CHAPTER 25 :- ECHOES OF THE UNSEEN

Calon sat in silence, staring up at the two agents standing before him. They didn't speak. They didn't move. They just watched him—like scientists studying a lab rat.

The air in the room was thick with unease, but the agent at the front made it unbearable. His posture was rigid, almost military, exuding an authority that left no room for negotiation. A black tailored suit hugged his broad frame, crisp and immaculate, the fabric smooth and unwrinkled.His white dress shirt was pristine, its collar pressed stiffly against his throat, held firm by a perfectly knotted black silk tie.

A gun holster peeked from under his jacket, resting securely beneath his left arm. A pair of silver handcuffs hung from his belt—no doubt intended for Calon.

But it was the agent's face that was the most unsettling. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and deep-set eyes that carried the weight of experience. They were cold, calculating—like he'd already determined Calon's fate. His dark hair was neatly combed, not a strand out of place, though faint streaks of silver hinted at years of service.

Pinned to his left lapel was a small metallic badge that caught the dim light: "C.P.D."

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but firm. "Mr. Madoc.We have a few questions."

Calon forced a chuckle, though his nerves were anything but steady. He already had a good idea what this was about.

"Two days ago, you and a group of mercenaries were transporting illegal goods. Is that correct?"

Calon's stomach twisted. No mention of the S.A.M.T. guards who had helped move the cargo before everything went to hell. Not to mention of how it all unraveled in blood and chaos. The image flashed through his mind—a shadowed figure, a black katana cutting through the dark. His breath hitched.

His vision blurred. His surroundings faded.

Black steel. A single strike. Bodies falling.'Run low ranker, run!'

"Mr. Madoc!"

His body jerked as he snapped back to reality, sucking in a sharp breath. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs.

The agent's gaze remained locked onto him, his expression unreadable. "You were part of an operation transporting illegal goods. Correct?"

Calon exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Look, if you're here to arrest me, then do it. We both know you could've dragged me out of here already if that was the plan. So that means you need me."

The agent stared at Calon.

"You're walk thin line, Mr. Madoc," the agent said coldly. "I suggest you choose your words carefully."

A chill ran down Calon's spine. The CPD didn't have enforcers like S.A.M.T., but because they worked under S.A.M.T., they were even worse. He'd heard the stories. Whispers of what happened to prisoners under their jurisdiction.

He swallowed, clearing his throat. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

The agent's expression didn't change. "The killer stole a highly unstable enhancer. In the wrong hands, it could bring catastrophic problems to this city.Everyone else that took part in that operation,anyone that could have told us anything useful is dead, everyone, except for, you.

Calon scoffed. "So? Call a psychometrist. Have them take a look. No need to make me relive past trauma."

The agent stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

"That's the problem, Mr. Madoc," he said, his voice lowering. "We already did."

Calon frowned.

"And you know the strangest thing?" The agent leaned down, their faces inches apart. "They couldn't get a reading. At all."

Calon's blood turned ice-cold.

"That's impossible," he muttered.

"Exactly," the agent said. "And yet—it happened."

A long pause. Then the agent's voice dropped to a near-whisper.

"So now, Mr. Madoc, you're going to tell me everything you know about that night."

The Streets & The Club

The streets outside the Red Veil were alive with neon lights and bad decisions the club belonged to Salvatore Macini one of the lord's of the lower district underworld. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the stink of cheap liquor, the pavement slick from God knows what. Music thumped through the walls of the club, a deep bass that made the very air vibrate.

A long line of party goers—women in skimpy dresses, high heels clicking against the pavement, men in designer knock-offs pretending to be more important than they were—waited impatiently behind a velvet rope. The bouncer at the front of the line was a walking execution order—tall, built like a war machine, and covered in fierce tattoos that crept up his thick neck and down his massive arms. His face was a mask of violence, the kind of man who probably had more bodies on his hands than most serial killers. He didn't need to speak. One glare was enough to make the weak-willed step out of line.

Inside, the club was a den of sin and desperation. The dance floor pulsed with sweaty bodies grinding together, the air thick with the scent of booze, cologne, and the unmistakable chemical sharpness of drugs. But for those who came looking for the real high, the kind that peeled reality away like wet paper, there was only one thing that mattered—Void Dust.

