In the Oval Office, the President of the United States sat heavily behind the Resolute Desk, his broad frame sinking into the leather chair as though the weight of the nation itself pressed down on his shoulders. He was a large man—thick through the chest and arms—with unmistakable orange hair combed carefully into place, its unnatural brightness matching the tone of his skin beneath the warm glow of the room's chandeliers. His blue suit was tailored to project authority, yet the fabric pulled faintly against his torso when he leaned forward, and his red tie, bold and symbolic, strained just enough to betray the tension beneath the surface.
His fingers drummed impatiently against the polished wood of the desk.
Frustration radiated from him like heat.
The room smelled faintly of old paper, leather, and the distant polish used by staff to keep the White House immaculate. Outside the tall windows, Washington stood deceptively calm, the city unaware—or pretending to be unaware—of the fractures spreading beneath its foundations.
Standing before the President was a young man no older than his late twenties. He carried himself with a rigid stillness that felt unnatural, as though motion itself were something he consciously restrained. His short, spiky hair was neat but unstyled, black as ink. He wore a perfectly fitted black suit and a matching black tie, conservative and unadorned, blending into the shadows of the room. Dark glasses concealed his eyes entirely, erasing any trace of emotion and making his face unreadable, almost inhuman.
He clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke.
"Are you certain you want to give this speech, sir?" the young man asked, his voice calm, controlled, and respectful—but edged with concern. "Our intelligence strongly suggests it won't be safe."
The President snorted, leaning back in his chair with an air of dismissive confidence.
"It'll be fine," he scoffed. "I trust my security. That's what they're paid for."
What he did not say—what he could not bring himself to admit—was how exhausted he truly was.
The pressure from the public had become relentless. The aftermath of the Freedom Tower terrorist attack still lingered like a festering wound in the nation's psyche. News channels replayed the footage endlessly. Commentators dissected every decision he had made, every word he had spoken. Protesters gathered outside government buildings, demanding justice, answers, blood. Allies questioned his competence. Enemies tested his resolve.
Every demand scraped against his nerves. Every accusation felt personal. Every question felt like a knife.
The young man inhaled slowly through his nose. He had seen this look before—stubborn pride dressed as courage.
"If you proceed," he said quietly, "there will be consequences. Predictable ones."
The President waved him off. "Enough. I've made my decision."
For a moment, silence settled between them. The young man stood there, unmoving, as though weighing the value of saying more against the certainty that it would change nothing.
Finally, he exhaled.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and exited the Oval Office, the door closing softly behind him.
Outside the office, the hallway was quiet—too quiet for a building that housed the most powerful government on Earth. The hum of distant footsteps and murmured conversations barely reached this section of the corridor.
Leaning casually against the wall stood another man.
He held a book open in both hands, the pages raised just high enough to obscure his face. It did not look suspicious. On the contrary, he appeared almost bored, as though waiting for an appointment or killing time between assignments. The book's spine was worn, its pages yellowed, suggesting it had been read many times before.
The young man approached him without breaking stride.
As he passed, he leaned in slightly and whispered something into the reader's ear.
The man did not react. Not even a flinch.
The whisper ended. The hallway remained still.
Then—slowly—the book shifted.
Just slightly.
Enough.
Behind it, hollow wooden eyes stared back. Lifeless. Carved. Empty of warmth or humanity. Only the eyes were visible—nothing else. No face. No skin. Just the suggestion of something masquerading as a man.
The book rose again, returning to its original position.
And whatever lay behind it was concealed once more.
—————
Lord Yin stood alone on the shore, facing the open sea.
The sun hung high above, its light scattering across the water and transforming the waves into rippling sheets of silver. The ocean was calm—unnaturally so. There were no violent tides, no roaring surf. Only steady, rhythmic motion, as though the sea itself were holding its breath.
Lord Yin's posture was relaxed, his long coat stirring gently in the coastal breeze. He did not move, did not speak. He simply watched the horizon.
From behind him, several masked figures approached in silence. Their footsteps were soft, disciplined. Lord Yin glanced at them briefly over his shoulder and gave a single nod in acknowledgment.
Time passed.
Then, faint at first, the distant thrum of rotors began to grow louder.
