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Chapter 4 - The Sky Collision

The conference hall roared with applause as the final words were spoken. Cameras flashed, reporters hurried to file their stories, and Mr. Frank practically glowed with relief. He reached across the table, gripping Ryan's hand with both of his own.

"I said there wasn't anything to be nervous about, right?" Ryan said with an easy smile, his tone as casual as if they had just concluded a friendly chess match. His eyes carried none of the exhaustion of the day, only the quiet confidence of a man who knew his calculations would never fail him.

Mr. Frank nodded vigorously, unable to hide his excitement. "From today forward, I'll never doubt it again."

Ryan gave a polite nod, then turned away. Surrounded by layers of security, he walked down the red carpet toward the waiting line of cars. Reporters leaned over barriers, shouting questions and flashing microphones in his direction, but Ryan kept his pace steady. His presence seemed untouchable, like the calm center of a storm.

As soon as he entered his sleek black car and the door shut behind him, the noise of the outside world cut off. The tinted glass framed only his reflection as the engine purred to life.

He pulled out his phone, intending to skim through market updates, but the screen was already alight with red banners. BREAKING NEWS: GPX 001 Hijacked.

Ryan froze, reading the headline twice. GPX 001 wasn't just any airplane—it was the airplane. The most luxurious, the most secure, the pride of aviation technology. Only the most powerful and influential people in the world were allowed aboard.

His expression darkened. "Oh no," he muttered under his breath. "That's not something that ends with profit."

The glow of the screen reflected off his sharp features as his car glided into the traffic. Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of neon, but Ryan's thoughts were already racing.

Far above the earth, the luxurious GPX 001 cut through the clouds like a silver blade. Its interiors were designed like a palace in the sky—velvet carpets, crystal lighting, and private lounges for the wealthiest passengers alive. But the glamour had already been shattered.

Screams echoed through the wide cabin as armed men in black stormed the aisles. Passengers—business tycoons, ministers, royalty—were forced to the floor, their jewels and tailored suits a pitiful shield against automatic rifles.

"This is our biggest mission!" one of the terrorists shouted, voice trembling with adrenaline. "Do not fail! We cannot afford to fail now!"

The men around him barked in agreement, gripping their weapons tighter. Yet even in their frenzy, one voice stood apart.

"Calm yourselves."

It was deep, measured, unshaken by the chaos. Their leader stepped forward, his presence alone forcing silence upon his men. His eyes were sharp, calculating, filled not with excitement but with certainty. "We will not fail."

A ripple of unease passed through the group, not from doubt—but from the weight of his conviction.

Then, suddenly—thud.

A noise from above. Something heavy landing on the roof.

The terrorists froze. This was thirty thousand feet in the air. Nothing—no one—should have been able to reach them here.

One of the men scrambled to the cockpit, fumbling with the security monitor linked to the exterior cameras. The moment the feed lit up, his face drained of all color.

His voice cracked as he shouted, "I-It's… A! A and his team!"

A ripple of panic tore through the group. Some cursed, others gripped their rifles until their knuckles whitened.

On the roof of GPX 001, three shadowed figures clung to the steel like predators ready to strike. Sleek black suits clung to their bodies, reinforced with technology far beyond the military's standard. Their helmets glowed faintly with heads-up displays, and their movements carried the precision of years of perfect coordination.

The A-Squad had arrived.

The roof of the GPX 001 hissed as plasma cutters traced a perfect circle. A flash of sparks, a panel lifted, and three shadows dropped inside the cabin like falling blades.

Passengers gasped. Terrorists shouted and raised their weapons, barrels gleaming under the cabin lights.

The intruders landed in silence, each step synchronized. Their black suits hummed faintly as kinetic servos adjusted for perfect balance. One of them glanced toward the others, the voice transmitted only through suit-to-suit comms.

"Captain, they've surrounded the VIPs."

The leader's voice replied, steady as stone. "They aren't here for the hostages. But…" His eyes locked on one figure among the terrorists, a man whose presence bled danger. "…one of them is different."

"Then formation B-9?"

"On my mark."

The terrorists' commander barked, "Shoot them down!"

Bullets roared through the cabin. But A-Squad was already moving.

Three figures blurred into motion, their choreography sharp as lightning. One slammed into a terrorist before his finger even pressed the trigger, wrenching the weapon from his hands. Another dove low, sweeping an attacker's legs before snapping him unconscious with a strike to the throat. The third twisted mid-air, firing precise stun rounds that disarmed two men at once.

Gasps erupted from the passengers. To them, it looked less like a fight and more like a dance. Every movement flowed into the next—clean, practiced, flawless.

Within seconds, every VIP had been pulled out of the line of fire.

Except one.

A cry rang out as a gunshot fired—one hostage fell, a crimson mark blooming across their side.

"Damn it!" one squad member cursed. "We couldn't save all of them—"

"Focus," the Captain snapped. "We finish this here."

Now only five terrorists remained, their backs pressed to the cabin wall. But instead of surrender, they howled and charged. Guns and blades met fists and precision.

The cabin became a storm of close-quarter combat. Metal clashed, bones cracked, and gunfire burst like thunder. A-Squad fought with terrifying efficiency, yet the terrorists were desperate, each move fueled by the madness of men with nothing left to lose.

Soon, only one remained.

Their leader.

He stood tall amidst the chaos, calm as ever. His men lay scattered around him, but there wasn't a flicker of fear in his eyes.

The Captain gave the order. "Together."

Both squadmates lunged at once, their strikes fast and brutal, a storm meant to crush any opponent.

But for the first time, their blades met empty air.

The leader moved like smoke. Every strike dodged. Every angle countered. He slipped through their attacks with an ease that no one in their careers had ever shown before.

For A-Squad, it was unthinkable. In all their years, no enemy had ever evaded their joint assault.

And in that moment of hesitation, the terrorist leader found his opening.

With a mocking smile, he leapt backward toward the emergency hatch, his hand slamming a release. A gust of wind howled as the door slid open, and in seconds—he was gone, vanishing into the sky with his surviving men.

The cabin fell silent, save for the terrified breathing of the hostages.

The wind howled through the open hatch, whipping the cabin into chaos. The last echoes of the terrorists' escape still lingered in the air when the Captain stepped forward, boots planted firm against the trembling floor.

His squadmates turned toward him, waiting for the next command.

Slowly, he reached for the latch on his helmet. A hiss of released pressure followed, and with a sharp pull, the mask came off.

The passengers gasped.

It was a young man with sharp features, dark eyes carrying both calm and challenge. His black hair fluttered under the rushing air.

Akarsh.

He looked toward the hatch, his gaze following the path of the escaped leader. And then, with the faintest smile tugging at his lips, he spoke.

"We'll clash again. And that day… only one of us will walk away."

His words, though quiet, carried like iron across the silent cabin.

The squad regrouped, securing the passengers and sealing the hatch. The crisis wasn't fully over—but the message was clear. A new storm had just begun.

Meanwhile, far from the skies, Ryan Vale leaned back in his car seat, his eyes scanning the last details Menvi had gathered.

"Sir," the assistant's voice hummed, "real-time intelligence confirms it. GPX 001 was targeted as part of a larger operation. The government is deploying assets, but the mission outcome remains classified."

Ryan smirked, his fingers drumming against the wheel.

"Understood," he said casually. His calm tone was almost mocking the chaos unraveling above the world. Then, without hesitation, he added, "Now… accept that person's request."

A faint chime echoed as Menvi processed the order.

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