Inside the vault, reality itself seemed to tremble with anticipation. It was a sanctum of wealth—a cathedral carved from steel, lit by icy fluorescence and filled with towers of gold bars stacked like holy relics, neatly bound stacks of cash, and precious secrets locked in polished metal safes.
Yet, in this fortress of earthly power, the Street Rat stood utterly at ease, a silent deity whose very presence defied physics and laughed at gravity.
With a wave of his hand, shadows poured forth from his fingertips like black silk spun from oblivion itself.
The darkness swallowed every piece of wealth with insatiable hunger, pulling gold bars, jewelry, stacks of bills, and sealed documents into a limitless void. The shadows didn't merely consume—they absorbed greedily, silently, passionately, devouring the entirety of the vault without so much as a whisper of effort.
