The bullpen at the 99th Precinct buzzed with the usual hum of fluorescent lights, ringing phones, and the low murmur of officers trying to look productive. Captain McGintley stood over a bank of monitors, brow furrowed, frustration radiating from every line of his face.
"Alright, let's run it again," he said, tapping the edge of his desk. "Cameras from the Broker docks. From every angle. Every. Angle."
Rosa Diaz leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, scrolling through the feed on her laptop. "We've already done that. Six different cameras, all the same result. Nothing. No license plates. No faces. Nothing we can actually use."
Jake Peralta was perched on the edge of a chair, leaning closer to the monitors like proximity would reveal secrets hidden in the pixels. "I mean… technically, this is amazing. Whoever did it planned this perfectly. It's like—like a ghost moving cars around without touching the ground. Or like—like a supervillain movie ghost. That's probably what this guy was going for, right?"
Hitch and Scully sat in the back, sharing a bag of stale donuts and whispering to each other.
McGintley pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jake, we don't have time for cinematic metaphors. We need something—anything—to work with."
Rosa pointed at a frame where the shadow of a person moved across the lot at the precise moment the gate swung open. "See this? That's all we've got. And it tells us… nothing. No height. No hair color. Could be anyone."
Jake squinted. "Or… maybe it's someone really small. Or really young. Or—"
"Or it doesn't matter," Rosa snapped, closing the footage. "They left no trace. No prints, no cameras caught them directly, no witnesses saw anything—nobody saw anything. It's like they didn't exist."
Hitch swallowed nervously. "So… what now?"
McGintley groaned. "We wait. File the report. Make it look like we're doing something."
Jake leaned back dramatically, arms stretched out like he was on Broadway. "Or we could—hear me out—stake out the docks ourselves, go full detective mode, and actually find the ghost car thief."
Rosa gave him a look that could curdle milk. "Yeah, and when you trip over your own shoelaces, we'll call it a breakthrough."
Boyle, fidgeting with his pen, added, "Maybe we could, like… set a trap? Some kind of bait car?"
Rosa pinched the bridge of her nose again. "No. Just… no."
The room fell silent except for the low hum of the monitors.
McGintley finally spoke. "All right. File the evidence. Keep the cameras rolling, keep an eye on the docks. But for now… let it go."
Jake grumbled, "Let it go? That's like letting someone steal my soul and walking away."
Rosa didn't even react.
Meanwhile, outside the precinct, Cole walked past unnoticed. He paused at a streetlight, glancing up at the building, noting the cameras on the front, the officers coming and going, the blind spots that didn't exist on any map.
He didn't hurry. He didn't hide. He simply observed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he considered how little they actually saw.
Inside, the LCPD was reviewing footage, rewatching the ghost of him moving across the docks, unaware that the man they were searching for—so close, yet invisible—was already gone.
Cole disappeared into the shadows of Liberty City, perfectly unseen, perfectly untouchable, and entirely aware of just how much everyone else was missing.
...
Cole was nursing a burnt coffee in a narrow Broker café when his burner phone vibrated against the table. He didn't look at it right away. Let the vibration stop. Let it start again.
Then he picked it up.
"Yeah."
Badman's voice came through first, thick with tension and his unmistakable Jamaican accent."Madman… we got a real problem."
Cole's eyes drifted to the window, to the steady flow of people who all believed their day would end normally. "You always do."
Jacob cut in, calmer but no less serious. "One a ours talkin'. Proper talkin'. Police meet him twice now."
Cole's jaw tightened just slightly. "Name."
"Curtis," Badman said. "Dukes. Third-floor walk-up. Man think him safe."
Cole stood, slipping a bill under the mug. "Send me the address."
A pause. Jacob again, quieter. "You sure, madman? Heat still around."
"Heat fades," Cole replied evenly. "Snitches don't."
The line went dead.
Cole walked until the streets thinned, then ducked into a half-collapsed parking structure where the concrete swallowed sound and light alike. No cameras. No witnesses.
"System," he murmured.
The interface bloomed invisibly to him alone.
He moved through the shop without hesitation.Subsonic ammunition.Two magazines.A slim ballistic vest that vanished under clothing. Suppressor. Gloves.
