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The Skinner Chief's' body hit the ground like a meteor—an almighty thud ten metres short of the opposite bank.
Everyone froze. In the silence, only the thundering echoes of panicked heartbeats remained. Fortunately, he hadn't triggered any landmines. Unfortunately… how the hell was he going to get back?
All eyes were glued to the spot where the leader had just crash-landed.
The air itself seemed to stall. Even the wind dared not breathe, whispering only through the treetops with a chill that bit to the bone.
He's done for…
Silence.
And then things got worse. The fishing wire that had kept the searchlight in check was beginning to slacken. Its beam now widened, slicing the darkness like a blade, threatening to spotlight every inch of exposed terrain. If the beam caught him now—tall as he was—he'd be lit up like a Christmas tree.
No one dared speak. Breaths held, frozen mid-inhale. From deep in the abyss below came the low howl of wind, like a slumbering beast stirring in its cave.
What now…?
Shen Lu's throat tightened. In his ears rang the shrill alarm of impending doom, like the screech of metal on glass. He could already imagine the guards, fully armed, closing in. Rows of bullets wouldn't be a surprise. His spine broke out in cold, involuntary shivers.
And then—something shifted.
Crack. A stone ground beneath a boot.
A towering silhouette stirred in the dark.
The Chief arched his back. The earth beneath his feet crumbled with a groan. His muscles tensed like drawn bowstrings, sinews humming with raw power. Veins popped in the dim light. His fingers curled into the soil. In one explosive motion, his legs unleashed a coiled fury.
Shen Lu felt his stomach twist like a wet rag. Every hair on his body stood to attention. He took a step back, involuntarily.
Then—
BOOM.
The ground detonated behind him. The man soared.
To the onlookers, it was a blur. One second he was grounded, the next he was airborne, coat flaring in the wind, a black streak tearing through the night like a scythe.
He flew.
He almost made it.
The arc of his flight was perfect… except for gravity's final tug. He was still one step short of the far side.
Just when everyone braced for a spectacular splat—his hand shot out. Fingers snapped shut around a protruding rock like a hawk catching prey.
There was a sickening crack from his knuckles. His arm trembled. Muscles bulged, twitching under strain. But he didn't hesitate. He pushed. His torso swung up in a perfect arc, and in one fluid motion, he flipped over the ledge and landed—thud—on the far bank.
A heavy silence followed.
Even from here, the villa was visible—vague in the dark, yet looming. The wall surrounding it stood 3 to 4 metres high. Beyond it, orderly patrols, neat rows of cameras, guards on schedule even in this storm.
The Chief dusted himself off and rolled his wrist like he'd just finished a yoga warmup. He turned and gave the others a glare that could freeze vodka.
"Move."
Maverick and Shen Lu exchanged a long look.
Maverick cleared his throat, pretending that he wasn't about to wet himself."Well then! Seems like Lady Luck's rooting for us. Off we go!"
No one moved.
Not until the Chief began walking did the others stumble after him. Maverick followed last, looking a bit like a dog who'd lost his leash.
"Chief, now that we've made it to the back wall, can you—um—finally share the plan?"
He'd held his tongue all this time, half-convinced that asking questions would get him labelled a spy and decapitated on the spot. But surely now was fair game?
"Charge in. Kill the boss," the Chief replied, utterly unfazed.
"That's it?"
"That's it. Then we retreat. Back to base."
Maverick frowned."What about the guards? Distractions? Entry routes? Contingencies?"
"You talk too much." The Chief walked two steps, then halted."You. Make the electronics shut up."
Maverick massaged his temples. He didn't know if they were charging into a mansion—or into a trap.
Elsewhere…
A security guard stirred a silver spoon in his coffee with all the urgency of a glacier. The clink of metal on ceramic echoed like a wake-up call from hell. He glanced lazily at the monitor—his face a living monument to existential boredom.
In the corner, another guard was deep in Fight Club, his eyes glued to the page like reality had ceased to exist beyond its margins.
Upstairs, in the surveillance room, amber lighting cast long shadows on the walls. A newly installed screen flickered—just once. A twitch. Like a lazy eye blinking.
And then—there they were.
Heat signatures.
A slow procession of red silhouettes, creeping just outside the perimeter. One finger tapped on the screen, slow and steady, counting… calculating… or maybe hesitating.
Then the infrared feed went black. Gone, like it had never been.
Downstairs, the lobby lights shone as usual.
Mr. Park stood at the window, a vision of control in his immaculately pressed suit. Shoes gleaming. Hair so tidy it looked Photoshopped in real life.
At the gate, a black car pulled up.
He stiffened, turned on his heel, and marched forward with military precision. The door wasn't even fully open before he yanked it wide.
Out came a man in his twenties, dishevelled like he'd been mugged by a nightclub. Gold chain swinging. T-shirt crumpled like last week's laundry. He flopped onto Park's chair like it was his birthright, shoes planting themselves squarely on the polished desk.
"How much did you rake in this month, Parky?" His voice was lazy, but his eyes swept the room like a cold front.
Park opened his notebook calmly, voice smooth as a fine whiskey."All in order, sir."
Before he could finish the sentence, the door burst open.
A parade of girls entered, like a chorus line from some forbidden cabaret. Drinks. Fruit. One girl started massaging the young man's shoulders.
"Well, well," the young man grinned."Parky, you do know how to live. Not like my old man. All rules and respect. Bloody buzzkill."
Park smiled."I hear you enjoy… novelty, sir?"
He clapped twice. The door opened again. In walked a stunning figure—sharp jawline, rugged stubble, sleepy eyes that could make angels sin. The boy's attention locked instantly.
He whistled."All your guys this pretty?"
Then the voice answered—soft, lilting, unmistakably female.
"Sir, I'm a girl. Just… good at what I do."
The boy's eyes widened."No way. That's incredible!"
Park's smile didn't budge."She's the best disguise artist in the country. And my guards? Best eyes in the business. I'd bet my 1961 Romanée-Conti—disguise yourself as me, and they'd still see through it."
The room went still.
A simple wager—but it landed like a depth charge.
The young man leaned back, twirling his chain. The grin never left his face, but his eyes had changed. No longer bored. No longer drifting.
Now?
Now he was interested.
This game just got fun.