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Ryuk's perspective:
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While Ray was confronting Loken, Sylvia was conducting a covert investigation — one quietly assigned to her by the Mahoons, who could not exert full jurisdiction over the northern sectors of Ravenia.
The operation briefing was held in Ravenia District 7's Police Command Hall — a cold, angular room made of gunmetal walls and reinforced glass panels. Holographic screens hovered in mid-air, glowing a faint blue, while sleek black terminals lined the edges of the room like silent sentinels. The low hum of energy pulsed beneath the floor tiles, and distant alarms blinked red on a security feed no one dared to acknowledge.
A detailed map of the northern region flickered to life over the central table — topography shifting in real time as satellite scans updated terrain data. Around it stood six heavily-armored Mahoon enforcers, their hippo-like physiques hulking inside X-series plated exo-SWAT suits, thick and matte-black with subtle chrome tracing. Across from the mission commander stood Sylvia, arms crossed, wearing a navy business jacket and slacks — practical and inconspicuous.
"The primary objective is simple," the Mahoon captain began, his gravelly voice distorted slightly through his helmet. "Catch them in the act. Observe only. Do not engage. Once we confirm, we'll push these wolves back to their tribes."
Despite their natural resilience — skin so dense that even a werewolf's claws barely left a mark — Mahoons never took chances. Especially not anymore.
Sylvia studied the map, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Why don't you have jurisdiction in the North? I thought the Allen Family's purge of the Assassin Syndicate settled all that."
The captain paused. A slow breath escaped him, and when he spoke again, there was a different weight behind his words.
"That might've been the biggest mistake we've made. You can't eradicate something like that. You cut off a head... something worse always grows back."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if afraid the walls might listen.
"This new group... We don't even know their name. We just call them The Silence. Not because they're subtle — but because no one ever speaks after meeting them."
A chill settled over the room. Even the other Mahoons stilled.
"They operate like a cult. Organized, disciplined, but... hollow. All their members wear masks. No emblems, ranks or, names. They don't run, they walk — like they're not afraid of anything. And the worst part?" His helmet retracted slightly, revealing sharp, anxious eyes beneath a scarred face.
"They worship the Emperor. Just like us."
"That doesn't make any sense," Sylvia said, her tone flat but her fingers tightening around her bicep.
"Exactly. They're loyalists... We don't know why... They've infiltrated small towns, influenced minor officers. Even tech systems we thought were secure have gone dark near their sightings."
"And the people who try to investigate?"
He met her gaze.
"They vanish. No traces. Not even corpses. Just... silence."
He straightened, mask hissing back into place.
"They're not as strong as the Assassin Syndicate. Not yet. But they've managed to reduce crime wherever they go. As if they're... cleansing the chaos. And that makes them even harder to pin down."
Sylvia let the silence linger a moment longer, then asked,
"So this mission — is suppression even possible?"
"It's not about winning. It's about showing presence," the captain replied. "If they're watching, we remind them that the law still breathes."
He tapped the digital display. The map zoomed in on a remote village near the darkwood border.
"We move at midnight. You'll be inserted as a civilian observer. No weapons. No interference. If things go sideways, we pull you out."
"Understood," Sylvia replied, her voice calm — but behind her composed expression, something gnawed at her.
Something about this... silence... and a cult that worshipped law with fanaticism.
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Ray's perspective:
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"That's a rather flattering title," Ryuk said, watching the live feed of the Police Command Hall through a softly humming hologram projected by Wally. We sat atop Loken's mansion, where the night air smelled faintly of scorched steel and forgotten ambition. "Much better than Eden, if I may be honest."
I exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the blue-tinted projection.
"I'm not changing our name just because someone in a badge-stained chair needed something ominous to call us. But a cult? Really? That's a stretch. And the part about following the Emperor—since when is loyalty a crime?"
Ryuk tilted his head, grinning.
"Depends on who you're loyal to. Nothing frightens people quite like someone who obeys too well."
Moriarty appeared beside us in soul-form, his translucent figure rippling like heat above asphalt.
"These sons of Mahoons always find something to panic about. No wonder the Hunters keep inventing new slurs for them."
He folded his arms, surveying the hologram with narrowed eyes.