Each item appeared seamlessly, weight settling naturally, like they had always belonged there. Cole adjusted the vest, rolled his shoulders once, and chambered a round—counting automatically, not consciously. Satisfied, he moved.
Curtis's building smelled like cheap cleaner and old food. Cole climbed the stairs quietly, counting steps, timing breaths. Seven steps to the landing. Seven seconds between the elevator's clunk above and the hum of traffic outside.
He stopped at the door and listened.
Curtis was inside. Nervous. Pacing. Talking on the phone.
Cole knocked.
Curtis opened the door halfway, eyes already sharp with suspicion. "Yeah?"
Cole didn't draw the gun yet. Didn't rush. "You've been busy lately."
Curtis's face drained of color. His hand twitched toward the doorframe. Toward escape.
"You don't know me," Curtis said quickly.
Cole stepped forward, forcing the door open with his shoulder—not violently, just decisively—and closed it behind him. The apartment was small. Claustrophobic. Nowhere to run.
"I know enough," Cole said calmly. "You talked to cops. Twice."
Curtis's breath hitched. "I—I didn't say anything—"
Cole raised the pistol, suppressor already attached, his movements smooth and practiced. Curtis backed up until he hit the kitchen counter, hands shaking.
"Please," Curtis whispered. "I'll disappear. I swear."
Cole's expression didn't change. "You already tried that."
Curtis lunged.
The gun fired once.
The sound was dull, contained, swallowed by the suppressor and the walls. Curtis collapsed instantly, shock overtaking pain before his body even registered what happened. He hit the floor hard, eyes wide, breath leaving him in a single, final exhale.
Cole stood there for a moment, watching to be sure. Counting. Timing.
Seven seconds.
Then he moved.
He wiped down what mattered. Touched nothing he didn't need to. The scene was clean—not staged, just empty. Curtis had been talking. Now he wouldn't.
Cole stepped over the body, unlocked the door, and slipped out into the hallway like he had never been there at all.
Jacob's phone buzzed ten minutes later.
Handled.
Jacob read it, exhaled slowly, and looked at Badman. "Madman don't hesitate."
Badman nodded, eyes serious. "Nah. Man like him already dead inside."
...
Across the city, an LCPD patrol logged a routine welfare check request that went unanswered. No urgency. No follow-up. Just another line in a system drowning in noise.
Another death Liberty City wouldn't notice until it was far too late.
Cole walked back into the night, jacket zipped, steps unhurried, already thinking ahead. In this city, silence was currency—and he was getting very rich.
...
Cole didn't go home after Dukes.
He walked until the city thinned into something quieter—less noise, fewer eyes. A narrow pedestrian overpass overlooking traffic, concrete pillars cutting the streetlights into broken lines. Somewhere no one lingered long enough to remember a face.
He stopped beneath one of the pillars.
"System."
The shop opened without ceremony. Cole scrolled past weapons, ammunition, things that solved problems loudly. He stopped on something subtler.
Lead crystalline mirrors.
Hand-sized. Thin. Dense. Reflective in a way that bent light strangely rather than throwing it back clean.
He purchased six.
They appeared one by one in his hands, cool and heavier than they looked. He turned one slowly, watching the city distort across its surface—angles shifting, reflections breaking where they shouldn't.
Good.
Cole slid them into inner pockets, each placed carefully so they wouldn't clink together. Tools, not trinkets.
....
Cole didn't follow Gracie Antelotti directly. That was amateur. That was obvious. He had learned long ago the city watched, and people assumed what they wanted to see.
He was going to give them nothing to see.
She moved through Algonquin like she owned it—which, in a way, she did. The air shifted subtly around her: confidence, wealth, control. People gave space without realizing why.
Cole slipped into a shadow across the street, shoulders relaxed, hoodie low. He didn't look at her, didn't breathe differently. He watched through reflections—shop windows, puddles, the glossy side of a parked car. He caught fragments: the flick of her hand as she tucked hair behind her ear, the subtle tilt of her head scanning exits, the way her eyes lingered on unfamiliar faces without them noticing.
You think you're safe. You think you're aware. But I see everything.