Two helicopters descended toward the shore, their blades slicing through the air with deliberate force. Sand and dust whipped violently beneath them as they touched down.
Both helicopters bore the black-and-white flag of Al-Qaeda.
The moment the rotors slowed, masked men poured out, rifles held firmly, fingers near triggers. The shoreline transformed into a militarized zone within seconds.
Off to the side stood Saif al-Rahaman, his hands clasped tightly together. His posture was rigid, his gaze fixed on the ground beneath his boots. He avoided looking at anyone.
The anger from the earlier deal still burned inside him—but beneath it lay something far worse.
Shame.
Defeat.
Lord Yin approached him slowly.
"We shouldn't let this deal damage our friendship," Lord Yin said evenly. "I regret the harsh words I used earlier. My intent was only to make you understand the importance of what is coming."
Saif looked up and forced a grin, nodding as though reassured.
Outwardly, he appeared agreeable. Almost relieved.
Inwardly, he cursed Lord Yin with every breath he took.
After the exchange, Saif and his men boarded the first helicopter.
In the second, three superiors—Mengu, Saint, and Lioness—took their seats. Lord Yin raised one hand, signaling for departure.
"Algeria. Mali. Libya."
The rotors screamed to life.
Moments later, both helicopters lifted into the sky, shrinking into dark specks before vanishing beyond the horizon.
Noah stood watching as the helicopters disappeared, the sound of their blades fading slowly into nothingness.
When he finally looked away, Alice was standing centimeters from him.
Her presence was sudden—uncomfortably close.
Her mask reflected the light, but it was her eyes that unsettled him. Lustrous. Gleaming green. Sharp and unblinking. They bored into him with a predatory intensity that sent a chill down his spine.
Noah flinched and took a step back.
"Why are you giving me that psychopath look?" he asked anxiously, forcing a nervous laugh that died halfway through.
"We're going back to New York," Alice replied flatly. "Manhattan. Tomorrow."
Her tone was devoid of emotion.
"There's work to do."
With that, she turned and walked away.
Noah released the breath he had been holding, his chest tightening as he sucked in air. He hadn't realized until that moment that he'd been holding it throughout the entire exchange.
The next day, Noah and Alice sat together inside a closed wave boat.
The vessel rocked gently against the water, its interior surprisingly spacious. Most of it was empty, save for a single sofa where they sat in silence. The ceiling was lined with small metal fixtures—sprinklers, or so Noah assumed.
The engine hummed steadily.
Without warning, a fine mist burst from the ceiling.
Noah froze.
The spray thickened, diffusing rapidly through the cabin.
Gas.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he turned toward Alice.
She sat calmly, unmoving.
"Alice—" he began, but his tongue felt heavy.
He tried to stand, but his legs failed him. The gas burned faintly in his lungs, and his vision blurred as the world tilted violently.
He collapsed to the floor.
Before consciousness slipped away, he saw Alice falling as well, her body hitting the ground softly, her eyes already closed.
Darkness claimed him.
The sound of voices woke him.
Footsteps. Engines. Distant traffic.
Noah groaned softly as his eyes fluttered open. His vision was blurred, but the noise was unmistakable.
Manhattan.
Beside him stood Alice and the Crow Superior, both masked and cloaked, waiting patiently for him to wake.
Noah pushed himself upright, finding that he was in a narrow, dark lane. Ahead of him, the city stretched outward—tall buildings, muted traffic, daylight filtering between concrete walls. It was noon, judging by the light.
He stretched his arms, wincing slightly.
"So," he said hoarsely, "what's the work?"
"We're doing some cleaning," the Crow Superior replied.
Noah frowned. "And how are we supposed to walk around like this? We'll look like lunatics."
"Don't worry," Superior crow said. "I brought suitcase for you. You'll hide your cloaks and wear clothing similar to the crowd."
He paused.
"As you already know each other's identities, you two will go together. I'll take another route. Alice knows the location."
—————
Far away, near the Lincoln Memorial, the Rabbit Superior stood atop a building.
Her cloak fluttered violently in the wind, her rabbit mask deceptively innocent—hiding the arrogance beneath. She raised a walkie-talkie to her ear.
"I'm here," she said.
A voice responded, sharp and serious.
"I'll reach your location soon."
She smiled beneath the mask.