While the world above obsessed over Aslan's dark secrets on the 8th floor, the man at the center of the storm was drifting casually through the lobby of Eye Tower as an invited guest.
Ren moved alone, draped in a charcoal-grey suit tailored to lethal perfection, anchored by a crisp navy tie. The polished marble floors caught his reflection with every rhythmic, measured step. He handed his invitation to the receptionist with a calm that betrayed nothing—no hint that he was a Platinum-Tier fugitive with a king's ransom on his head.
A staff member with a face like cold porcelain led him to the Executive Suite on the 6th Floor.
Through the silent corridors and the hushed vacuum of the elevator, Ren mapped the terrain. He cataloged every shadow, scanned the hidden personnel behind the walls, identified their sidearms, and marked the kill zones. His mind ran the probabilities of an ambush, but he hit a jarring anomaly.
Strange. No killing intent, he thought. Usually, in a fortress like this, the air feels like a cold needle against the skin. Here, there was only sterile, professional vigilance.
He reached the suite. It was a ballroom masquerading as a gala, decorated to welcome a legion of elites. Frey clearly expected Santino to arrive with an army of goons. The vastness of the room made Ren, standing alone, look like a glitch in the system. Silk-draped tables and exorbitant delicacies sat untouched—a high-class cage.
The escort bowed and vanished to summon the Baron.
Ren stood in the center of the dead silence. He counted to five, letting the gravity of the room settle. As he moved toward the most strategically viable seat, his hand brushed his hidden earpiece.
"Report," Ren whispered.
"Frey has left the 8th. ETA: thirty seconds," Isaac's voice crackled through the static. "CCTV feed is locked. He's got two shadows. Be careful."
Vera broke in, her voice hushed and hurried. "The guards in the hall are wearing concealed vests and carrying sidearms. They're on high alert. I count at least thirty agents across eight floors. Not including Frey."
"Hardly ideal for a knife fight," Isaac muttered, a sliver of irony in his tone.
Ren let out a soft, sharp breath. "The vests only cover the chest, Isaac. Their throats are wide open."
A chime signaled the elevator's arrival. The connection died. Vera and Isaac were now blind to the sound, left only with the cold flicker of the video feed.
The doors opened. Baron Frey stepped out.
He wore his wealth with a quiet, terrifying authority—the posture of an old-money clan leader. His two guards moved like wolves, their eyes sharp and predatory. Ren stood to meet him. It was a gesture of calculated etiquette, not submission.
"Baron Frey," Ren greeted him with a flawless, synthetic smile. "My sincerest apologies. Due to... unavoidable circumstances, Santino and the others couldn't make it. I am here as their proxy."
Ren gestured to the sea of empty tables.
Frey stepped closer, a curl of disdain on his lips. "Not a problem at all, Mr..." He let the sentence hang, waiting for a name. "I prepared this banquet to discuss a little... friction... that occurred on Santino's route during the last pickup. Having you here alone might actually keep us focused."
Frey spat the word friction like a curse, a clear nod to the chaos Ren had left in his wake.
"A happy coincidence, then," Ren replied, seizing the momentum. "Since I am the new architect of that route. You may call me 'Daniel'."
Ren extended a gloved hand—a bold, cold challenge. Behind his desk miles away, the real Daniel felt a sudden shiver, as if his very soul had been poached by a demon.
Frey's smile didn't reach his eyes. He knew his guest was Shiroi Hitsuji, but the name 'Daniel' was a game he was willing to play. 10 million Marble Credits were worth more than a name. He took the hand. The grip was brief and frigid—a silent promise of war.
"We have much to discuss, Mr. Daniel," Frey said, leading the way to the table. "Let's talk over dinner."
Ren took the seat opposite him—a blind spot from the main entrance. He'd have to be fast if the door blew.
Waiters moved with haunting precision, serving the main course. Frey didn't touch his fork. He just stared.
"Mr. Daniel," Frey began, his voice like silk over a blade. "I received a report. Something quite... disruptive... happened on Santino's line."
Ren didn't do small talk. "I've been auditing Santino's operations for four months. I found a recurring obstacle—a 'stumbling block' that's been choking our growth." Ren leaned in, his gaze leveling. "It turns out the Baron's family has been treating Santino's private route as their own personal supply line, rather than acting as a partner."
Frey's eyes thinned. "That distribution line has run smoothly for years. Is Santino blaming a legacy partner for his own internal failures?"
"It's not a management issue, Baron. It's a capacity issue." Ren's voice cut through the formality. "When a partner starts hogging the artery to feed their own greed, the system suffocates. And I don't like being choked."