Void Dust was illegal, unstable, and could twist a man into something monstrous. But diluted? Just a sprinkle mixed with regular cocaine or whatever poison you preferred, and you had the perfect high—intense, euphoric, and just controlled enough that it wouldn't turn you into an unrecognizable abomination. The people here? They were flying.

Up in the VIP section, above the chaos of the dance floor, sat Salvatore Macini—a man who exuded power the way fire exudes heat. He wasn't old, somewhere in his thirties, but the years had sculpted him into something both elegant and deadly.

His suit was midnight black, tailored to perfection, with a deep burgundy shirt underneath, unbuttoned just enough to hint at gold jewelry against his chest. His dark hair was slicked back, not in the greasy way of wannabe gangsters, but in the effortless style of a man who knew exactly who he was. A gold watch glinted on his wrist, understated but undeniably expensive.

His face? Sharp, refined, with eyes like a blade held against your throat—calm, calculating, always watching. He had the kind of handsome, dangerous aura that made women flock to him and made men wary of speaking out of turn.

And standing behind him, like a monolith carved from steel, was his personal bodyguard.

The man behind Macini was a goddamn fortress, a tower of muscle and menace, dressed in a tailored dark coat that only made his bulk seem more imposing. His robotic eye glowed faintly, a cybernetic implant that made him look even more unnatural, more predator than man. The other eye? Cold and human—a contrast that made him even more terrifying.

He never spoke unless necessary, never moved unless Macini willed it. But when he did, the room shifted—because everyone knew that if you saw him coming, it was already too late.

Laughter echoed through the VIP booth, the men around Macini laughing, drinking, and toying with the women draped over their laps. A gang member, his nose still red from the Void Dust he just sniffed, let out a bark of laughter.

"Damn—you guys won't believe this! Shags didn't collect the protection fee… because he ran away! From a kid! Hahahaha!"

The table erupted with laughter.

Two men sitting near the edge of the booth—Shags and his partner—shrank in their seats, faces red with embarrassment. Shags clenched his fists, his face twisted in frustration.

"Oh, fuck off," he growled. "You guys weren't there!"

The laughter only grew louder.

One of the men wiped a tear from his eye, grinning. "Damn. If only I could've seen it. Shags shitting his pants 'cause of a kid!"

Then—a voice. Calm. Low. Unshaken.

"Is that true?"

The laughter vanished in an instant.

Every head turned toward Macini, whose gaze was now fixed on Shags. His expression hadn't changed. Still calm. Still unreadable. But that only made it worse.

Shags swallowed, throat dry. His hands trembled as he lowered his gaze.

"…Yes, boss," he whispered.

Macini tilted his head slightly. "Did you fail to collect the protection fee from the Marlowes?"

Shags wilted further, his shoulders sinking. "Y-Yeah, boss."

"Why?"

Shags licked his lips, trying to force the words out. "T… T-there was this kid… He was really strange. He stopped me without even trying and even broke my hand."

Someone scoffed. "Or you just fell down the staircase of your house, you drunk bastard."

The others snickered.

Shags' jaw tightened. "Shut up, you bastard!"

Macini didn't react to the outburst. He simply studied Shags, his fingers lightly tapping against the glass in his hand. Then, after a long pause—

"I have no need for useless people by my side."

Shags froze.

Macini took a slow sip from his drink, then set it down. "Collect what's owed by tomorrow. Or don't bother returning."

The words weren't a threat. They were a death sentence waiting to be carried out.

"…Yes, boss," Shags whispered, exchanging uneasy glances with his partner.

Macini turned his gaze to another man at the table—Stacks, the one who had been laughing the loudest.

"Stacks."

Stacks straightened up, eager. "Yes, boss?"

"I want you to follow them. Make sure they don't screw up again."

Stacks grinned. Inwardly, he was ecstatic. Those two were a couple of idiots—and now, in Macini's eyes, his position had just risen above them.

"Yes, boss."

He stole a glance at Shags, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.Now knowing he was now higher in the bosses eyes than those two. Thinking about the Marlowe family his smile got wider with a crazy gleam in his eyes.

'Oh, Marlowe… debts have consequences. By the time I'm done with you, you'll wish you had never been born.'