A café window gave him a better angle. He set a lead crystalline mirror on the ledge, angled just right. Through it, he saw Gracie laughing at something someone said, unaware of him watching, unaware that her reflection was fractured and multiplied in ways she couldn't perceive.
You're meticulous. Calculated. Smart. But not careful enough.
Cole adjusted another mirror, catching her passing by a boutique with mirrored walls. Two mirrors offset, enough to show him her movements without ever letting her know she was observed. He noted patterns: the guards who stayed too far back, the employees who lingered in corners longer than necessary, the exits she glanced at casually—always three steps ahead of her actual path.
Gracie paused at a gallery opening. She tilted her head, eyes scanning a crowd she assumed neutral. Someone brushed past her, and she noticed just enough to remain poised. Cole mirrored her through another glass surface, his movements unseen, his presence unregistered.
I know more than you realize. I know the spaces you trust. The spaces you ignore. And someday, you'll wish you hadn't.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't need to. Watching was power. Understanding was leverage.
She walked on, completely oblivious. Cole retrieved his mirrors, one by one, slipping them back into his coat pockets. Not a trace left. Not a glance toward him.
Liberty City moved around them, ignorant of the shadow threading through it. And Cole? He was already planning three steps ahead, just as he always did.
....
Cole disengaged cleanly.
No lingering looks. No backward glances. One moment he was part of the crowd, the next he wasn't—absorbed by Liberty City's noise like a thought abandoned mid-sentence. Gracie Antelotti continued on, unaware that anyone had ever been watching at all.
That was the point.
Cole didn't want proximity anymore. He wanted space.
Liberty City had plenty of it—rotting, forgotten, unwanted. He spent the next day moving through neighborhoods most people only passed through by accident. Back alleys in Dukes. Closed-down garages in Bohan. Warehouses with rusted roll-up doors and handwritten FOR LEASE signs curling at the corners.
Too visible.Too small.Too compromised.
He needed something forgettable. Somewhere that didn't invite curiosity.
He made the call from a payphone that still worked if you hit it just right.
"Brucie," Cole said.
"BRO! My guy! What's up—new job? You need wheels? Supplements?"
"I need a place," Cole replied. "Workshop. Small. Rundown. Somewhere no one cares about."
There was a pause. Papers rustled. Brucie's voice dropped, just a little. "Uh… yeah. Yeah, actually. There's this old auto shop in Acter. Place is a dump. Like, tragically a dump. No one's touched it in years."
"Perfect," Cole said.
"You buying it?"
"Yes."
Another pause. "Man, you're weird."
Cole smiled faintly. "I get that a lot."
...
The workshop went quiet in the way only abandoned places could—no echoes, no drafts, just the dull weight of still air. Cole closed the door, slid the bolt home, and stood for a moment with his eyes shut, listening to the building settle.
Then he went to work.
He laid the lead crystalline mirrors out on the bench, not randomly, not artistically. This wasn't decoration. Each piece was measured against the next, edges aligned, angles tested with a patience that bordered on reverence. He rejected two placements immediately, adjusted a third by a fraction of a degree, and nodded once when the reflections behaved the way he expected.
Light mattered. Distance mattered.
Symmetry mattered more than anything.
He began on the floor, placing the first mirror flat, then tilting it just enough that the reflection didn't return to him but slipped away—bent inward, swallowed. The second joined it, then the third, each one closing the curve tighter. The mirrors weren't touching, not quite. They hovered at the correct separation, held in place by brackets he'd fabricated earlier, simple but exact.
Cole worked slowly now.
He crouched, then stood, then crouched again, circling the growing structure like a man inspecting a loaded chamber. At certain angles, the reflections multiplied too quickly—he corrected those immediately. At others, they dimmed, pulling light inward until the space at the center looked darker than shadow.
Good.
He added the upper arc last, careful not to complete the shape. Never complete it. The half-sphere remained open, deliberate and controlled, its curvature precise enough that standing too close made his eyes ache—not painfully, just enough to remind him that the geometry was doing something unnatural to perception.
He paused with the final mirror in his hands.
For a moment, he didn't place it.
Some things demanded respect, even if you weren't afraid of them.
