Con Artists Deserve Penalty

"Keep digging—or shall I blow your brains out?" Harai barked, the muzzle of his pistol unwavering as he loomed over the two impeccably tailored gentlemen. Their polished shoes trembled on chipped pavement, each breath shallow with fear.

The room was a sanctum of dark oak and whispered authority. Mr. Amou, fingers interlaced like a bishop's hands, beckoned his lieutenants closer beneath the chessboard glow of a single desk lamp.

"Wanaka, Harai—I summon you for a mission of utmost gravity," he announced, his voice a silken blade.

A low nod from Harai and the calm, unreadable glare from Wanaka—swords drawn in the prelude of duty.

"Two con artists have been infecting our turf—Liaou Zheng and Quangeng Zhengxiao." His tone grew ominous. "They exploit the credulity of the populace, and worse—they invoke our name to manipulate and threaten. That cannot stand."

Harai straightened, tension coiling in his jaw. "Your orders, sir?"

"Hunt them down. Remove them from this realm."

"At your service, sir," replied Wanaka with measured grace.

"They operate within our territory—Yūrei‑ku. Use that to your advantage." Mr. Amou's gaze bore into them. "Discretion is paramount. I want no scandal, no missteps."

The duo bowed once, sinew snapping into place. "Your pleasure is our command."

An hour into their surveillance, splayed across the manicured chaos of neon-lit streets, Harai's nerves frayed. "How are we meant to find these curs in a crowd this thick?" he hissed, forcing calm into his voice.

Wanaka's gaze was a silent ocean—observant, patient. "Remain vigilant, Harai. Their arrogance will betray them."

Harai's tense shoulders laughed back. "Easy for you to say."

Wanaka's eyes flicked to him with enough intensity to halt speech. Harai swallowed.

A sudden jolt in Wanaka's stance. Without a word, he beckoned Harai down a narrow thoroughfare lined with holographic lanterns.

They emerged at Latta Plaza—an architectural marvel of suspended walkways and luminescent lotus sculptures. The exterior shimmered like liquid chrome; within, soft lantern-lit courtyards nestled between cascading cyber-wisteria.

They threaded through velvet-draped VIP lounges and designer boutiques, eyes peeled for their marks. Amid the hush, a figure emerged from the shadows: a woman in her thirties, resplendent in a red silk sheath, her crimson curls tumbling over shoulders like liquid flame. As she passed Wanaka, she slipped a folded note into his chest pocket with the fluid grace of a dancer.

Wanaka's expression remained stoic, but Harai's confusion flared. What game was this?

Moments later, in a silent alcove, Wanaka withdrew the note. He unfolded it—inked with finesse:

"First VIP Room. Liaou and Quangeng await."

Harai's face drained to ash. "They're already inside?"

Wanaka nodded once. "Our adversaries mask confidence with poise. Now, we match it—or we fail."

Behind them, the hush of the Plaza settled once more, the lotus lanterns glowing softly—witnesses to a conspiracy, and the hunt about to begin.

Wanaka's voice was a hushed blade in the dim corridor as he nodded to Harai.

"Come on—they're in the first V.I.P room."

"Aye."

With a brutal synchrony, they burst through the door—Wanaka's katana glinting like a sliver of moonlight, Harai's pistol steadfast as a judge's gavel.

The two men inside—Liaou Zheng and Quangeng Zhengxiao—jolted upright, their faces paling to the shade of spoiled milk.

Liaou's voice quavered, his fingers tightening around his glass. "Who the hell are you?"

Quangeng, ever the fool, spluttered in indignation. "Yeah!"

Wanaka's lips curled into a predator's grin. "We're the angels of death." He pressed the razored edge of his katana against Quangeng's cheek, drawing a thin crimson thread. "And no one's coming to save you."

Both men scrambled like panicked rats, shouting for security—only to be met with silence.

With pitiless efficiency, Wanaka and Harai dragged them through the back exit, their protests muffled by fear and brute force. The night swallowed them whole as they bundled the pair into a waiting car, its engine growling like a starved beast.

The woods loomed ahead—a cathedral of shadows, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and impending doom.

Harai flung two shovels onto the ground, the steel clanging against stone.

"Dig."

Liaou and Quangeng hesitated—until Harai's pistol kissed the nape of Quangeng's neck.

"Unless you'd prefer a bullet to speed things along."

Trembling, they obeyed, their hands blistering, their breath ragged with exhaustion.

As they slowed, Harai cocked the hammer, his voice a whip-crack in the dark.

"Faster."

The shovels clattered to the ground as Liaou Zheng and Quangeng Zhengxiao wiped the grime from their hands, their chests heaving from exertion. The grave yawned before them—a gaping maw in the earth, hungry for its due.

Liaou flashed a nervous grin, his voice reedy with forced bravado.

"We've done our part. Can we go now?"

Wanaka tilted his head, his katana catching the moonlight in a sinuous gleam.

"Aye, aye. But first—your reward."

The two men exchanged glances, their eyes alight with greedy anticipation. Quangeng chuckled, rubbing his hands together.

"What's the gift, then? Cash? Jewels?"

Wanaka's smile did not reach his eyes.

In a blur of steel, his katana cleaved through Quangeng Zhengxiao, the blade moving with lightning brutality. The man's body collapsed in a grotesque jigsaw of limbs, tumbling into the grave with a wet thud.

Liaou's laughter pierced the night—a shrill, unhinged cackle, the sound of a mind unspooling at the seams.

Harai's brow arched, his pistol hovering at Liaou's temple.

"What the devil's so funny?"

Liaou's giggles dissolved into whimpers as Harai strode to the car, retrieving a canister of kerosene. The liquid splashed over Liaou's trembling form, the stench pungent and cloying.

"P-please—"

Harai struck a match, the flame dancing in his cold eyes.

"Burn, baby. Burn."

The fire engulfed Liaou in a roaring embrace, his screams a symphony of agony. Wanaka stepped forward, his katana flashing once more—bisecting the burning man with surgical precision. His body joined Quangeng's in the pit, the flames licking at the edges like hell's own candles.

Wanaka flicked the blood from his blade, his voice a murmur of satisfaction.

"Neat bit of gardening, that."

Harai holstered his pistol, casting a final glance at the smoldering grave.

"Aye. Let's not linger—boss'll want a report."

The two men melted into the shadows, their car purring to life as the woods swallowed the evidence of their dark craftsmanship.