Chapter 25

[David's POV]

The moment I gave the go-ahead, Gideon activated the interface.

A second later, the darkness was swept away by streams of light. Holographic projections burst to life, casting an eerie glow across the room.

Now I had every operation, warehouse, laundered dollar and dirty cops list, that could cause a small shockwave throughout this small part of the city. 

I didn't speak. I just absorbed.

After finishing reading it, I leaned back in my chair, hands dragging down my face, fingers gripping my hair like they might pull out the thoughts tangled inside it.

"Fuck," I muttered.

I stood, shoved the chair back and made my way to the small liquor shelf.

I poured a glass of whiskey, didn't bother with ice. Took a long drink.

Silence pressed against the walls now.

I walked back into the room, glass still in hand, and dropped into the chair again.

My eyes stared at nothing for a moment, until the thoughts started lining up.

What I had… it was great. With this, the right person could burn the corrupted people from the Alan confession Video and entire Iron Serpents gang to ash. Every connection, every dirty dollar, every twisted arm of influence. All of it could come crashing down.

But that wasn't enough. Not for me.

I wanted answers. And to get that… I needed to talk to Victor. Face to face.

That bastard had been just a fixer back when it all happened. Now? He was a lieutenant.

But if anyone knew who orchestrated the pressure, the bribes, the silent burial of my mother's murder… it was him.

And the worst part? It had been nearly four years.

Four years of cold trails and closed doors.

There were no clean avenues left.

If I wanted to know who pulled the strings behind the cover-up…

I stared at the black screen for another long minute before pulling out a thumb drive from my inventory.

I plugged it into the laptop.

"Gideon," I said, voice low and even, "copy everything you've compiled so far onto the drive."

"Understood," Gideon replied. "Beginning data transfer."

The room was silent except for the soft hum of the fan. I didn't bother watching the progress bar—Gideon had it handled. I just sat there, rubbing my temples, exhaustion beginning to seep in.

A soft chime echoed seconds later.

"Transfer complete," Gideon announced.

I pulled the thumb drive free and stored the drive in my inventory.

Then I pushed myself to my feet, walked back to the bottle of whiskey, and poured another drink.

The liquid burned less this time. Or maybe I just didn't care.

Eventually, I pulled the drive free and threw it into my inventory.

Then I walked to the bed, still holding my half-empty glass, and sank down onto the mattress like I was carrying the whole damn city on my back.

I reached for the whiskey bottle again and poured another two fingers into the glass, the amber liquid catching the faint glow from the streetlights outside.

I laid back on the bed, one arm tucked behind my head, the other balancing the drink on my chest.

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[The Next Day]

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting slatted patterns across the room. I stirred awake, the residual haze of sleep quickly dissipating.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I moved through my routine—a brisk shower, a quick breakfast. Then I settled at my workstation. Multiple monitors flickered to life, displaying a mosaic of stock charts, news feeds, and financial dashboards.

Yesterday marked the beginning of my foray into the stock market. I had adopted a dollar-cost averaging strategy, aiming to mitigate the risks of market volatility.

I reviewed the overnight performance. The market's fluctuations were expected, but my long-term strategy remained intact. I set automated buy orders for the week, ensuring consistent investment regardless of sentiment.

Then it was time for fieldwork.

My outfit was simple: dark jeans, a gray hoodie, and a baseball cap—standard attire for blending in. Just another face in the crowd.

I was already familiar with the layout of the area.

First stop was an unassuming red-brick building with faded signage, surrounded by a chain-link fence. The yard was quiet but not empty. Two guards lingered near the loading bay, smoking and talking softly. I could spot sidearms beneath their jackets.

I took a slow walk past on the opposite side of the street, keeping my gaze casual. A beat-up van idled near the corner.

A block down, I ducked into a coffee shop, ordered something forgettable, and slipped out the back. A fire escape on the adjacent building gave me access to the rooftop—four stories up. I crawled into position.

From this vantage point, I saw the pattern: every thirty minutes, a truck arrived, stayed for ten to fifteen minutes, and left. No markings on the trucks.

I whispered, "Gideon, can you access the building's security?"