Then he set it, locking the arc into place.
The half-sphere settled into stillness.
Inside it, sound dulled. Reflections folded over themselves, depth becoming ambiguous. From the right angle, the interior seemed smaller than it should be; from another, impossibly deep. The mirrors didn't reflect Cole so much as suggest him—fractured outlines, eyes where eyes shouldn't be, angles that refused to agree.
He stepped back.
Satisfied.
Cole didn't step inside. Not yet. He knew better than to crowd a structure like this, better than to rush toward completion. The shape was powerful because it was incomplete—because everything about it suggested what would happen if the final step were taken.
He turned away, wiping his hands on a rag, and glanced around the workshop. To anyone else, it was just a strange installation in a rundown garage. Abstract. Pointless.
To Cole, it was a reminder.
Some forces didn't explode.They collapsed.
And the difference between control and catastrophe was often no more than a few inches—and the decision to stop short.
He killed the lights, leaving the half-sphere in darkness, and locked the workshop behind him.
Liberty City didn't notice.
It rarely noticed the things that mattered most.
...
Cole didn't go straight back to the workshop. He let the night breathe first—walked through streets slick with rain and neon, letting the city noises mask his presence. By the time he arrived at Brucie's apartment, Liberty City had settled into its usual chaotic rhythm—horns honking, music blasting from somewhere nearby, the faint echo of a siren in the distance.
Brucie swung the door open before Cole even knocked. Shirtless, energetic, practically vibrating through the threshold.
"BRO! YOU MADE IT! Come in, come in—this is gonna be awesome!"
Cole stepped inside, noting the controlled chaos of Brucie's domain: dumbbells strewn across the floor, empty protein shake bottles stacked like trophies, posters of sleek cars plastered unevenly along the walls. The faint smell of motor oil mingled with cheap cologne.
"And this," Brucie said, beaming, "is my brother—Mori. Mori, meet… uh, my new guy!"
Mori turned slowly, crossing his arms. At first glance, he looked just like Brucie: broad shoulders, wild energy, confident stance. But his expression was calmer, more calculating.
"Hey," Mori said, voice smooth. "So this is the famous car guy I've heard about. Brucie talks too much sometimes."
Cole raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "And yet here I am. Survived the talking."
Brucie laughed, giving both of them a casual nudge. "Come on, guys, don't start throwing insults already! Just—just hang out first!"
Mori chuckled, the tension easing. "I like him. Quiet. Observant. Doesn't jump into my brother's nonsense."
Cole shrugged. "I get enough nonsense on my own."
For a moment, the room relaxed. Brucie disappeared into the kitchen, shouting something about "protein shake mixology," leaving Cole and Mori alone.
"So… you're not all hype?" Mori asked, leaning against the doorway. "I was expecting… I don't know… fireworks, maybe a lot of shouting, or at least some crazy story about stealing cars like it's a video game."
Cole shook his head, smirk faint. "Fireworks are overrated. Cars are better in motion than in stories."
Mori laughed, a short, sharp sound. "I like that. I like that a lot. Finally someone who doesn't pretend the chaos is the point. Point is… you do the work, right?"
"Always," Cole said casually. "The rest… optional."
Mori tilted his head, studying him. "I could get used to this. Might even enjoy having someone around who doesn't talk too much."
Cole shrugged again, pocketing his hands. "Careful. I do talk, eventually. Just… on my terms."
Brucie returned with two protein shakes, waving them in the air like trophies. "Alright, guys! This is gonna be epic. New guy, Mori—you're gonna love it. We're like… the ultimate team."
Mori rolled his eyes but grinned. "I don't know about ultimate, but… tolerable at least."
Cole smiled faintly, letting the tension ease. For the first time since arriving in Liberty City, it felt almost… normal. Two people, two perspectives, a room full of chaos that somehow didn't touch him.
He could work with this.
For now.
...
Cole leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the exchange with quiet amusement. Brucie sprawled on the couch, protein shake in hand, already halfway through another story about a "massive deal" involving an imported sports car.
Mori, ever the contrarian, shook his head with a smirk. "You really talk a lot, don't you, Brucie? I mean—half the time I have no idea if you're talking about cars, protein, or how amazing you are."
