11:42 p.m. – Lower French Quarter, New Orleans
The abandoned candy factory was a strange place to pick a fight — but then again, Ryan Bruce had been in stranger places. The air was thick with sugar dust, regret, and the faint smell of burnt caramel. Every step echoed like a secret being whispered too loudly.
Crouched low behind a rusting conveyor belt, Ryan eyed the group of armed men in the center of the factory. They were huddled around a battered metal suitcase like it was the last donut in the office break room. Suspicious. Tense. Armed to the teeth.
His earpiece buzzed faintly — ONYX CORE's encrypted frequency. Ryan slapped it off with a hissed curse.
"No backup," he muttered. "Just good ol' Veltrix-style chaos."
His fingers twitched. This wasn't an official mission. This was personal. Off-book. Which, for Ryan, was basically a regular Tuesday.
Then came the crash.
A pipe clattered to the floor near the thugs, instantly drawing their attention.
Ryan didn't wait.
He snatched a dented tray of hardened jawbreakers from the conveyor belt, popped one into his mouth like a sports mouthguard, and hurled the rest like grenade shrapnel.
THWACK. BONK. SMACK.
Three men dropped with groans, knocked out cold by fifty-cent candy that probably predated the internet.
He cracked his neck. "Boom. Tactical candy deployment. We're doing this."
But more backup spilled in through the side doors — the kind of men who looked like they had protein shakes for blood and bench-pressed vending machines for fun.
Ryan ducked behind an old cotton candy cart as fists and bullets flew.
And then, chaos.
He rolled, punched, jabbed, dodged. Elbow to a solar plexus. Knee to a shin. A full spin move that would've gotten him kicked out of a yoga class.
One guy swung a bat at his head. Ryan sidestepped, grabbed a length of old licorice rope, and lassoed the thug's ankles in a single, fluid motion.
THUD. Flat on the floor.
"Five seconds. That's a new personal best," Ryan said to no one in particular. "Somebody give me a gold star and a juice box."
A gunshot cracked.
Ryan dove behind a gumball machine just as bullets chewed up the floor where he'd been standing.
Gumballs spilled out everywhere like rainbow marbles from a clown's funeral.
Ryan whispered to himself, "Okay. No more candy puns. Time to leave before I get turned into a human piñata."
He grabbed the suitcase, shoved open a side door, and ran straight into—
Larsen.
Calm. Unbothered. Standing in the shadows with a crooked grin and the confidence of a man who's already planned five exits.
"Hello, Veltrix," he said smoothly. "Nice to see you still know how to make a mess."
Ryan froze. Every instinct screamed danger. And also run, fight, and pretend you're not wearing a candy bracelet as a tactical tool.
Larsen chuckled. "You're slipping. Family life's softening you."
Ryan smiled coolly. "Yeah? Well, soft people do this—"
He punched Larsen right in the face, grabbed the suitcase, and bolted.
Cue the chase scene.
Out the back alley. Through trash bins. Over a fence.
Through a backyard birthday party where Ryan accidentally knocked over a SpongeBob-shaped cake and yelled, "Sorry! Spy stuff!"
Then through a street parade. Because of course New Orleans would be throwing a brass band party at midnight.
Ryan crashed through it like a pinball — knocking over a tuba player, grabbing a feather boa for camouflage, and ducking behind a guy in a crocodile costume.
He spotted an inflatable crawfish and vaulted behind it just as bullets zipped past.
"I swear," he gasped, "this is the last time I go on a candy-factory stakeout."
Back at the House – 12:30 a.m.
Meanwhile, in a very different universe — known as "suburban parenting" — the Bruce household was suspiciously quiet.
Holly and Faith were wide awake, giggling as they duct-taped glitter cannons under the dining table. Why? "Because bedtime is for cowards," Holly said with authority.
Emily, curled on the couch, sipped tea and read a paperback mystery novel.
She had no idea her husband was currently evading a criminal mastermind by hiding behind an inflatable seafood mascot.
Because in this house?
A secret must stay a secret.
And Ryan Bruce — ONYX CORE agent, codename Veltrix — was currently sprinting down Bourbon Street with a suitcase full of classified nightmares and a trail of chaos behind him.
Just a regular Tuesday.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]