Palmborough. 8:17 am.
26 Benny St.
Antonio sat slouched on the couch in his dark, secluded apartment. Every blind was shut tight, trapping the room in a heavy blue gloom. The only light came from the burner phone in his hand—its screen casting a cold glow across his face. He stared at the contact name, KOJO.
Not a friend. Not an ally. A last resort. He inhaled sharply, jaw ticking.
"The kind of number that ruins a man… or turns him into something else.", Antonio muttered.
His thumb hovered—then he pressed call. the line rang once, twice, then…
"Aye, Antonio Gonzalez." Kojo's voice slid through the speaker—unhurried, but sharp enough to cut.
"Kojo—long time.", Antonio said, his voice low.
"Yes… a long time indeed.", Kojo replied. "So why the call all of a sudden?", His words carried a lazy curiosity, but something pulsed underneath.
"Well… I need your help." Antonio said, the sincerity in his voice hanging heavy in the silence that followed.
For a moment, the line was still. Then Kojo laughed—low, malicious, the kind of sound that curled at the edges like smoke.
"No, you don't." Kojo said. "What you need is Jesus—'cause for you to call me at this hour, you're clearly up to no good. Again."
Antonio exhaled hard, rubbing a hand through his hair.
"It's… really bad. I—I'm in a corner, and I need ten million.", Antonio admitted, his voice tight.
Silence stretched across the line. Then Kojo laughed—so hard, so loud, Antonio had to pull the phone away from his ear.
"Ten million?!" Kojo barked, laughter rolling through the line. "Bro… that's not 'help'—that's resurrection.", he added, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Kojo… I wouldn't ask if—" Antonio began, but Kojo cut him off.
"You wouldn't ask if you had pride." Kojo said, his tone cunning. "But pride won't save your stupidity, right? So… what happened?"
Antonio didn't answer. He couldn't answer.
"Fine. Don't talk—just listen." Kojo said, the faint click of a lighter echoing through the line.
"There's a way." he continued, voice low and deliberate. "Dirty as hell. Loud. Stupid. Entertaining. The kinda thing your father would've loved."
"What is it?" Antonio asked, his voice barely masking the edge of desperation.
"Ever heard of the Golden Dice Royale?" Kojo asked, his tone carrying a dangerous edge.
Antonio frowned, running a hand through his hair, a flicker of confusion—and curiosity—crossing his face.
"No. Sounds fake.", Antonio said.
"Oh—but it's real, it's underground, it's Kayland. Buy in two million bucks, the winning pot ranges anywhere from ten to thirty million. One night. One room. One table.", Kojo said his voice smooth and confident.
Antonio froze. His eyes shot wide, disbelief and adrenaline colliding in a single, sharp moment.
"Kojo, where am i supposed to get two million just to buy in?", Antonio asked.
"Oh, don't worry." Kojo said, a sly smile audible through the phone. "I'll cover your buy-in."
Antonio blinked, genuinely puzzled.
"…Why?" he asked, his voice edged with suspicion.
"Because if you lose… you owe me.", Kojo said letting the words hang, "And if you win? You cover your debt and i get twenty percent."
Antonio swallowed hard, as if trying to choke down a pill made of all his sorrows.
"And if the other players find out you rigged my buy in?", Antonio asked, suspicion lacing his voice.
Kojo scoffed softly. "Bro, if the other players find out anything, we're already dead. Everyone in that room is dangerous—politicians' sons, musicians, drug lords… guys with bodyguards who've got bodyguards."
Antonio let out a desperate sigh.
"What's the game?" he asked.
"Dice." Kojo said, his voice sharp. "Loud dice. Violent dice—the kind that make a grown man scream."
Then his tone softened slightly. "But I warn you… the event gets insane. Cheating is normal. Fights break out every round. Everyone thinks you're a nobody… until you roll something crazy."
Antonio nodded slowly.
"And you're sure I can win?" he asked, his voice cautious but hopeful.
"Nope." Kojo replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But if you've got your father's hands… you've got a shot."
Antonio looked up at his ceiling. Max's name weighed upon him like a chain.
"Alright. When?", he asked.
"Tonight." Kojo said. "Kayland. Basement under the old fire station. Dress clean. Don't talk. Don't joke. And don't look anyone in the eyes for too long."
"You'll be there?", Antonio asked, searching for reassurance.
"I'll be in the back. Watching." Kojo said.
"Oh, and Antonio." he added, voice low and sharp. "Once you step inside, you're not in San El Zorro anymore. You're in my kingdom. You ready for that?"
Antonio closed his eyes for a beat.
"I don't have a choice." he said, his voice edged with quiet resolve.
Kojo uttered a low chuckle. "That's what makes it fun."
Then suddenly— 'click'. The line went dead.
Antonio sat in silence, the distant hum of cars drifting through the streets. Twelve hours. Twelve hours to prepare before stepping into Kayland's wildest den—gambling his life to earn it back from Max.
Downtown San El Zorro. 8:45 am.
Justice Arcade—420 DuPont Rd.
