Northridge Casino.
Base of the Tina Gang.
Zrrrmmm—
The hum of electric motors sliced through the midnight air. A dozen sleek black bikes rode across the empty street, their riders clad in matte jackets bearing the gang's insignia—a jagged "T" with blood-red outlines. The glow of their underlights bled into the puddles on the cracked asphalt as they pulled up to the casino's side entrance.
When the motors died, silence fell—thick and tense.
The men dismounted in unison, boots thudding against the pavement. Their faces were sharp, grim, built for trouble. They weren't here to gamble.
Two guards stationed by the reinforced doors stiffened the moment they recognized the lead rider.
"Boss Fang," one greeted quickly, his voice trembling just a bit.
Fang didn't waste time. "What happened? We got your ping. You said it was urgent."
The guards blinked at each other, confused. "Ping? Small Boss, what do you mean what happened?" The guard answered using Fang's alternative name
"Yeah," the other chimed in. "Everything's clear, no ping. System's been quiet all night."
That slang—no ping—meant no alerts, no problems. Yet Fang's expression didn't change. His eyes, cold and narrow beneath the dim neon sign, flicked past them toward the casino's main doors.
Something was off.
Without another word, he brushed past the guards and strode inside. The music and chatter from the main floor hit him like a wave—chips clattering, laughter, synthetic jazz echoing from the speakers—but he ignored it all and headed straight to the back.
Past the bar.
Past the slot decks.
To the private office where the boss handled "business."
The guard outside the door nodded, moving aside as Fang approached. He didn't knock—just pushed the door open.
And there he was.
The Boss.
A heavyset man with a round belly straining against his silk shirt, a half-burnt cigar dangling from his lips. Gold rings flashed as his hand rested low—too low—on the blonde woman sitting on his lap. Her laugh was soft, fake, the kind that came with a price tag.
He didn't notice Fang enter. The dim light from the holographic lamp painted the room in pale blue, throwing shadows across the desk littered with data chips, cash bands, and half-empty glasses.
"Boss," Fang called.
The man didn't look up.
"Boss!" Fang's voice hardened.
Finally, the man lifted his head, eyes slightly red from smoke and drink. "Fang? What the hell are you doing here? I didn't call for you."
Fang frowned, sliding his holo-screen from his jacket and projecting the message across the air.
> [URGENT] Hurry back to the base. Something came up!
The boss's eyebrows furrowed. "What? I didn't send that."
He snatched his own device from the desk, scanning through the logs. The message was there—sent straight from his number. His expression darkened instantly.
"Who the hell's playin' with my line?" His voice rose to a roar as he slammed a fist against the table, sending glass fragments scattering. The blonde flinched, her fake smile fading.
"Beat it, sweetheart," he barked, shoving her off his lap. "Go before I change my damn mind."
She stumbled, gathering her things and hurrying out as his gold tooth gleamed under the lamp light.
Fang stepped forward slightly. "Someone hacked your comms, Boss."
The man's eyes burned with fury. "Somebody thinks they can mess with me? I'll ice every last one of 'em."
He yanked open his desk drawer, pulling out an object dark in color.
"Call the others," he barked. "We're rollin' out now. If this is a trap, we burn whoever set it."
Fang nodded, tapping his comm to alert the others.
Within minutes, the electric roar of engines filled the streets again as the Tina Gang tore off into the night—headed straight toward the bunker.
---
Meanwhile, across town…
Deborah crouched behind an old holo-billboard opposite the casino, her hood up against the wind. The blue glow from her tablet reflected in her eyes as she spoke into her earpiece.
"Pete, the gang's on the move. They're headed back to the bunker. Is Sam out yet?"
Static crackled for a moment before Pete's voice came through, heavy with tension. "Negative. I… I lost connection. My access got booted. I've been logged out."
"Damn it." Deborah's pulse spiked. "If he's caught in there, he's done."
Pete exhaled sharply. "We stick to the plan. I already sent the distress. The cops will move on the false ping. That'll stall them long enough for Sam to make it out—if he's fast."
Deborah glanced toward the distant lights of the city, her jaw tightening. "He better be."
---
Tina City Police Department
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
A series of digital alerts echoed across the control room as systems displays flared to life. Red dots pulsed on the city map—distress signals spreading like a rash across the grid.
"Chief!" a young officer called out from behind a console. "We're getting multiple distress beacons. Looks like a priority alert."
"Where's it coming from?"
The voice belonged to Chief Clarissa Holt—a woman who looked carved from iron. Her dark hair was tied back, a faint scar running from her left temple to her cheek. The small mole above her lip softened nothing.
"Saint Louis School, ma'am," another officer answered, spinning in his chair to face her. "Signal's been repeating every thirty seconds."
Clarissa crossed the room, her black suit whispering with each step. The map flickered across her sharp features.
"Could be a false alarm," someone muttered.
"Or bait," another added.
Clarissa glanced at them, eyes cold as steel. "Or someone really needs help. Either way, we move."
Her hand shot out, pointing. "Volt, Freddy, you're with me. Load the kits. Let's go fishing."
"Yes, Chief!"
In seconds, the room burst into motion—officers grabbing stun rifles, loading into black hover cruisers. The station's floodlights ignited as the convoy tore off into the night, sirens cutting through the hum of the city.
---
Meanwhile, in the bunker…
The silence down there felt different. Heavy. Pressurized. Like the air itself was watching.
Sam's breath came slow, careful. The glow from the digital locks reflected off his face as he crept down the corridor, trying to reconnect to Pete—but the signal was gone. Dead.
"Of all times," he muttered under his breath. "This just had to happen now."
He was about to move again when a voice sliced through the quiet.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing here?"
Sam froze.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he looked up. A man stood a few meters away, near the reinforced door where the children were kept. He was big, rough-faced, and mean-looking.
Before Sam could speak, another voice echoed from the side hall.
"Ha! I knew I heard something!"
Another guard emerged, smirking, a knife glinting in his hand.
Both started moving toward him.
Sam's palms were sweating. His thoughts raced. Two of them. Tight hallway. No weapon.
He forced a slow breath. He couldn't be caught. Not now.
"I said—what… are… you… doing… here?" the first man repeated, stepping closer.
Sam's mouth moved before his brain could stop it.
"I came to say hi to your mama."
For a split second, silence.
Then—"You little piece of shit!" The man lunged, rage twisting his face.
Sam's nerves spiked, but instinct took over. The knife sliced through the air where his throat had been a heartbeat ago. Sam ducked, twisting sideways, shoving his shoulder into the man's chest to throw him off balance. The attacker stumbled back, cursing.
Now both were in front of him—no one behind. Good.
The second man laughed, licking his blade. "He's slippery, this one. Let's carve him up and take his ears to the boss, he will reward us handsomely."
Sam's pulse was hammering, but a faint grin tugged at his lips. Maybe it was fear, maybe adrenaline—or just his way of staying sane.
"You'll really need that reward," Sam said, panting, "'cause one thing's for sure—you ain't handsome."
It slipped out before he could stop himself.
The thug's face turned crimson. "What did you just say?!"
Sam barely had time to brace as the man charged, slashing wildly.
The corridor filled with the sound of metal hitting wall and echoing curses.
Sam dodged again, his body running on pure instinct, his mind screaming stay alive, stay moving. Every second mattered—every breath could be his last.
******