Brucie laughed nervously. "Hey! That's—come on, that's not fair—"
Cole's voice cut in smoothly, calm, just enough to draw attention. "You might want to pick your words carefully, Mori. Brucie's proud. Insulting him rarely ends well."
Mori raised an eyebrow. "Oh, is that your role? Protector? The quiet guy who swoops in when someone says something mean?"
Cole shrugged, casual, almost dismissive.
"I'm here because I know when it's worth speaking. This is one of those times."
Brucie relaxed slightly, grateful. "Yeah! Thank you, man. I didn't think—"
Mori chuckled, leaning back against the wall, crossing his arms. "Relax, I'm just joking. He can take a little ribbing, can't he?"
Cole smiled faintly, tilting his head."Depends on how much you enjoy pain, I guess."
Mori laughed, the sound easy, teasing. "You're bold for a quiet one. I like that. Most people around here talk too much and have nothing to show for it."
Cole's expression didn't change. "I prefer quality over noise."
Mori studied him for a moment, curiosity flickering behind his smirk. "Alright, fair enough. You might not be annoying like everyone else… I can respect that."
Brucie looked between them, surprised at the calm tone of the conversation. "See? You guys are getting along already. This is great!"
Cole's eyes flicked briefly toward Brucie. "We're getting along. But some lessons aren't verbal."
Mori's smirk sharpened slightly. "Oh? Care to elaborate?"
Cole tilted his head, hands tucked casually in his pockets. "Actions speak louder than words. That's all."
The air was still tense but unbroken. Brucie, caught between admiration and anxiety, couldn't help but whisper, "BRO… this is insane. He's calm… too calm."
Mori laughed again, shifting his stance. "I like you, quiet guy. But I'm not scared of some smooth talk. Let's see what else you've got."
Cole's lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile. "We'll see."
For now, the conversation remained calm, almost friendly—teasing, probing, testing boundaries—but beneath it, the undercurrent of challenge had already been set.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
And Cole? He was already planning how to ensure the lesson landed, when the time was right.
The conversation lingered in that easy, teasing space for a while. Brucie rambled on about his latest "perfectly tuned" engine, throwing in exaggerated hand gestures, while Mori leaned back, smirking, poking at every flaw he could spot.
"You know," Mori said casually, "for a guy who brags about horsepower and torque, you sure can't bench half of what you claim."
Brucie's face went red—not from anger, but from a mix of embarrassment and pride. "Hey! I can lift—okay, fine, maybe not half your weight—but it's all about form!"
Cole stayed quiet, arms crossed, watching the subtle dynamics like a conductor watching an orchestra. He let Mori jab, let Brucie stumble over his words.
"Form doesn't make up for showmanship," Mori added, eyes glinting. "You talk too much, make too much noise. People notice that more than your muscles."
Brucie's hands tightened around his protein shake. "I'm loud, okay? That's my personality! It's… charming!"
Cole finally spoke, voice calm, measured, carrying just enough weight to quiet Mori's smirk. "There's a difference between loud and confident. You're loud. Brucie? Confident. And that matters when words aren't enough."
Mori froze, intrigued but not backing down. "Oh really? You defending him now? The overhyped, sweaty, vroom-vroom guy?"
"Yes," Cole said simply. "Because someone has to. And because you're starting to test boundaries."
Mori's eyes flicked to Cole, calculating. "Hmm… so you're the type who prefers actions over words, huh?"
Cole shrugged. "Sometimes. Depends on the lesson."
Mori's grin widened, a spark of challenge lighting his eyes. "Alright, then. If that's your style… maybe it's time we see whose lessons stick."
Brucie froze, nearly choking on his shake. "Wait—hold up! You're not—don't—guys, c'mon—"
Cole didn't answer. He didn't need to. His calm presence, the quiet weight behind him, said everything. Mori stepped closer, anticipation buzzing in the air like static.
Brucie leaned back, wide-eyed, muttering under his breath, "BRO… this is insane. He's too calm… too steady… oh no."
Mori's grin sharpened. "Come on, then. Let's see it."
Cole's lips curved just slightly, unreadable, almost a smirk. "We'll see."
