As Clint and Jethro got ready to play, Their sister passed by behind them, her sweater sleeves covering her hands, long black hair slightly messy, and soft headphones around her neck.
"Xianne! Wanna play with us?" Clint called with a grin. She didn't even look at him.
"Not in the mood, Alnyr." She walked to the sofa in the next room and sat down, pulling her knees up and scrolling on her phone like she didn't hear anything else.
Clint chuckled. "She's been like that since last week,"
"Yup," Jethro replied. Clint smirked and picked up the controller.
Later that evening, after the games and the noise had died down, the mansion grew quiet again, lights dimmed, and most of the house had gone still—except for Clint.
He walked across the wide garage, passing rows of sleek cars, until he stopped in front of a matte Ducati Panigale V4, its sharp design and deep red accents standing out under the ceiling lights like a beast waiting to be unleashed.
Clint pulled on his black jacket, strapped on his gloves, and slid his key into the ignition. The engine roared to life with a smooth, powerful growl that echoed softly through the walls.
As he mounted the bike, he tapped the small earpiece in his right ear, and a faint beep confirmed the call.
A voice came through almost immediately. "Boss, you're coming?"
"Yeah," Clint said simply, tightening his grip on the handle. "Heading out now."
"Good. We're all in place. The others are waiting at the site." "Send the location again." "Copy that. Sending now—it's the same abandoned building near the East Wall, the one beside the old train yard."
Clint didn't reply with words—just a click to end the call.
The bike sped out of the garage, past the front gates, and into the quiet roads of the upper district. His figure cut through the night like a shadow, Clint pulled up beside a wide abandoned warehouse, the windows shattered and walls stained by time.
He stepped off his Ducati Panigale, pulled off his helmet, and let it rest on the bike's seat. A black mask hung around his neck, the kind that could be pulled up to cover his face any moment—but now it hung low, revealing his sharp features under the moonlight.
As he walked toward the building's broken entrance, a part of his collar slipped, and a tattoo on the left side of his neck became visible. It was small but marked with clear, sharp lines—a symbol only his people recognized.
Inside the warehouse, six people immediately stood up from where they'd been sitting on stacked crates and rusted boxes.
Each of them wore dark clothes, some with gloves, others with hoods. They didn't wear uniforms, but they moved like a team, and their eyes lit up the moment Clint entered.
"Looking fresh today, Boss!" one of them said with a whistle, while another nudged the guy beside him and added, "Was that cologne or charisma?"
Clint smirked, pulling his mask up slightly then dropping it again as he walked past them.
One of the older guys slung an arm around Clint's shoulder and leaned in. "Smells good. What is that, huh? Expensive stuff?" Without even flinching, Clint replied with a lazy smirk, "Because I use perfume... not poop."
Laughter exploded through the room. "Come on, Boss!" one guy groaned, still laughing. "I don't smell like poop, do I?"
"Eh…" another one said, backing away playfully and waving his hand in front of his nose.
"Only a little when you sweat!"
"Shut up, man!" As the laughter faded, Clint raised one hand and the group quickly focused again.
"Alright, enough," he said, his voice calm but firm. "They're moving tonight. Intel says the deal's happening in Warehouse 12, near the docks. We need to be in position before they get there."
"Same crew?" someone asked.
Clint nodded. "Same. Masked, unregistered, armed. The usual. We don't need a full fight—we're stopping the meetup. That's the mission. Cut the deal before it finishes. That means watch the back exits, keep the perimeter clean, and don't get cocky."
They all nodded, checking weapons, adjusting sleeves, getting ready. The thick white smoke spread fast, curling through the cracks, swallowing the light, and turning the warehouse into a blur of shadows and movement.
Clint crouched low behind a metal box, holding his breath—not because it was poisonous, but because the fog made it hard to hear, to see, to think clearly.
He felt it. A presence. Too close.
Clint spun around just in time, his hand snapping up and grabbing a cold metal blade that had been aimed at his neck.
The masked attacker had almost stabbed him from behind, but Clint's reflexes were fast—too fast. He twisted the attacker's wrist with sharp force, heard the grunt of pain, then shifted his weight and threw the man hard over his shoulder.
The guy hit the ground with a loud thud, rolling over and trying to rise. Gunshots echoed nearby—his members were fighting too. Clint didn't wait. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his matte black pistol, aimed at the downed attacker, and fired.
Bang!
The man jerked once, then stopped moving. Clint turned and sprinted through the smoke, toward the sounds of the scuffle, his heart racing but his mind sharp.
As he reached the edge of the crates, a hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder from behind. His body moved on instinct—he spun around, bringing the gun up—ready to shoot.
But he stopped. Frozen. Because the face behind the mask was familiar. One of his own team.
The man smiled behind his mask, voice mocking with a strange accent, a low southern drawl twisting the words. "Can't shoot your own member, aye?"
Clint's jaw tightened. "You…"
The man stepped back slowly, circling Clint like a vulture. "Clint Alnyr Moon... son of billionaires... MVP at university by day... mafia boss by night..." he said with a cruel smile.
"Gotta say, I didn't see that one coming. That pretty face of yours really hides a lot, don't it?"
Clint's eyes darted around, alert. "You're not just here to mess with our operation. You planned this."
The fake teammate chuckled darkly. "You think too small, boss. This ain't about the deal. This is about you."
Suddenly, Clint's senses screamed. He jumped back, flipping midair as something heavy swung low at his legs. He landed clean—but his eyes widened when he saw who it was.
More of his members. All of them. Lined up. Weapons out.
"You… you traitors!" Clint shouted, his voice full of disbelief.
One of them looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "Sorry, Boss…" Another added quietly, "We didn't want it to be like this."
Clint clenched his fists, heart pounding, his mind racing with a hundred thoughts as he stood surrounded by the very people he once trusted—the ones he fought beside, laughed with, and even saved.
He took one slow step back, eyes scanning each face, searching for something—remorse, hesitation, anything.
But there was none. Only silence… and cold stares.
CRACK!
A sharp pain exploded at the back of his head. Clint dropped to one knee, his vision spinning, blood rushing in his ears like crashing waves. He clenched his teeth, one hand gripping the dusty floor as he fought to stay conscious.
Slowly, he turned his head—and saw him. The last person he expected. "...You?" Clint whispered, voice hoarse with shock and pain.
It was Reiven, his closest brother in the crew, the one who stood by him since the beginning, the one he trusted with his secrets. Reiven stared down at him, face blank, metal baseball bat in hand, no guilt in his eyes. Clint's chest tightened—not from the hit, but from the betrayal.
Around him, seven other guns were raised, all pointed at his body. "W-Why?"
Clint muttered, still kneeling, sweat and blood mixing on his temple, The sound of guns clicking filled the air.
No one answered. No one blinked. Then they pulled the trigger.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
And in the last second before everything went black, Clint's lips moved. "Y-You'll regret this… all of you!"