Michael and Marcel stood tall in the crowded city bus as it rolled to a stop outside Justice Arcade. The massive complex sat along the busiest street in the district, surrounded by towering commercial buildings that cast long shadows over the rushing crowds below.
When the doors hissed open, the two hopped off the bus and stepped onto the pavement beneath the bus stop shelter. Michael adjusted his earbuds, music pulsing faintly from them, while Marcel took a slow pull from his vape, the mist drifting lazily into the morning air.
"You ready to die?", Michael asked, eyes fixed on him with a chilling stillness.
Marcel coughed through a cloud of smoke. "Nah… I should be asking you that.", he said, matching Michael's stride as they headed for the entrance of Justice Arcade.
Michael laughed under his breath. "Oh yeah? And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" he said with a crooked smirk.
"Must I remind you—I've never lost at laser tag." Marcel said, his shoulders lifting with confidence.
They stepped through the sliding doors and into the dimly lit domain of Justice Arcade.
The place opened up like a neon universe. Basketball hoops flashed like giant adverts, motor and racing games growled from every corner, and a bumper-car arena—big enough to fit a full basketball court—commanding the center of the floor. An ice rink shimmered beside it, frosted and glowing under cold blue lights.
"Once I'm done whipping your ass, let's come back her to try out a few games.", Marcel said, as they both walked down the main alley.
Michael glanced at his phone. "Actually, I'd rather hit the casino on the second floor—maybe play a game of blackjack." he said, still scrolling.
"Alright young boomer.", Marcel said cracking out a laugh.
They cut a left, heading down a wide hallway washed in neon signs and flickering posters. Action-figure animations played across the TVs overhead, casting bright colors over the passing crowd. A few players drifted in and out of the entrance to 'Don Don Tag', some still hyped, others already arguing about who cheated who.
"You brought zak' too, right?", Marcel asked, Marcel asked, tilting his head in curiosity.
Michael fanned out a stack of notes, letting them glint in the light. "Right here, brokie." he said with a smirk.
"Damn… why you got to flex like that?" Marcel asked as they reached the entrance, ready to buy tickets.
They joined a short line, moving forward until they reached the counter, where a worker leaned casually against it, looking like some kind of guru.
"Morning. That'll be three hundred bucks." the man greeted in a lazy drawl.
"What's up, man? Your eyes look red." Marcel asked, squinting as he studied him.
"Huh? …They are? Never noticed. So, you paying or not? My boss hates it when I drag my feet." the man drawled.
"Yeah." Michael said, dropping some bills on the counter. "Yo… what's your name, man?" Marcel added.
The man stuffed the cash into the register. "Yanoah." he replied, his voice slow and lazy.
"Ya-Noah?" Marcel repeated.
"Yeah, like that." Yanoah replied, handing them their gamer tags.
"Go right down the hallway and take a left—you'll hit the playground. But before you get there, make sure to stop by the inventory room to gear up. You can customize your weapons and attire…pretty cool, right?" Yanoah said lazily.
"Pretty extra, if you ask me." Michael said, his tone icy.
"Wow, someone's fun at parties." Yanoah shot back. Marcel chuckled quietly.
"Anyways… have a wonderful adventure, like Don Don!" Yanoah said. Silence hung for a beat.
"Don't ask—my boss says I have to 'set the mood.' Just… enjoy the session." he said, waving his hands like it explained everything.
"Cool—no problem." Michael muttered. They slipped through the hallway, the fluorescent lights flickering above, heading for the inventory room.
"You're not ready for this heat, son." Marcel murmured, the dim lights flickering across his face as they moved forward.
"In your dreams." Michael responded, stepping into the inventory room. They fanned out, hands brushing over weapons hung along the walls, armor and helmets gleaming in the dim light. Gunfire was moments away here—but elsewhere, another battle had already begun.
Revelation House of the Lord. 10:11 am
Crystal Avenue. Pinpoint Center.
Kathrine and Tokyo waited outside the church with Mila and Akira, speaking with some of the neighborhood residents. Laughter and chatter drifted through the air as cars crowded the parking lot—some arriving, some leaving.
Inside, the church was half-empty. A pair of people knelt in prayer while others made their way out. Sisters moved briskly through the aisles, attending to their tasks, while the choir packed up their equipment on the stage. A lone man played the piano, filling the space with solemn notes.
Stephen sat in the confession booth, staring at the tiny holes in the door as shafts of light cut through. His hands were clasped tightly in desperation. He prayed silently, mindfully, letting the quiet stretch around him.
After a long moment, the door of the neighboring booth creaked open—and then shut.
Stephen ended his prayer with the sign of the Trinity; forehead, left shoulder, right shoulder. "Amen." he muttered, opening his eyes. Slowly, the little window connecting the two booths began to slide open.
"Good morning, my child." the priest greeted, his deep voice resonating through the quiet booth.
"Good morning, Father." Stephen exchanged the greet.
"How are you feeling today?" The priest asked.
"To be honest… I don't know, Father." Stephen whispered, his voice heavy with uncertainty.
"Speak from your heart, my child." the priest said, his deep voice calm and steady. "Our Father who art in heaven heals those who seek Him."
