The black sedan drifted to a smooth halt at the edge of the district. Through the frosted windshield, the headlights illuminated a rusted iron signboard pointing toward a dark, neon-lit intersection. Painted in jagged lettering were the words: Amerio's Street.
"So, we're here," Allen said softly, his voice steady.
In the front seats, Ethan and Liam turned back and gave him a solemn, synchronizing nod.
Allen slid the biometrics glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He had traded his usual clothes for an oversized streetwear jacket, dark cargo pants, and a beanie—dressing the part of a hardened, rebellious street thug. Pushing the car door open, he stepped out into the freezing night air, the heavy snap of the door closing behind him as the sedan melted back into the shadows.
Allen walked down the cracked asphalt of Amerio's Street. A cluster of modified sports bikes leaned against a graffiti-covered brick wall, surrounded by a handful of rough-looking syndicate scout guards.
The moment Allen's boots crunched on the snow-dusted ground, their conversation died instantly. Every eye locked onto him.
"He might be the guy," one of the bikers muttered, leaning against his handlebars.
"Nah, look at him. He looks like a teenager," another scoffed, spitting onto the pavement.
"Yeah, but remember what the boss advised us," a third one whispered, his eyes narrowing as he sized up Allen's frame. "We have to be careful with anyone showing up alone tonight."
"Well, nowadays teenagers are rebellious as hell. Maybe this kid is just looking for an exit," the first biker replied, throwing a callous grin across the circle.
"Just stay sharp."
"Don't worry about it."
Allen stepped into the dim glow of their headlights. Before he could even utter a word, the lead biker called out, his voice echoing off the brick walls.
"You here for the circuit, kid?"
Allen gave a silent, confident nod.
"Haha! He is the one," the men chuckled among themselves, their posture relaxing into predatory amusement.
"Misters," Allen spoke up, playing the part of a desperate, arrogant street racer perfectly. "Where is the grid? I was told I'd be given a high-performance bike for the race. And if I win, I walk away with a cool million dollars."
The bikers nodded, exchanging amused glances.
"Yeah, that's the deal, kid. A million-dollar payout," the leader said, pulling a stiff, laminated document and a pen from his leather jacket. "But before you touch the throttle, you have to sign this contract. Standard procedure."
Allen raised an eyebrow, maintaining his cover. "What kind of contract is this?"
"Well, it's just for insurance. For your own safety, you know?" the man lied smoothly, his grin widening. "Just put your signature right here on the dotted line."
Allen took the pen and casually scribbled his alias across the paper, handing it back without a hint of hesitation. As the leader snatched the contract, the collective grins of the syndicate men stretched into dark, menacing smirks. The trap was sprung.
The leader kicked his engine to life, the exhaust roaring aggressively into the winter night. "Come on. Hop on the back."
Allen nodded, throwing his leg over the pillion seat behind the biker. With a deafening screech of tires, the bikes tore away into the darkness, leaving Amerio's Street behind.
Elsewhere
The heavy steel doors to a dimly lit council chamber hissed open. A man stepped inside, his boots echoing across the concrete floor. Around a massive circular table, the shifting silhouettes of several high-ranking Loop members sat in darkness.
"Heya, old dude," one of the silhouettes called out, his voice dripping with casual arrogance.
The entering man didn't offer a reply. He was Number 3 of the Loop.
"I heard the news from the underground," another silhouette spoke up, leaning forward into the faint light. "Nemesis died. Completely wiped out along with the entire Fourth Branch."
"That is old news," Number 3 replied, his voice chillingly detached as he stood at the head of the room.
"Nemesis was the second strongest among us, wasn't he?" a third member muttered, a trace of anxiety bleeding into his tone. "Now that he's gone, our structural manpower has drastically decreased. Who the hell did that to him?"
"Hahaha!"
Suddenly, Number 3 erupted into a cold, manic laughter that bounced off the reinforced walls.
"Nemesis was only placed in the Number 2 spot because he possessed an immense amount of stolen military intelligence, and he was smart enough to manage logistics," Number 3 sneered, "As for pure combat strength? He wasn't even in the top ten of the Loop."
The silhouettes shifted, murmurs of shock rippling through the room. "Damn... so the rest of us are actually stronger than him? Then tell us, who is the strongest in the Loop?"
Number 3's masked tilted up slightly. "You will know soon, very soon."
The members nodded slowly, processing the terrifying reality of Loop's true power.
"But those, who attacked the Fourth Branch, won't stop there," one of the executives pointed out. "They're going to be hunting for ways to target the Third Branch next."
Number 3 gave a slow nod. "Do not lose your composure. We have Mike stationed there. He is Number 10 of the Loop, and we have reinforced his sector with far more manpower this time around. Even if things manage to get out of hand, the Boss will personally deploy more assets."
"But who is actually targeting us?" the first silhouette asked, frustration building. "Who has the power to dismantle a whole branch?"
"I don't know," Number 3 admitted flatly.
With that, he turned on his heel, his cloak swirling around him.
"Leaving already?" a voice called out. Number 3 gave a single, curt nod and walked straight out of the council room.
He navigated the quiet, sterile hallway until he came to a stop in front of a heavy, unmarked obsidian door at the very end of the corridor.
A simple, elegant sign was bolted beside the frame: BOSS.
Number 3 knocked with absolute discipline.
"Come in," a deep, chilling voice resonated from within.
Number 3 pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office was swallowed by pitch-black shadows. A solitary figure sat in a massive high-backed leather chair, his back completely turned toward Number 3, staring into the dark void of the room.
"Boss, the security protocols for the Third Branch have been tightened to maximum capacity," Number 3 reported, lowering his head.
"Good," the Boss replied, his voice devoid of any human emotion.
Number 3 hesitated for a fraction of a second before speaking up. "Boss... may I ask a question?"
The silhouette in the chair gave a slight, permissive nod.
"Who is the one orchestrating these attacks against us? Who is targeting the Loop?"
A heavy, suffocating minute of absolute silence stretched across the dark room.
The air grew cold. Finally, the Boss spoke, his words carrying an ancient, terrifying weight.
"I do not know their names. But... I believe he is ultimately behind this."
Number 3's eyes widened in profound shock.
The Boss continued, his voice dropping into a low, venomous whisper. "The one who originally created The Three Pillars."