The abandoned supermarket had officially transitioned from a temporary hideout into the tactical command center for Dud and his volatile alliance of misfits. Today was an exceptionally critical juncture for their campaign, because Skull had confidently asserted that he possessed the direct channels to summon a highly specialized, lethal organization to augment their forces against the Billion Bloodline group. The operational hurdle, however, was twofold.
The elite unit Skull was referring to was the Black Hand, a black-market mercenary syndicate that possessed absolutely no inherent ideological or territorial reason to wage a war against the Billion Bloodline. Fortunately for Dud’s faction, they were purely profit-driven assets available to the highest bidder.
Currently, Skull stood completely alone in the center of the gutted supermarket floor. He remained stationary in the gloom, anxiously tapping his boot against the cracked concrete tiles, his eyes scanning the empty perimeter. Not a single soul was in sight.
"Come on, come on... I need this gamble to pay off," Skull muttered to himself, his breathing shallow in the heavy silence. "Because right now... I really don’t have another choice left on the board."
Before the final syllable could fully exit his mouth, his combat senses picked up an almost silent, razor-sharp whizzing sound cutting through the stagnant air.
Reacting on pure instinct, Skull snapped his head slightly to the side. A small metallic object grazed his skin, cleanly slicing open a thin line across his cheek before continuing its downward trajectory. The projectile zipped through the air and slammed violently into the floor, piercing straight through the reinforced leather of his combat boot and puncturing deep into his foot.
"AHHH!" Skull yelped, a sharp hiss of agony escaping his teeth as he looked down to see a specialized assassination dart embedded in the concrete.
He immediately attempted to throw his body into an evasive maneuver, but the micro-second his weight shifted, a cold steel knife blade was already pressed firmly against his jugular vein. Skull’s reflexes, however, were far from slow; before the edge could slide across his throat to finish the job, his hand shot up, cleanly grabbing the attacker’s wrist and locking it in place to halt the pressure.
"You should know by now that resistance is entirely useless, Eight," the man wielding the dagger murmured, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
As Skull’s eyes darted across the surrounding shadows, the darkness began to peel back as four other high-tier killers systematically revealed themselves. A woman smoothly plummeted down from a rusted structural beam high above, landing effortlessly on the ruined floor without making a sound; her wild, curly hair and the specialized dart bandoliers attached to her hips stood out immediately. Skull recognized her instantly: she was Agent Number Five, a single-digit elite of the syndicate. But she wasn’t the primary threat in the room.
The lethal operative holding the razor edge to his throat was Agent Number Two of the Black Hand—an absolute monster who was completely unmatched across the continent when it came to close-quarters dagger combat. His thin, lean frame and abnormally long arms made him a terrifyingly efficient killing machine.
Stepping into the dim light next was a woman wearing high heels, a tailored business suit, and sharp glasses. She looked completely out of place in a derelict retail park, resembling an ordinary corporate office worker, but the grim reality was that this woman was Agent Number Four. Lastly, two more figures stepped out of the gloom—individuals Skull had never physically encountered during his time in the ranks, but whose infamous profiles allowed him to deduce their identities instantly.
The first was a teenager who looked almost like an innocent child, moving with a lazy stride, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his oversized hoodie. This youth was legendary in the underworld for projecting a helpless, easy facade, right before using his fingers to gouge out his opponents’ eyeballs, permanently disqualifying them from ever serving in the Black Hand again.
Skull had never possessed the operational clearance or physical capability to face any of these high-ranking, single-digit elites during his active tenure, simply because he could never best the intermediate agents positioned ahead of him in the hierarchy.
Finally, the last of the numbered agents stepped into the light—a man draped in flowing orange robes that mirrored the attire of a traditional monk, a chilling, deadly smile plastered across his face.
"That deadly smile... You’re Number One," Skull whispered, sweat mixing with the blood on his cheek. "I can’t believe the bureau actually authorized the deployment of the top five numbered agents just to hunt me down. I must say, I’m incredibly honored."
"Number Eight," the man in the orange robes said, his smile never faltering as his voice echoed off the steel girders. "You managed to hide remarkably well for a significant timeline after executing your desertion. You covered your physical and digital tracks beautifully. The syndicate has been occupied with high-level corporate tasks across the central provinces, so there was no pressing reason for us to hunt you down immediately; you were simply another routine liquidation job further down our ledger.
"However, when an escaped asset suddenly makes it glaringly obvious where he is operating, we don’t assume he’s stupid. We know no one seeks a voluntary death wish. Therefore, there was a high statistical probability that this entire digital breadcrumb trail was a coordinated trap designed to lure our vanguard into an ambush."
Skull couldn’t help but let out a dry, coughing chuckle. He had no doubt that his former comrades had accurately calculated the structural risks, and that was when the final, heaviest shadow walked through the broken entrance.
The new arrival possessed a massive, monolithic frame, draped in a heavy combat overcoat that literally scraped across the concrete floor as he walked. A thick, jagged scar ran horizontally completely across his face, bisecting his features.
"Commander Blark," Skull said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute respect and fear.
"Number Eight," the Commander barked, his voice sounding like grinding stone. "The rules of the foundation are absolute: no one is permitted to leave the Black Hand of their own volition. We are taking you back to the central facility for structural liquidation, and your new street friends won’t be able to do a single thing to alter that trajectory."
The moment the Commander finalized his statement, a sequence of footsteps sounded from the secondary exits of the building. Dud, Hugo, Dipter, Popper, and Donto all stepped out from the far end of the supermarket, forming a defensive line behind Skull.
"We originally organized this meeting because we wanted a friendly, corporate conversation about a contract," Dud said, a cold, dangerous smile spreading across his face as he methodically stretched his black leather gloves over his knuckles. "But if your organization would honestly rather conduct this negotiation with our fists... then I’ll be more than happy to show you how we do business in Notting Hill."