"—Central City Police Department today successfully dismantled a major criminal network operating within the city limits. The 'Cossatella Family,' believed to be a branch of the Italian Mafia, has been—"
Morning light cut through the blinds in thin yellow stripes. The television murmured its good news to the room: justice served, community safer, citizens may sleep soundly. The kind of broadcast designed to make ordinary people feel warm about the institutions governing their lives.
Jude and Yomogi stood in front of the TV.
One human, one cat. Both holding toothbrushes. Both with foam around their mouths and cups in their hands. Both completely motionless, mid-brush, staring at the screen with the exact same expression — four parts contemplation, three parts bewilderment, two parts dawning comprehension, one part flat-out disbelief.
Synchronization rate: approximately one hundred percent.
"They wiped them out?" Jude stared at the footage of handcuffed men being walked into police vans. "The whole family?"
Yomogi offered no answers.
"Did they storm the police station? Try to assassinate the mayor?" He turned to the cat. The cat stared back. "Tax evasion?"
Nothing. Just shared, deepening bafflement.
His phone buzzed. Then again. Then again, and again, and again — a cascade of notifications from the group chat that had apparently been going off since dawn.
"Told you this would work. In a capitalist country, money moves everything — including the moral compass of law enforcement."
"You really shouldn't say that out loud."
"Fair point. Moving on."
"I'm close with an officer at a mid-sized precinct. Got him to pass firsthand intel up the chain. You're welcome."
"I know a senior from university who works as a housekeeper for a municipal official's family. Turns out that's useful."
"I contributed five hundred thousand of the two million. Just putting that out there."
"RICH GUY."
"LEGEND."
"This is what unity looks like."
"Bold of you to say 'unity' when you ate my braised pork without asking."
Jude read through the whole chain, then set his phone down on the counter. He picked up his toothbrush again. Stared at the TV a moment longer.
"Go ahead," he muttered to the chat, though no one could hear him. "Do whatever you want, you absolute disasters."
He brushed his teeth.
He typed his reply one-handed while rinsing.
"Brothers — I mean that sincerely. Thank you for going to bat for me. Thank you for spending an embarrassing amount of money to convince the Central City PD to do their jobs. The total was two million. Send me your individual amounts and I'll reimburse every single one of you."
The group exploded.
"Wait — Jude has two million??"
"Obviously. Have you tasted his food? He could make two million anywhere."
"So a good chef actually earns this well??"
"If you've already got that kind of money, why are you still running a street cart??"
Jude stared at that last message.
Good question.
He was halfway through fabricating an excuse when something clicked — a thought that reshuffled everything. He lowered the phone slowly.
Wait.
This group of people had, through sheer chaotic social energy, assembled a functioning intelligence network spanning multiple precincts, municipal offices, and apparently the domestic staff of city officials. They had mobilized two million dollars in under twenty-four hours. They had taken down an Italian mafia branch as a side effect of protecting his afternoon pastry sales.
These people are insane, Jude thought. And they are completely, inexplicably loyal.
Birds in a cage should not be kept in a cage.
"Hey — everyone listen up. I have an announcement."
The chat went quiet immediately.
"Someone just asked why I came to Central City to run a food cart. Honest answer: I have two friends who left their home cities a while back. After they arrived here, they disappeared. No contact, no trace. I know they made it to Central City — that's the only lead I have. That's why I'm here."
"They're a couple. The man's name is Drake. The woman's name is Camilla. I haven't been able to find them."
A half-second of silence. Then:
"Finding people? That's it? Don't underestimate this network."
"Agreed. You really shouldn't underestimate us."
"Seconded."
"I, the Deputy Commander of the Flying Nikuman Snack Syndicate, will personally handle this."
"Who made you Deputy Commander?"
"What kind of name is 'Flying Nikuman Snack Syndicate'?"
"Wait, are we officially a gang now? I always thought 'Dragon Corps' sounded better."
"Brother, did you just escape from a history exhibit?"
Jude watched the message count climb — a hundred, two hundred, notifications stacking faster than he could read them. He pocketed his phone.
"Enthusiastic," he told Yomogi. "Deeply, dangerously enthusiastic."
Three months passed.
The network was vast. The connections were real. The members of the group fanned out across the city with a dedication that would have impressed a private investigation firm. They checked police archives, municipal records, social registries, and databases that Jude was fairly certain they were not supposed to have access to.
Nothing.
Jude sat on a low stool beside the cart, Yomogi curled at his feet, phone in hand. He scrolled through the compiled search results for what felt like the hundredth time.
"We've covered everything," he said, mostly to himself. "Physical searches, police records, city archives. A master-level computer shouldn't have missed anything."
He looked up at the street.
"Where did they go? Did they somehow end up in Star City?"
No — the search was anchored to Central City. They hadn't crossed the radius.
I don't understand.
He was still working through it when footsteps approached the cart — familiar ones, unhurried and deliberate.
"Jude." The gaunt man's voice was low, the same as always. He barely glanced at the menu. "The usual. Ten pastries."