"I seek forgiveness." Stephen murmured.
"Seek no more." the priest responded, his deep voice calm and unwavering. "Our Father has already forgiven thee."
Stephen exhaled softly. "But… it doesn't feel like it." he admitted.
"It might not feel like it because you are not willing." the priest stated, his deep voice calm and steady. "Open yourself to Him. Let Him move through you, for we are made in His image, my child."
"Father, I wish to confess." Stephen murmured, the words echoing softly in the quiet booth.
"Speak freely, my child." the priest said. "Do not leave your heart unheard. Let our Father feel it with you, for only His glory shall prevail."
"I feel like I don't belong." Stephen confessed, eyes fixed on the shadows of the booth. "And yet… a sudden rush of excitement stirs within me. It's like being lost, but the lamp of my heart burns with a flame I know too well."
"What you're feeling." the priest began, "is an indecisive tug between conflicting emotions… a state of being stuck, unsure which to long for. Think of it as heaven and hell; one, a spiritual reunion—a feeling beyond the understanding of mere emotions; two, the craving for more. The flesh is man's weakness. It desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit longs for what is contrary to the flesh."
Stephen remained still, the silence pressing in around him as he listened intently.
"But those who live in the flesh cannot please God." the priest continued. "The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind guided by the Spirit is life and peace." He paused, letting the words settle, then added, "Repent… and serve, my child."
"Thank you, Father." Stephen replied, his voice quiet but heartfelt.
"Let us pray." the priest said.
"Heavenly Father, you gave us Your Son, the light of the world. Give me courage, give me strength to follow Him unconditionally, through trials and temptations. I want to walk with Him. I want to know Him personally. Let Jesus be the one thing I seek above all else. In Jesus' name, Amen." the priest murmured.
"Amen." Stephen repeated, his words barely above a whisper, the silence of the booth settling around them.
"His grace is enough, my child." the priest said, the words hanging in the shadowed booth.
Stephen exhaled softly. "I am forever grateful. I think… I finally understand."
"Great my child." the priest replied.
"Can we do this again next week?" Stephen asked, his voice hopeful.
"You are welcome here anytime." the priest said gently. "Our Father's house is open to all… come as you are."
"Wonderful… thanks again, Father, for the word." Stephen said, sincerity in his voice.
"You're welcome, my child." the priest said, his deep voice calm and steady. "Go forth with a blessed day."
Stephen ran a hand through his hair. "You too, Father." he murmured.
"Goodbye, Father." he added, moving slowly out of the booth.
"Goodbye, my child." the priest said, his voice lingering in the quiet space.
Stephen lingered a moment outside the confession booth, then stepped out, his pace deliberate. He descended the sloped staircase, the sunlight catching the edges of the church around him. Across the courtyard, he spotted his wife and children, their faces radiant. He moved toward them—until he finally reached their side.
"You feel better, honey?" Katherine asked, her eyes searching his face for reassurance.
"Yeah." he replied, a serene smile lighting up his face.
"Alright… can we go home already? I'm hungry." Tokyo said, her voice teasing, the sarcasm clear in every word.
"Yes, let's go home." Stephen said. They walked together toward the parking lot, side by side, a family whole once more—prayers answered, destinies quietly taking shape.
Route 67. 10:27.
Grasslands.
The field stretched endlessly, far from San El Zorro, empty and silent. A black sedan sat alone, abandoned—no road in sight.
Max and Tyler faced two men, half-naked, potato sacks covering their heads, trembling with fear. Two others, in maroon suits, stood nearby, sub machine guns ready, the air thick with menace.
Max slid off the hood of the sedan, his movements slow, controlled, each step toward the terrified men echoing in the stillness of the grassland.
Max let out a crooked, chilling laugh. "Idiots." he said, his finger rising slowly, a silent threat.
A man in a maroon suit yanked the potato sack off one of the captives. Blood streaked his face, recent scars marring his skin, and one eye was gone—staring, or rather not, in a void of terror.
Max leveled his gaze at the terrified man, finger pressing forward. "Tell me… who is the syndicate?"
"I don't know—" The words never finished. A sharp crack rang out, and the man's body went limp, blood seeping from a fatal wound in his forehead. Max's .45 Magnum gleamed in his hand.
The remaining man's scream tore through the empty grasslands. "OH GOD! PLEASE… SPARE ME!" He collapsed to his knees, shaking uncontrollably, terror etched into every line of his face.
Max's finger brushed the hammer of the Magnum, letting it snap with a sharp, ominous sound. "I'll ask one more time." he said slowly. "Who is the syndicate?"
"I SWEAR! WE DON'T KNOW—" he shrieked, panic lacing every word.
A single shot cut him off mid-cry. His body collapsed, slumping against the grass, joining the lifeless corpse of his companion.
"Fuck… what a waste of time." Max said, tucking the Magnum back into his blazer with practiced ease.
"Alright." he continued, his tone sharp. "Let's roll."
The men filed into the sedan behind Max. One lingered, shovel in hand, standing silent in the empty grasslands as the car drove off, leaving only dust and quiet in its wake.