The Street That Forgot to Breathe
So far as anyone knew, Silver had taken Vega's son to his own place.
He didn't inform Darhua.
He didn't alert the other Pillars.
He didn't whisper a word to anyone.
To him, everything happened quietly.
Perfectly.
Smoothly.
But for the neighborhood, the world had torn open.
The street looked like it had forgotten how to breathe.
After the silence settled and the last man in a suit vanished, doors cracked open one by one.
People stepped out slow, frightened, as if the air itself might shoot back at them.
An old man screamed, voice trembling through the chaos:
"Somebody call the police! There were eighteen gunshots! Eighteen! We all heard them!"
Mothers clutched crying children.
Frozen faces stared at blood they couldn't see but somehow felt.
Some whispered nonsense to stay sane — vengeance, curses, destiny, gods — anything to explain what their eyes refused to accept.
"Are they gonna kill all of us next??" someone shouted, trying to bolt out of the street.
Before he could run, another grabbed him.
"Where you going?"
"Somewhere safe!"
"Not until this is settled, bro—"
"And who are you to say—?"
A voice cut through the noise.
Sharp. Cold. Unavoidable.
Nicolas Vane stepped forward.
His footsteps were slow, but each one felt heavy — the walk of a man who'd lived inside crime scenes longer than inside his own home.
Shoulders straight.
Hands behind his back.
Eyes that had forgotten warmth but remembered every lie ever told.
He spoke without raising his voice:
"Anyone here who witnessed anything today… you're not leaving until I say so. If you think you can trick me…"
He tilted his head.
"…know that I can trick you right back."
He lifted his chin.
"The name is Nicolas Vane. Lead investigator. If that's too long for you… you may call me Nicolas Vane. Understood?"
The entire street answered in one terrified breath:
"UNDERSTOOD!"
Police sealed the block.
Officers scattered like ants across a battlefield:
"When did they arrive?"
"What did they want?"
"How many were there?"
"Did they say a name?"
"Did this family have enemies?"
A little girl trembled alone.
A young officer knelt beside her, offering a candy.
"How are you, queen? You're safe, alright? Nicolas sir may sound harsh but he's good, I promise. My name's Flint. What's yours?"
"…Jasmine."
---
Inside the House
Forensics moved through the doorway with quiet dread.
Blood covered the floor — thick, dark, and slow, like it was trying to crawl away from the horror it had witnessed.
A female officer whispered, "They must've gone through hell…"
Nicolas didn't pause.
"Death doesn't send invitations."
"I hope they're in a better place," she murmured.
Markers dotted the floor.
Officers snapped photos.
One stared at Vega's body, voice cracking:
"How many bullets…?"
Another answered, "Eighteen. All in different places."
"Did they hate him that much? Look at the others — one bullet each. But him…"
He shook his head.
"It's unreal."
Flint muttered, "Maybe he was the main target. You know… the reason they came."
Nicolas ignored the chatter. His eyes swept every corner.
"Check everything. Cracks, beds, closets, bathrooms. Everywhere."
"Yes sir!"
Christine, forensic lead, stepped beside him.
He looked at the corpses, then the street outside.
"Christine… when you see something like this, you just hope it's not your turn next."
Suddenly an officer rushed downstairs.
"Sir! There are five rooms in this house!"
Nicolas turned sharply.
"What?"
Outside, an old man overheard and shouted:
"Is Bond not there??"
Nicolas stepped out.
"You know him?"
"Yes. He's a good boy. Pure. Name's Bond."
He swallowed.
"His parents… Gilbert and Viona. Lovely people. They never deserved this. If you find Bond, please tell me. I can raise him. He's like my child…"
"Your name?"
"Richard Bedge."
"Alright, old guy. I'll call you."
Nicolas scanned the street again — the panic, the noise, the sirens, the blood, the bodies.
Then he spotted a camera near a pole.
A grin tugged at his lip.
"Boom."
Reporters flooded the street seconds later.
Nicolas sighed.
"Idiots are here. Someone check that camera footage."
He slipped into his car and escaped before microphones could surround him.
---
Fear Doesn't Apply to Monsters
The city choked on rumors.
Markets, towers, alleys — everyone whispered the same thing:
Why would a gang that usually moved like shadows attack in broad daylight?
Was it arrogance?
Madness?
Or maybe…
They simply didn't fear the police at all.
On the news, a shaken anchor said:
"Fear doesn't apply to monsters. And these men… they're beyond that word. What gives them this fearlessness? Government ties? An ancient organization? Pure authority? We may never know."
---
Inside Silver's Home
Bond wasn't crying like a child.
He was crying like someone who had already lost everything.
His face was red, his voice shattered, his anger raw enough to burn a hole through the world.
Two grown men held him down, their arms shaking despite their size — Bond was only twelve, but there was strength in him that didn't belong to a boy.
"Let go of me, you monster!"
"Let me see my parents!"
"If anything happened to them, I swear I'll kill you!"
Silver approached slowly.
Expression blank.
Voice colder than the night outside.
"Anything?"
Bond's fury erupted.
"I'm gonna kill you!"
Silver leaned closer, his shadow falling over the boy.
"You said 'anything,' right? Then listen carefully."
He didn't blink.
"Everything has already happened to them. Right now, their bodies are in a cemetery."
Bond froze — then broke.
"I'll kill you," he screamed, tears and rage tangled,
"just like you killed him! I'll make your soul remember the name Bond!"
Silver didn't flinch.
Bond tried to scream again — but he didn't finish.
One of the guards moved quietly, almost regretfully.
Bond didn't even see the bat swing.
The crack echoed.
He went silent.
Silver exhaled.
"Let him rest."
The guards stepped back.
A soft presence descended from the second floor — a woman, unsure, watching the scene.
"What's happening?"
Silver held the unconscious child in his arms.
"Nothing."
Her eyes drifted to Bond.
"Whose boy is that?"
Silver lied smoothly, without changing tone:
"Vega's son. He'll stay with us tonight. Vega's on a business trip. His wife… fever."
Her shoulders relaxed.
"Oh. I see."
Silver got up.
"I'll put him in the guest room."
"You should."
Silver turned away, voice low, almost tired.
"Tomorrow's going to be hell…"