From what the informant had shared, Raev usually stayed with Juno—which meant Myth had to be extra careful.
After a few hours of scouting, several problems became clear:
First, there were no alleys nearby. No good ambush spots.
Second, with Raev likely inside, security would be tight—maybe even unpredictable.
Third, Raev himself was a threat. The man was Rook, which meant he was a excellent fighter, he had those instincts. He might notice the slightest oddity.
So Myth changed his strategy.
Instead of watching the house directly, he shifted his focus to the nearest tram station—the only likely exit point if Raev left unexpectedly.
He went shopping.
Bought a set of second-hand clothes, tore them at a few spots, smeared dirt and grease across his face, and matted down his hair.
In minutes, the cautious planner had transformed into a beggar.
He took his place outside the tram station, slumped next to a group of actual beggars—silent, invisible, forgettable.
The operation wouldn't start until morning.
But Myth wasn't taking chances.
If Raev left early… everything could fall apart.
Yes… Myth was being paranoid.
---
Street 1, Block 2, House 25.
A group of thugs patrolled the nearby street, their boots thudding against the cracked pavement.
One of them stopped abruptly. "Oi," he grunted, pointing at something near a lamppost. "What's that?"
A box.
Roughly taped. No markings except a message scribbled in black ink.
The thug crouched beside it, eyeing it with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He read aloud:
"To Zarin
Street 1, Block 2, House 25
A gift of a dear friend."
He blinked. "It's addressed to him…"
One of the others narrowed his eyes. "The hell kind of friend sends a box like that?"
"…Should we open it?" someone whispered.
A moment passed.
Then—another thug stepped forward. "No. Take it inside. Zarin'll want to see it himself."
The others hesitated.
"Just do it carefully."
Together, they picked up the box.
It was heavier than it looked. Too heavy. Something inside shifted with a soft thump.
The two guards looked at each other. None of them said a word.
They didn't need to.
They immediately sensed this was no ordinary delivery.
The thugs brought the box to the front gate. After running it through security protocols and receiving Zarin's approval, they carried it inside.
Zarin knelt beside it, expression unreadable. He slowly peeled back the flaps.
Their was a blood-soaked plastic inside. His face twisted in disgust. A flicker of rage passed through his eyes—but he didn't stop.
With practiced care, he opened the plastic bag, revealing its contents.
He needed to see who was the dead person.
He saw the severed head—slumped to one side inside the blood-stained plastic bag.
Fighting his rising disgust, Zarin reached in and slowly turned it to face him.
The moment he saw the face, his own paled.
Recognition hit like a blade. His eyes betrayed him—widening, flickering with disbelief, sorrow taking hold of every part of him.
He stood frozen. A storm behind quiet eyes.
Sadness.
Sadness for losing a dear friend.
Sadness because this death was just a message—meant for him.
And from that sadness, something else was born.
Anger.
A violent, seething fury.
He clenched his fists. His voice, when it came, was low and cold.
"You. Inform his family."
Then he turned to the others—his eyes sharp, commanding.
"Everyone, find out who did this. Search every corner of Street 3. Ask every soul if something strange happened yesterday."
By the next morning, Zarin's men flooded Street 3.
Zarin himself was seen pacing its alleys.
Everyone in the district was on edge.
Residents were questioned. The dead man's hotel was raided. His neighbors interrogated.
Even the staff weren't spared.
The waiter Ashley had spoken to was a weak link. He was starting to recall details. But before any cracks could open—
Walker, Sira, and Ashley were already executing the next phase of the plan.
Walker, his face hidden under a cap, led the way.
They made their way to Street 6—toward Korbel Construction's office.
Once outside, they split up.
Ashley and Sira went toward the police station.
Their job: to keep an eye on anyone entering or leaving.
Walker pushed open the glass door, stepping into the lobby with quiet authority.
He walked straight to the front desk, towering over the man behind it.
"Call your boss," Walker said, voice low and sharp as a blade.
"Now."
The receptionist flinched. Terrified, he obeyed without a word.
The receptionist turned and motioned for another employee.
"Go get the boss," he whispered.
The man nodded and hurried inside.
A few minutes passed before he returned.
The receptionist cleared his throat.
"Sir, please follow him. He'll take you inside to meet the boss."
"Call him here," Walker replied, voice like steel. No room for debate.
Reluctantly, the man turned and went back again.
This time, the boss emerged—flanked by five guards.
Walker didn't move. He stood tall in the lobby, waiting.
The boss approached, flanked on both sides, clearly expecting a negotiation.
He was wrong.
Bang. Bang.
Walker fired their dialed-down stun guns.
Bang. Bang.
Two guards dropped instantly. Two followed a beat later.
Only the boss and one stunned guard remained.
"Let's go," Walker said to the boss, pointing and gesturing for him to walk ahead.
Walker held his stun gun against the man's back.
"To Block 13, behind Kora's Public School. And send him to gather all of Raev's thugs," Walker ordered.
The boss was trembling—clearly afraid of Walker.
This wasn't the detective Walker people once knew.
The old Walker was a bit mellow, like a fighter past his prime, done with the days of bloodshed.
But this one…
This was a man in his bloodshed phase. The way he walked, his body language—his cold, deep, detached voice—it all screamed danger.
That, paired with his cautious nature, made Walker terrifying. Like a full-blown killer.
Even Ashley and Sira—who had fought beside him—sometimes found themselves scared of him.
Walker turned to the last conscious guard.
"If you go to the police… you die."
—
Ashley and Sira were already near the police station.
Ashley profiled everyone entering—watching for hurried steps, nervous glances.
If someone looked suspicious, she simply marked their face and identity.
Back on Street 6, the boss spoke to the stunned guard, giving him instructions.
The guard ran off quickly.
Walker gave a subtle nod and gestured for the boss to move.
Trembling, the man obeyed.
They followed a long, deserted road—one Walker had already scouted.
Through the narrow path beside Kora's Public School, they arrived at the empty ground behind it.
Walker led the boss to the goalpost and tied him there.
"Wait for your friends here," he said in a deep voice.
Then he turned and left.
He walked back through the narrow path, circled around, and entered the school through the main gate.
Finally, he reached the terrace—where he positioned himself to watch the ground…
and more importantly, the man tied to the goalpost.
After some time, Walker finally spotted them—around thirty thugs arriving through the narrow path.
They moved cautiously, scanning the area like trained predators. Every step was measured, every shadow suspicious.
Soon, they saw the boss—tied to the goalpost.
The boss, spotting them, shouted, "Here! Help!" His voice cracked with desperation.
But his cry only heightened their suspicion.
The thugs didn't respond. They remained silent, eyes scanning the area for ambushes or hidden traps.
Still, they advanced—slowly, deliberately.
When they reached the goalpost, one of them stepped forward to free the boss. The others formed a perimeter, weapons drawn, watching everything.
From the rooftop, Walker observed it all.
It was time.
He made his move.