"Should we intervene? Sylvia could rip through Loken's men like paper. Unless he gets off his royal ass and does something himself, this whole thing becomes a mess."
I leaned back slightly, tapping a finger against my knee.
"If we step in directly, Sylvia's going to start investigating the matter. She's clever enough to see through a shadow even before it falls. And if Loken shows up in the wrong place at the wrong time... they'll know someone inside's pulling strings."
The three of us sat in stillness, the kind that doesn't settle — it lingers.
"No," I murmured. "We won't stop it. But we can soften the blow. Misdirection, a little pressure here, a minor failure there... like nudging a chess piece and letting the other side believe it tripped."
A small smile curled at the edge of my lips.
"I always did enjoy playing the long game."
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Ravenia
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Northern District
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Sector 37
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In the unclaimed industrial wasteland of Sector 37, a convoy of heavy vehicles rumbled through rusted gates and into a row of abandoned warehouses. Werewolves, fully transformed, stood guard — their snouts twitching with every new scent the wind carried. Their natural senses made them deadly watchdogs, especially against stealth units like assassins or spies. Even the Mahoons, with their strength and armor, found it difficult to deal with such creatures.
"Get it moving, ya snout-faces!" barked a grizzled grey werewolf dressed in dusty construction overalls.
At his command, the others picked up the pace, unloading massive trucks stacked with crates of extraterrestrial metals — alloys that shimmered unnaturally under the moonlight. Each crate was treated like sacred cargo as it was carefully transported into the cavernous storage halls.
"Sir," came a voice — a reddish-brown werewolf in a crisp business suit approached, his claws clicking softly on the concrete floor. "We've got a buyer. Wants to purchase in bulk. Should we bring her here?"
"Here? Are you nuts, kid?" The grey werewolf snapped, turning with a growl. "Nobody buys at the stash. That's how you end up with a bullet in your shipment. Or worse, a Mahoon swat raid."
"She doesn't look like a Mahoon," the red one replied. "Seems human. Maybe a meta. Definitely has money."
The grey werewolf squinted, his ears twitching.
"Looks rich, huh? Is it another one of those Silverheart brats?" He let out a disgruntled sigh. "By the Emperor... I hate dealing with those spoiled little freaks."
He waved the younger werewolf off with a clawed hand.
"Fine. Bring her in. Sell her whatever she wants. Then get her out of here before she starts asking questions."
After a short wait, the reddish-brown werewolf returned — and with him came a young woman, no older than seventeen or eighteen. She wore a navy business jacket and slacks, her blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Aquamarine eyes scanned the warehouse calmly, framed by fair skin far too clean for a place like this.
The grey werewolf narrowed his eyes. His nose twitched.
"Blonde? You ain't a Silverheart—"
He stopped mid-sentence. His nostrils flared. Then his eyes went wide with rage and primal disgust.
"Mahoons," he growled, spitting the word like venom. "You brat... you brought in an officer."
"Wha—?" the younger werewolf barely got the word out before his world turned upside down — literally.
With a roar, the grey werewolf lunged forward, claws flashing. In one brutal motion, he ripped the red-furred werewolf's body apart, spine and all, blood spraying across the concrete like a red mist.
"Get the hell outta here!" he barked. "Grab the goods and toss this brat in a cell!"
He crushed the skull of his former subordinate in one hand — bone and brain matter crumbling like pulp — then turned toward the girl, preparing to move.
But he didn't make it a step further.
Without warning, a massive, crushing force slammed into the warehouse like gravity itself had turned hostile. Every werewolf dropped to their knees, snarling and straining under the invisible weight.
"You…" the grey werewolf gasped, staring at the girl. She hadn't moved — just stood there, still and serene, like a statue carved from calm resolve.
From the shadows beyond the entrance, a voice called out.
"Good job, miss. We'll take it from here."
Dozens of Mahoons in full SWAT armor stormed the warehouse. Their steps were precise. Their movements silent. One by one, they cuffed the struggling werewolves without resistance.
The mission had begun — and ended — in under a minute.
"Wait a moment before you bring this one out—I've got a question for him," Sylvia said, her voice calm but authoritative, just as the captain began to approach the grey werewolf who seemed to be the leader of the pack.
"Go ahead," the captain replied, stepping aside slightly while keeping his weapon raised, finger ready on the trigger. Just in case.
