"Same Time – 2nd Floor of the Estate"
George ascended the staircase, giving a sharp, silent hand signal.
The Black Number agents dispersed to both sides of the corridor with fluid, noiseless precision.
Their movements were soundless—like shadows gliding over still water.
Magazine swaps, radio relays, unit merges—executed wordlessly, flawlessly.
The operation resumed—surgical, silent, seamless.
Then—
A beastlike shout tore through the central hall, vibrating through the estate's very walls.
"Stop!!!"
"George! This is enough! Don't make it more complicated than it needs to be! Take your daughter and go! If we stop here, I swear—I'll never cross the line again!"
At the top of the stairs, George stood still.
He didn't lower his weapon.
He didn't blink.
He didn't even shift his expression.
It sounded like negotiation.
But he knew better.
"There's no way he ends it here."
Ever since they were young, his brother had always hated him—for being better suited to this world.
The endless comparisons, the competitions, the mindless killings and bloodless power grabs.
George had walked away from that life—but not without leaving behind one clear condition.
The Belloni Rule: Mercy is offered once. Only once.
Cross the line, and cleanup begins.
The day he stepped away from the Belloni name, his mercy ended.
And now, under that same rule, it was time to clean up.
He calmly rolled up his sleeves.
Then pressed a button on the wrist radio with two fingers.
"Black Number—Code Shift. New objective: Second floor. North study."
No further explanation.
The agents moved like gears in a clock.
Three or four to a group, each team peeling into formation.
The marble halls, carpeted in red, fell into silence once more.
George reloaded his pistol and strode down the corridor.
The door to Alessandro's study was ajar.
Inside, his brother was still talking—still trying to sound reasonable, persuasive.
Still deluded.
And then, just as his thick neck peeked out past the doorway—
Thup. Thup.
He dropped—without a word, without a cry, like a puppet cut from its strings.
George and the Black Team moved in.
Inside the study, Luca had been in the middle of stuffing gold bars and stacks of cash into a duffel.
At the sound of boots, he turned slowly—then raised both hands with practiced surrender.
"U… Uncle…"
George took a slow step toward him.
"So this was your masterpiece all along. And that pathetic excuse of a father? Blinded by greed—he never even saw it coming."
"Uncle, no—please. I swear, I'm innocent. Look at me—look—"
Just as Luca tried to use his ability—Footsteps echoed behind him.
Celeste.
She stepped into the study, calm and composed, raising the gun in her hand.
The moment Luca turned and met her eyes, something shifted in him.
A quiet, instinctive dread.
She didn't speak at first. Just watched him.
Then, she smiled—softly, coldly.
With her gun, she pointed first to his left leg… then the right.
And in a sing-song voice, she whispered:
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe...
Catch a liar by the toe...
If he screams, don't let go...
Now guess—left or right?"
Luca's pupils widened. His lips parted in disbelief.
"You… no… you can't be—"
But the bullet answered first.
Thup.
Left leg.
The scream that followed was almost operatic.
Luca crumpled to the floor, writhing.
Celeste tilted her head. Her voice now soft as silk:
"Wrong."
Then she pointed to his arms—left, then right.
Another verse.
"Eeny, meeny…"
Thup.
Right arm.
His body spasmed from the impact.
And finally, she stood over him, eyes unreadable, breath steady.
The muzzle of her pistol touched his temple.
She smiled faintly.
"…Ah. Just one left.
Too bad you don't get to choose this time."
Thup.
Silence.
Only the smell of blood and the ragged rhythm of fading breath remained.
Cleanup complete.