The siege of the Food Processing Plant had ground to a violent, smoky stalemate.
Thousands of rioters pressed against the high perimeter walls, a sea of angry faces illuminated by the fires they had set. Molotov cocktails arced over the gates, exploding against the reinforced concrete. The automated turrets on the walls tracked the targets but didn't fire—their ammunition magazines had clicked empty twenty minutes ago.
Vance stood on the roof of the hijacked transport truck, his coat flapping in the hot updraft.
He closed his eyes and inhaled.
The air was a chaotic soup of white phosphorus and burning rubber. To Vance's synesthetic senses, these weren't just chemicals; they were the physical manifestation of pure, scorching rage and destruction. But cutting through the chaos was a new, alarming scent coming from the heart of the factory.
Scorched lubricant. Grinding metal. High-pressure steam.
It was the unmistakable smell of a machine seizing up.
"The chimneys stopped smoking," Cerberus noted, his eyes scanning the dark towers.
"The production line is halted," Vance analyzed, shouting over the roar of the crowd. "Gluttony's reactor isn't just a stomach; it's the factory's power core. It's designed for continuous intake. Without new raw material to process, his core is idling. And an idling engine runs hot."
Vance smirked. "He's cooking in his own castle. He's desperate."
Suddenly, the air in front of the truck shimmered. A heavy-duty drone descended from the smog, projecting a life-sized, high-definition hologram onto the hood.
A figure appeared. Greed.
The banker looked immaculate in his gold-threaded suit, sitting in a leather chair with a glass of wine, but Vance's keen eyes caught the micro-expressions that betrayed him. The tapping foot. The slight tightness in the jaw.
Greed smelled of ink and cold copper, the scent of calculation and currency. But today, there was a faint, spoiling undercurrent beneath it. It smelled like sour milk—the distinct odor of anxiety.
"Mr. Vance," Greed's voice was smooth, amplified by the drone. "You have made a very expensive mess."
"I prefer to call it a hostile takeover," Vance replied, crossing his arms. He didn't look impressed.
"My stock portfolio has dropped 12% in the last hour," Greed sighed, swirling his wine. "Gluttony is... emotional. He wants to open the gates and wade into the crowd. He wants to turn this into a massacre."
"Let him try," Vance gestured to the sea of people below. "There are fifty thousand people here. Even a tank would get bogged down in the meat."
"Exactly. It would be bad for business. War destroys assets," Greed agreed. "This factory is worth billions. I cannot allow my investment to be liquidated by a mob."
Greed leaned forward, his holographic eyes locking onto Vance.
"So, I offer a settlement. A civilized solution."
"I'm listening."
"Come inside. Sit at the table. Gluttony challenges you to a wager. If you win, I will give you the Key you seek, and I will facilitate your safe exit."
"And if I lose?"
"Then you become the main course," Greed smiled thinly. "And the mob goes home, leaderless."
Cerberus stepped forward, growling. "It's a trap."
"Of course it's a trap," Vance said casually. He looked at Greed. "Why should I walk into a cage? I can just wait here. In two hours, the factory overheats. In three, the mob breaches the walls. I win by doing nothing."
"If the factory burns," Greed countered, his voice hardening, "Gluttony will activate the Self-Destruct Protocol. The explosion will vaporize the Key. You will get nothing but ash."
Vance paused. He sniffed the air again.
From the open gates of the factory, a sudden gust carried a sharp, stinging scent that made his eyes water.
Ammonia.
It was stronger than before. The cooling system wasn't just leaking; it was hemorrhaging. Gluttony wasn't just angry; he was physically dying of heatstroke. He needed a vent. He needed a distraction.
This invitation wasn't a power move. It was a plea for a lifeline.
Vance looked at Greed. He saw the desperation hidden behind the arrogance.
"Fine," Vance said. "But I have conditions."
"You are in no position—"
"I am the one holding the match," Vance interrupted cold. "Condition One: The mob stays. If I don't send a signal every 15 minutes, they burn the place down."
"Condition Two: You, Greed, must be physically present at the table. No holograms. If I'm risking my neck, you're risking yours."
Greed hesitated. The hologram flickered as he processed the risk. Finally, he nodded.
"Agreed."
Greed snapped his fingers.
Below the overpass, the sea of rioters parted—not out of fear, but out of confusion. A Leviathan-Class Limousine floated silently over the debris, approaching the truck.
"Nyar," Vance spoke into his collar. "You heard the terms. Keep the crowd angry. If my signal stops... burn it all."
"With pleasure," Nyar's voice giggled.
Vance jumped down from the truck. He adjusted his coat, smoothing out the wrinkles. He didn't look like a prisoner walking to his execution. He looked like an auditor coming to close a bankrupt business.
He stepped into the cool interior of the limousine. The door sealed shut, cutting off the noise of the riot.
"To the slaughterhouse, then," Vance said to the droid chauffeur.
The car turned and glided toward the burning gates.