: 42°15'47"N, 118°04'29"W
Tomorrow 6PM.
Shinji stared at the numbers for a beat, the coordinates glowing on the screen like a target. He closed his eyes, let a slow breath out, and snapped the phone shut.
Derek's voice cut the dark like a knife. "Coordinates, huh?" He stepped out of the shadow like he'd been folded there all along, grin and all.
Shinji twitched, the phone still warm in his hand. For a second the man who ran whole operations stayed still—just listening to the rain and that stupid stupid grin.
"You just randomly appear out of nowhere huh? This is the second time you snuck into my room," Shinji replied, his hand clutching his chest.
Derek smugged before switching on the light with faint click sound, "And you look like bothered over a coordinate and time."
"This one's serious," Shinji narrowed his eyes, "…How are we supposed to fight them, theres to many of them."
He walked towards the window, watching the rain smear the light from the lighthouse, "You and I haven't trained Hollist to kill," he said as he watched the glass turn into a blurry mess of gray.
"Hollist's our scout. Get inside!" Derek shouted.
The door creaked open and Riles and Fred stepped in, both lugging sniper rigs like it was bedtime.
"Master," Fred said, voice cold as steel, eyes hard as a knife-edge, "we can't let the Street Dogs trash this town."
He thumbed the bolt on his rifle with a practiced motion. "My skills aren't for show. Riles and I will watch from distance and cover Derek."
Riles just smirked, slinging his rifle. "Long-range babysitters. Got it."
Hollist appeared in the room wearing X18's stealth gear, he was in the room the whole time.
"I'll assist Derek by checking dangerous angles," Hollist said his voice stern.
"I'll quit from being a butler for a day," Fred cracked his neck by tilting to the side, "They'll beg for their life."