A second later, his voice tickled my earpiece. "Only exterior systems. But I can scan for other devices. Shall I proceed?"

"Yeah. Do that," I muttered. "Take a snapshot of every face entering or exiting. Also, get me the building's blueprints."

"Yes, David."

I stayed until traffic shifted, movement slowed, and the sun began to dip. Then I ghosted off the roof and made my way to the next location.

Now on to the second warehouse.

I hit the rooftops again—three buildings over, with a clean line of sight. Lying on my stomach behind a rusted HVAC unit, I pulled a compact monocular from my backpack and started logging details: faces, builds, weapons.

These weren't street-level thugs. Their posture was too clean. Ex-military? Hired guns? Maybe mercs.

Why the hell would a street gang need hired guns?

"Gideon, same as before," I said quietly.

The trucks here were unmarked refrigerated vans. Drugs? Organs? Girls? Didn't matter. I'd find out soon enough.

Third site was different—well hidden. From the street, it looked abandoned. But I didn't trust appearances.

I parked myself on the fire escape of the building across the street and waited.

Half an hour later, the side door creaked open. Two men exited, carrying duffel bags. They tossed them into the trunk of a van and drove off without saying a word.

"Get me a plate on that vehicle," I told Gideon.

"Already traced. Belongs to a laundry service that went out of business three years ago."

"Could be a shell company. Dig deeper."

"Yes, David."

That was enough. This place was a ghost warehouse. No records. No names. Whatever was happening inside wasn't just illegal—it didn't even exist on paper.

I slipped into the alley, hugging the shadows, and took one last look at the door.

The city slipped into its usual dusk haze as I crouched on the edge of a worn rooftop. The hum of traffic was ever-present—muted, distant. Below, shadows stretched longer by the minute, hugging alleyways and creeping up walls like they had something to hide.

Technically, it was the start of the week. Clubs didn't run at full steam this early.

But places like El Toro and Nocturne never really slept. What looked like silence to the casual eye was a message to someone like me.

I'd already swept three warehouses. Now it was time to observe the other half of their operation.

El Toro squatted at the end of a narrow street, flanked by graffiti-covered walls and a padlocked service gate. The neon sign above the entrance buzzed faintly, half-lit and dim.

The place looked closed—no doorman, no line, no velvet ropes.

From my rooftop vantage point—northwest corner, two buildings away—I watched as two men emerged from the side entrance.

They unloaded crate after crate from a blacked-out van. Six in total. Two were marked as liquor shipments. The other four? Plain, industrial, and unmarked.

I zoomed in with my phone lens, catching one of the men flicking a small flashlight over each crate. A quick scan—checking for tampering, confirming the count.

Inside, the lights flickered behind heavily tinted windows. Someone was definitely home. But no sound. No bassline. No crowd.

I moved across a scaffolded construction frame, keeping to the shadows. Ten minutes later, I was three blocks down and one building up—overlooking Nocturne.

Compared to El Toro, Nocturne wore its wealth like cologne—loud and confident. Even on a Monday, the sign above the door pulsed in hues of violet and sapphire. The velvet ropes were still in place, the entryway lit just enough to maintain the illusion of normalcy.

I crouched at the ledge and waited.

One guard paced in a slow arc near the door.

What caught my attention wasn't his posture—it was his earpiece. Short wire, custom-fit. Definitely not standard club security.

A second man stepped out from a side door and handed something off—a padded envelope—to a courier in an unmarked hoodie. The exchange was quick. Clean.

I stayed a little longer to observe the rhythm.

It didn't change.

By the time I returned to my final perch—an overlook on the west corner of Hell's Kitchen—the sun had sunk below the skyline. A burnt orange streak clung to the sky, fading fast into grey-blue.

My back ached. My thighs burned. I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

But I'd gotten what I came for.

I pulled my hood tighter as the first breeze of night swept across the rooftops.

Just as I was about to leave, a series of system notifications chimed softly in my ear.

It had been so long, I'd almost forgotten what the system's mission alerts sounded like.

I opened the interface.

Five new missions. All at once.

A chill ran down my spine.

I have a bad feeling about this.

To Be Continued...