"New Law: The Enforcer receives only the correct answers from the designated target," Sylvia muttered under her breath, casting the subtle incantation with precision. She stepped toward the werewolf, her gaze sharp and inquisitive.
"Now, tell me—what do you know about this so-called cult… The Silence?"
"The what?" the grey werewolf growled, still trying to steady himself despite the shackles and the bruises. He blinked as if the words didn't make sense.
"The ones who give you orders," Sylvia clarified, her tone unwavering.
"The Silence? Is that what they call themselves?" he asked, his ears twitching, genuine confusion flashing across his expression. "We've been working for a cult?"
"You don't even know who you work for?" Sylvia asked, brows furrowing in disbelief.
"You might have the wrong idea, kid," the werewolf replied gruffly. "Askin' questions around here? That's how you get yourself killed."
The captain, clearly losing his patience, reached out and gripped the werewolf's skull, pulling him up by the head with one arm, the sheer force enough to make a lesser creature scream.
"Talk," he growled.
"I'm not refusin'. Ask all you want. But I'm tellin' ya, I don't know anything 'bout who's behind the orders. None of us do," the werewolf said, impressively calm despite the intense pressure making his head feel like it might burst.
"Sir! You need to see this!" someone shouted from inside the warehouse.
The captain immediately dropped the werewolf and rushed toward the sound, Sylvia following close behind.
"What in the—" the captain muttered, eyes going wide as they reached the scene.
Before them was an opened crate, packed neatly with grade one extraterrestrial metals—completely legal, low-tier, and common.
"Open every crate. Now!" the captain barked, and the SWAT team scrambled into action, prying open each container one after another.
Sylvia's eyes narrowed. "What the hell…"
Every single crate held nothing above grade one. Legally sellable, legally stored—even if the location was a bit questionable.
"We even have a license," the grey werewolf called out from outside. "You'll find the documents in my truck."
The captain clenched his fists but forced himself to remain composed—especially with someone from Paragon present. His jaw twitched, but he swallowed his frustration.
"You're still being charged for murder," he snapped.
Sylvia turned to him. "Did we get the wrong intel?"
"That's impossible," the captain replied. "I'd trust my source with my life… This must be the trick of those damn cultists," he said, voice tight with barely contained fury.
"All this effort... and we can arrest only one of them—who doesn't even know who he works for," the captain muttered in frustration, shaking his head. "Clear out. Bring all of them to the station."
As the Mahoons hauled the werewolves away, something microscopic stirred. From the right ear of the grey werewolf, a tiny nanobot—no larger than a speck of dust and invisible to the naked eye—crawled out, skittered across the debris-littered floor of Sector 37, and exited unnoticed into the night. Outside the border wall, it climbed onto a drone's leg and was swiftly collected by Wally.
"You know, Mahoons are such fascinating creatures," I mused, watching their clunky, metallic exosuits reflect the dim light of Sector 37 like dutiful beetles scurrying back to the hive. "Driven by a singular purpose—to enforce the law. So singular, in fact, they often forget what it means to think like anything but an officer."
I let the silence stretch for a moment, just long enough to let the thought settle.
"No wonder my father never liked working with them."
Below us, the district was crawling with movement. The live feed, courtesy of Wally, displayed every angle of the recent operation. The clean-up had already begun, the swat teams moving like clockwork, unaware they'd been played.
"Sylvia's laws are absolute, yes. But when it comes to rules like that..." I raised a finger as if to lecture an invisible class, "I always remain one step ahead."
"You see, Loken's men don't even know what they're transporting. They memorize the weight, the scent, maybe the shape if they're lucky. So when Reinhardt swapped their precious grade-two metals for clever imitations of grade-one... they didn't blink. Not even once. Why would they? They've been trained not to think."
I gestured to the monitor, where Wally's nanobot—our invisible narrator—had already nestled itself back into its tiny pod. "And our furry friend, bless his naive heart, is now reciting exactly what I want the Mahoons to hear. Not because he wants to. Because he believes it."
I leaned back, watching the city below—orderly, efficient, blind.
"In cases like these... think like a detective, not a criminal," I quoted my father. "A criminal hides. A detective erases."
"You really are taking after your father," Ryuk commented after my speech ended.