The air inside the Sanctuary of St. Jude was thick with the scent of rotting wood and ancient incense. Moonlight bled through the shattered stained-glass windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the nave. It was a place forgotten by God, making it the perfect birthplace for a new kind of devil.
At the center of the ruins stood three men. They did not look like revolutionaries, nor did they look like heroes. They looked like the end of the world.
"Do you hear that?" Nicolai asked, breaking the heavy silence. He was perched atop a crumbling marble altar, swinging his legs back and forth like a bored child in a playground. He wore a brightly colored hoodie that clashed violently with the darkness around him. He flashed a wide, toothy grin. "The city is humming. It's so loud, so full of people doing exactly what they're told. It's… boring."
Sigma, standing near a fluted pillar, adjusted the cuff of his charcoal-grey suit. He didn't look at Nicolai. He was staring at the floor, his mind a fortress of cold calculations. "The city isn't humming, Nicolai. It's vibrating at a frequency of 60 Hertz. It's infrastructure. It's logic. And currently, that logic dictates that we are the three most wanted men who don't yet exist in a police database."
"Logic is a cage for people without imagination, Sigma," Nicolai chirped. He hopped off the altar, and in the blink of an eye—without a sound, without a ripple in the air—he was suddenly standing behind Sigma. He poked the taller man's shoulder. "I want to see the cage break. I want to see the whole world turn into a sandbox where I can jump from mountain to mountain without ever touching the ground."
Sigma didn't flinch. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Nicolai's. "Your desire for a 'sandbox' is statistically improbable without a foundation. We need resources. We need the keys to the vault of human experience."
"Quiet."
The word was a low vibration, but it carried the weight of a falling guillotine.
Fyodor stood by the shattered pulpit, his back to them. He was draped in a long, black trench coat that seemed to swallow the light. He didn't move. He didn't need to. His presence alone was an anchor of terror. When he spoke, it wasn't with emotion; it was with the terrifying certainty of a natural disaster.
"The world is a diseased organism," Fyodor said, his voice echoing through the hollow church. He finally turned. His eyes were deep, abyssal pits that seemed to see not just the room, but the very fabric of reality. "It is infested with the weak who call themselves 'law' and the corrupt who call themselves 'order.' They have built a prison for us, and they call it society."
He stepped forward, the tap of his boots on the stone floor sounding like a death knell.
"Our first target is not the banks. Not yet," Fyodor continued, looking at the map pinned to a rotting wooden board. It was a map of the Black-Site Penitentiary: Ouroboros. "This is where they keep the others. Those like us. Those who were deemed 'errors' in their perfect world. Ouroboros is guarded by a private military corporation and a specialized task force of 'Regulators.' It is the most secure fortress on the planet."
Nicolai's eyes lit up with a manic, childlike glee. "A fortress? With guns? And guards? Oh, I'm going to have so much fun playing tag with them."
"It isn't a game, Nicolai," Sigma interrupted, his voice flat. "Ouroboros uses a localized frequency jammer and thermal sensors. Your teleportation has a 100-meter limit. If you blink into a wall because of a sensor ghost, you die. I need to get close to the Warden. If I can touch him, I gain twenty years of military tactical knowledge and the override codes for the entire facility. But getting that close is a 0.04% probability without a distraction."
Fyodor's gaze shifted to the stained glass, where the moon reflected in his pupils. "The distraction will be the collapse of their faith. Nicolai, you need capital. We cannot build a new world on empty pockets. Go. Take what you want from the vaults of the men who think their steel doors can keep the shadows out."
Nicolai grinned, his body flickering like a bad television signal. "Consider it done, Boss-man! I'll bring back enough gold to plate this whole dump."
With a soft pop, Nicolai vanished.
Seconds later, Nicolai appeared inside the main vault of the Federal Reserve, three miles away. He didn't use a drill. He didn't bypass the lasers. He simply existed where he wasn't supposed to be. He looked at the stacks of hundred-dollar bills and giggled, stuffing his hoodie pockets. He blinked out before the cameras could even register a frame of his movement. Pop. Another bank. Pop. A private jewelry collection.
To Nicolai, it wasn't theft. it was just picking up toys in a room that didn't have a ceiling.
Back in the church, the heavy oak doors groaned open.
A procession of figures entered, dressed in tattered clothes but moving with a synchronized, eerie grace. These were the Disciples of the Triad—the outcasts, the broken, and the fanatical that Fyodor had quietly gathered from the fringes of the city. They knelt in the dust, their heads bowed toward the pulpit.
Fyodor didn't look at them. He kept his eyes on the light yansayan (reflecting) through the red glass of the window. The red light washed over his face, making him look like a crimson idol.
"Master," one of the disciples whispered. "We are ready to expand. The streets are ripe for your word."
Sigma walked toward the disciples, his eyes scanning them. He didn't see people; he saw assets. He saw a network of information waiting to be harvested.
"Sigma," Fyodor said without turning. "Expand the reach. We need eyes in the police stations, ears in the government offices, and hands in the shadows of every street corner. Gather more. The more they fear the Triad, the more they will seek our protection."
Sigma nodded, his face a mask of realism. "Logic suggests that a cult is the most efficient way to bypass traditional surveillance. Humans follow charisma when they are afraid. I will organize the recruitment. By the time we strike Ouroboros, we will have a thousand ghosts in this city."
Sigma signaled to the disciples. They rose as one and followed him out of the church, disappearing into the foggy night like a bad dream.
Fyodor remained alone in the sanctuary. He reached out and touched a splintered piece of wood from the pulpit. He wasn't thinking about money, and he wasn't thinking about information.
He was thinking about the "cleansing."
In his mind, he saw the city burning—not in a fire of hate, but in a fire of purification. He saw the criminals, the corrupt, and the "trash" of humanity being judged under a new sun. He didn't see himself as a villain. He saw himself as the only one brave enough to be God.
"The order of the old world is ending," Fyodor whispered to the empty, rotting pews. "And the Dark Triad shall be the hand that writes the new law."
Outside, the first sirens began to wail in the distance—Nicolai was having his fun. The game had officially begun.