"We call it an 'operational adjustment'," Frey shot back, his voice rising. "A small tax for keeping the route secure."
"An adjustment that cost us 30% in the last quarter," Ren countered with surgical precision. "We're here to cut out the tumor before it kills the host."
The pleasantries died there. Ren had struck the Baron's greediest nerve.
"I'm here to terminate the contract with your family. Permanently."
Frey went still. Then, he laughed—a cold, hollow sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "Terminating the contract?" He wiped a tear of mock amusement. "Bold. Truly. But tell me, would you still be so eager to 'terminate'... if you knew it meant moving from a business dispute to a physical war?"
Ren's smile vanished, leaving only a gaze that could freeze blood.
"I'm not worried," Ren said, drowning out Frey's bluff with sheer arrogance. "Because Santino has 'him' on the payroll now."
Frey leaned forward, a predatory grin spreading. "Him? You mean... Shiroi Hitsuji?"
Ren just let the silence answer for him.
"And what would this Shiroi Hitsuji do if we refuse to walk away?"
"Hmm. Good question," Ren mused, mocking Frey's tone. "I was so certain you'd be reasonable that I didn't bother thinking of a plan B."
Frey chuckled, a sound full of malice. "Why don't you think about it over a glass of red, Mr. Daniel? I heard from my brother that the 'Sheep' has a very... vivid... memory of that particular drink."
Ren watched the red liquid fill his glass. Without a flicker of hesitation, he raised it and took a slow sip—a blatant act of defiance against Frey's intel.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Baron," Ren said flatly, setting the glass down.
Suddenly, every instinct Ren possessed screamed. A thick, icy, familiar killing intent flooded the room like a tidal wave.
His ghost had arrived. Aslan.
Aslan stood at the threshold. Without a word, he tossed a tactical grenade toward the center of the table.
BOOM.
It wasn't a frag; it was a localized shockwave. Ren was already airborne, vaulting backward and landing like a cat meters away. Cloaked by the smoke, his left hand found a hidden harness to swallow an alcohol neutralizer. Frey, meanwhile, was thrown back, hacking and spitting dust.
"Aslan! What the hell are you doing?!" Frey screamed.
Aslan ignored him. His eyes were locked on Ren, who stood poised and unscathed.
"Thank you, Shiroi Hitsuji," Aslan said, his voice dripping with a sickening satisfaction. "Because you're here, I can finally take the seat of the Head of the Family."
Aslan snapped his fingers.
In an instant, every guard in the room—including Frey's personal shadows—pivoted. They aimed their barrels not at the terrorist, but at Baron Frey's head.
THE NOBLE COUNCIL – OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER
Miles away from the smoke of Eye Tower, Daniel's office was a sanctuary of cold glass.
A knock. Secretary Han Chaeryung stepped in, her face a neutral mask.
"I've spoken with the owner of the van, Mr. Prime Minister," she reported. "The woman with blue hair. She didn't give a name, but she left a message: 'The Defeat of the Discovered Attack.' She said you'd recognize it."
Daniel's chest tightened. He knew it well—the humiliating memory of his defeat on the chessboard. It was Ren's way of saying: Trust these people. They are mine.
"Give that van full operational clearance, Han," Daniel commanded. "Wipe it from the surveillance logs. It doesn't exist."
He paused. "But if anyone—and I mean anyone—so much as breathes on that vehicle, you protect it with every resource we have. Understood?"
Han looked confused. Her usually unflappable boss was showing a sliver of panic. But she bowed and withdrew.
When the door clicked shut, Daniel buried his face in his hands. He opened a file on the 'technical glitch' at the God Hands Gallery. The world thought it was a security failure. Daniel knew it was Ren.
"I gave you freedom, Ren. Not a license to burn the city down," he whispered to the empty room.
Inside the van, Vera felt the air change. The oppressive feeling of being watched evaporated.
"Isaac," she whispered. "The security just... died. It's like we've been whitelisted since I gave that message."
In the Cube, Isaac stared at the silent CCTV feed. "We're blind on the audio, Vera. AEGIS is too thick. We have no context..."
His screen erupted in white light and smoke.
"Vera! The Executive Suite just blew!"
Vera gasped, her heart stopping for a beat. But as the haze cleared, she saw him. Ren, standing in the middle of the wreckage, untouchable.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Ren had secured her safety in the lion's den—the Prime Minister's parking lot—while dodging a literal explosion at point-blank range.
"Isaac," Vera whispered, her eyes glued to Ren's calm face on the monitor. "Who exactly is this 'physical backdoor' of ours?"