Meanwhile, at the base of the Green Wolf Tower:
Sirens wailed like the cry of a wounded god. Blue and red lights spun wildly across the reflective glass, painting the tower in chaos. News vans jammed the street, reporters swarmed like flies, cameras flashing, microphones thrust into every stunned face they could find.
"Viewers—what we're witnessing tonight may be the fall of Victor Serrano, the controversial magnate and the face of Green Wolf Corporation!"
"Who's behind this horrifying tragedy? Is it revenge? An act of war? Or a declaration of something far worse?"
"And perhaps the most terrifying question—are we witnessing the dawn of a new wave of domestic terror in the heart of our city?"
Detective Evelyn Nada stepped out of her unmarked cruiser. The leather of her jacket caught the night wind, fluttering like a flag of resolve. Her eyes were sharp—too sharp for a city so used to looking away. She walked forward, boots crunching glass, until she stood before the broken corpse sprawled on the pavement.
Victor Serrano.
There was no mistaking him.
His skull was split open from the back. His face was a ruin of shattered bone and torn flesh. His left arm bent the wrong way, and the blood—dear God, the blood—had painted a winding, deliberate trail into the storm drain like something trying to escape.
But Evelyn didn't just see injuries.
She saw a message. One written in silence and cruelty, too brutal for words.
"There's more to this," she murmured, almost afraid to say it aloud. "Much more…"
A uniformed officer approached from behind the tape. "Detective, we've secured the perimeter. But… there's something inside. You need to see it."
Evelyn's gaze flicked toward him—but something caught her eye first.
A man stood alone behind the police line. He wasn't in uniform. No one seemed to know who he was. His expression was neutral. In one hand, he held a small camera, which he raised and used to photograph Victor's remains. Then, calmly, he scribbled something into a tattered, ancient-looking notebook.
Evelyn opened her mouth to ask who the hell he was—but her radio crackled to life.
"Detective… we've found more. Inside. Multiple casualties."
She turned away.
And the world shifted.
The moment she stepped through the glass doors of Green Wolf Tower, she felt it.
The temperature dropped. Not from the air conditioning—but from something else. Something old. Something cold.
Blood trailed across the marble floor like spilled wine. There were drag marks. Signs of a struggle. But not a sound. Not even a groan.
Evelyn's footsteps echoed in the unnatural silence. Every step felt like a blade drawn across the fabric of normalcy.
And then she entered the lobby.
Her breath stopped in her throat.
Bodies. At least a dozen—maybe more. Security guards, agents, armed personnel—all dead. Horribly dead. Some were missing heads. Others had been ripped open, their intestines splayed out like confetti from a ruined celebration. One man had melted into the floor, his skin puddled beneath him, his eyes staring up at nothing, frozen in eternal terror.
A younger officer leaned against a pillar, pale as snow, barely able to speak.
"Some of them… some of them were still alive when their organs… just came out…"
His voice cracked, and he looked away before vomiting onto the floor.
In a far corner, a forensic cleaner was shaking uncontrollably. She pointed to a body near the reception desk.
The man's brain had liquefied and leaked out of his ears.
"This… this wasn't just a massacre," she whispered. "This was something else."
Evelyn didn't speak. She stepped through the scene like walking through a nightmare, her detective's mind working—but so was her soul. And it screamed.
There were no calling cards.
No messages painted in blood.
No symbols on the walls.
Just death. Still. Methodical. Absolute.
She looked up, past the blood-streaked elevators, toward the hundreds of windows stacked like tombstones in the towering darkness above.
"Whoever did this," she whispered, "they don't want recognition. They don't need fame. They just want the world to know…"
She swallowed hard.
"…they've awakened."
And the night fell silent again.
As if the tower itself had lost its voice.
---
In a hidden chamber, far from public view:
A single chandelier cast a dim glow over a vast round table carved from blackened stone. The room's silence was suffocating, so complete that even the ticking clock on the far wall sounded like a hammer striking a coffin.
Seven chairs stood around the table. Six were occupied.
One remained empty.
That empty seat radiated more power than any of the ones filled.
No one spoke Victor Serrano's name.
But they all felt it.
Lucien Vale leaned back in his high-backed chair, his cloak of shadow pooling beneath him like smoke. A sly, venomous grin curved his lips—not the expression of a man in mourning, but of one savoring victory.
He raised a silver cup to his lips and took a slow, deliberate sip.
"You know," he began, voice thick with arrogance and disdain, "I always said money can't buy safety."
He placed the cup down with a soft clink, the sound echoing like a verdict.
"Victor thought he could buy invincibility. Numbers in offshore accounts. Private armies. Legal shields. He believed he could bribe fate itself. And now?"
He gestured lazily toward the empty chair.
"All that's left of him is a stain on the sidewalk. Washed away by the rain."
No one interrupted.
But tension coiled in the air like a serpent ready to strike. One figure clenched the armrest of their chair. Another's jaw tensed, grinding teeth in fury.
Still, none challenged Lucien.
He leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on the table.
"There can be no more weakness," he said. "No more indulgence. We prepare. We retaliate. And we make sure that thing—whatever it is—knows who truly controls this city."
No one spoke.
They didn't need to.
They all knew the truth:
The war had begun.
And this time, it wouldn't be fought in boardrooms or courtrooms.
This time, it would be written in blood.