The day of the exchange had finally come.
Charles stepped out of a shiny black car, looking like a man on a serious mission. He wore a clean black suit that fit him perfectly, with a maroon tie and a matching pocket square. His hair was neatly slicked back, and in his right hand, he carried a matte black briefcase—the kind that looked like it held something very important.
When he walked into the casino, the guards came up to him without saying a word and began checking him for weapons. Charles raised both hands with a relaxed smile.
"Take it easy, guys. I left my bazooka at home today," he joked.
The guards didn't react, just kept doing their job quietly.
Once they cleared him, the guards led Charles to the elevator that went down to the hidden room below the casino. As they walked, he glanced at the walls and smirked.
"Well, at least this time I walked in with some pride. Last time, I was literally on fire and got dragged in like a roast chicken," he said.
One of the guards let out a small smile but quickly looked away.
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into the dim underground chamber. It looked just the same—cold air, heavy silence, and tension hanging in the air. Don Sylvester sat on a leather couch with his legs crossed, his face calm and hard to read. But this time, a middle-aged man in a navy-blue suit stood next to him, holding a shiny silver briefcase.
The man looked like a typical expensive lawyer—balding head, glasses sitting on his nose, and a mouth that hadn't smiled in forever. But his eyes were sharp and alert.
Jane and Joan stood behind Don Sylvester, both looking serious. Charles gave them a cocky wink. Jane rolled her eyes. Joan didn't even glance at him.
"Mr. Charles," Don Sylvester said calmly. "This is my legal advisor. He has the transfer papers."
The lawyer opened his silver briefcase and pulled out a neat stack of documents. Without saying a word, he handed them to Charles.
Charles adjusted the special glasses his team had given him. A tiny camera inside started scanning the papers right away. As he read, a soft buzz in his earpiece—hidden as part of his earring—confirmed everything was real.
"All clear," Richy's voice said quietly in Charles's ear.
Charles gave a small nod, feeling confident.
"Now," Don Sylvester said, his voice calm but with a hint of warning, "where is my artifact?"
Charles smiled—that same smooth, confident smile that always made people uneasy.
He placed his briefcase on the table, opened it with a click, and carefully pulled out the ancient artifact. He set it down gently in front of the Don.
"Here it is. Handle it with care," Charles said, slipping the signed papers into his briefcase.
Don Sylvester leaned in, eyes sharp, and picked up the artifact. He held it up to the light, studying it closely.
Then—something happened.
Joan had been quiet the whole time, flipping a sharp dagger in her hand like it was a toy. Then, all of a sudden, she moved—fast. In one quick move, she slashed Jane's neck like she was slicing a vegetable. Jane dropped to the floor without a sound.
Before anyone could react, a guard behind Charles turned and shot two other guards dead. The whole room froze in shock.
But Joan didn't stop. She threw her dagger straight at Charles. He quickly raised his briefcase, and the blade slammed into it, missing his head by just a few inches.
Charles stumbled back and shouted, "Damn, Joan! I know I'm good-looking, but relax! If you wanted my attention, a love letter would've done the trick!"
Joan didn't flinch. She was already pulling out another weapon.
Don Sylvester, still sitting on the couch, pulled out a gun and aimed it at her. But Joan was quicker. She ducked low and slid toward him like a shadow. Then, with one clean strike, she cut both his wrists. His gun and the artifact fell to the ground.
Bullets started flying everywhere.
A guard behind Charles raised his gun, ready to shoot. But Charles didn't wait. He pressed a button on the side of his briefcase.
With a sharp hiss, a small ball shot out, hit the ceiling, and burst into thick white smoke, filling the whole room.
"Showtime," Charles muttered with a grin. His special glasses let him see clearly through the smoke—something no one else could do.
Joan used the chaos to her advantage. She rolled across the floor, grabbed the artifact, and ran toward the elevator. A guard fired at her but missed.
Meanwhile, Charles ducked and rolled to dodge the bullets. He could feel the guard behind him about to shoot. Thinking fast, he grabbed his briefcase and threw it hard at Don Sylvester, who was still bleeding and sitting down. The briefcase hit Don and knocked him over—just in time to block the bullet that would've hit him.
The two guards—one loyal, one a traitor—fired blindly through the smoke. Both got hit. Both died.
By the time Joan reached the elevator, her guards had already cleared the path. She stepped in, and the doors closed behind her.
Upstairs, the casino was in chaos. People were screaming and running everywhere. Tables were flipped, cards and chips flying through the air. Total panic.
Joan walked out calmly and got into her waiting SUV. It drove off like nothing had happened.
Back in the smoky underground room, only Charles and Don Sylvester were still alive.
Don lay on the ground, his arms bleeding, eyes filled with pain and fury. Charles stood a few feet away, breathing heavily. His suit was wrinkled, his hair messy, and there was a cut on his cheek—but he was still standing.
The smoke started to clear. Just then, the remaining guards rushed in. They saw the dead bodies, their boss bleeding on the floor, and Charles standing like he had survived a battle.
Every guard pointed their guns at Charles.
He slowly raised his hands, looked around, and gave a tired smile.
"Well… this meeting didn't go well. Anyone got coffee?"
Outside the casino, Charles's friends paced nervously by the van. They hadn't heard from him in a long time. The worry was heavy in the air.
Then, Charles's voice came through the radio as the guards aimed at him.
Mino and Richy felt a wave of relief.
"The traitor just left in a black SUV," Mino said quickly. "Should we chase them?"
Charles's voice was calm but sharp. "Let the little butterfly fly," he said with a smirk.
But inside the smoky room, things were far from peaceful.
Don Sylvester was on his feet again, even though blood dripped from both his wrists. He grabbed a gun from one of the guards who was pointing it at Charles. His face was full of anger as he aimed the gun straight at Charles.
"Where's the real artifact?" he growled, his voice low and fierce.
Charles leaned on the broken sofa, blinked, and tilted his head.
"Well, a thank you would've been nice," he said. "You know, for saving your royal behind back there—"
Bang!
The bullet flew past his ear, hitting the armrest just inches away. Charles jumped, eyes wide.
"Wow!" he shouted. "Now I know where your girls get their anger from!"
Don cocked the gun again and aimed at Charles. His hands shook a little, but his anger kept him steady.
"I think your time is up."