The teasing, testing, banter of the night had reached the edge of its calm. Both men knew the line had been drawn—one step too far, one misplaced word, and the quiet calculation of Cole's presence would meet the overt challenge of Mori's pride.
The room waited. Brucie's heartbeat, fast and uneven, echoed louder than the music thumping in the background.
And Cole? He was ready, patient, and entirely in control.
...
The air in Brucie's apartment thickened. Mori leaned forward slightly, smirk stretched into something sharper, teasing edged with real challenge. "You're calm, yeah? Acting like you know everything. But I wonder… are you actually capable, or is it all talk?"
Cole's eyes narrowed fractionally, voice low and even. "I'm capable enough to make sure you don't humiliate yourself in front of everyone here. That counts for something, right?"
Mori laughed, a short, sharp sound that carried both arrogance and amusement. "Oh, so now I need defending? Poor Brucie, can't even handle his own brother. Maybe I should just—"
Cole stepped forward, almost imperceptibly. Not fast. Not loud. Just a movement weighted with intent. "Stop."
Mori's smirk faltered, curiosity flashing into a spark of irritation. "Oh, so that's your move? Calm warning?"
Cole tilted his head. "Consider it… informative. You're pushing too far."
Mori's grin twisted, and he leaned even closer. "You're funny, quiet guy. Think you can scare me? Maybe it's time to find out."
Brucie froze mid-sip, eyes wide. "Whoa, WHOA! Okay, let's… let's not do anything rash, alright? Guys… chill!"
But Mori wasn't listening. He squared his shoulders, rolling his knuckles lightly as if to test his own resolve. "C'mon. Let's see what you got."
Cole didn't respond with words. He moved just a step, weight shifting slightly, hands relaxed, posture deceptively casual. But the energy between them changed instantly. Mori's grin faltered—he recognized the tension, the control behind that calm gaze.
Cole's smirk widened faintly, almost unnoticeable.
"You wanted to find out?"The movement was fluid, almost lazy. One step. One punch. Clean. Precise. Controlled.
Mori's head snapped back, eyes wide in shock. He stumbled into the nearby weight rack, dumbbells clattering across the floor. The sound echoed in the small apartment. He hit the ground hard, groaning, face red, stunned.
Silence fell immediately.
Brucie's mouth hung open, frozen mid-chew, eyes wide. "BRO… BRO! Did you… you didn't even wind up!"
Cole flexed his hand casually, still relaxed, still calm. "He was testing boundaries.
Thought he'd find out if I'd warn him twice."
Mori rolled onto his side, blood trickling from his nose, groaning. "You… you're… what the hell…?"
Cole's expression didn't shift. "Volume doesn't equal strength. Happens a lot."
Brucie's jaw dropped, the protein shake forgotten in his hand. "Man… I've trained my whole life, supplements, cardio, all that—and you… you just… oh my god. That was insane. Unreal. Totally unreal."
Cole gave a faint nod, stepping past Brucie toward the door. "I'm heading out."
Brucie followed him, still awestruck, trying to process what he had just seen. "BRO! That… that was amazing! You didn't even look like you tried!"
Cole paused at the doorway, eyes scanning the street. "I didn't need to."
Brucie whispered to himself as Cole disappeared into the city night: "BRO… he's unreal. Completely unreal."
And for once, Brucie wasn't exaggerating.
...
Cole was back in his workshop the next morning, the half-sphere of lead crystalline mirrors looming silently in the center of the room. Its fractured reflections didn't just distort light—they distorted thought, perception, the faintest hint of possibility. He didn't touch it, didn't need to. Just looking at it reminded him that control was an illusion in Liberty City, but a necessary one nonetheless.
His burner phone vibrated against the workbench. A number he didn't recognize.
He answered.
"This is Cole," he said, voice calm, measured.
A smooth, controlled voice spoke on the other end. "We've been watching you. The Antelotti family wants to meet. Tonight."
Cole paused. He let the silence stretch, letting the weight of the offer sit in the room with him. "I'll be there," he said finally.
He hung up and let the phone rest. Alone in the quiet of the workshop, he leaned against the wall, hands tucked in pockets, staring at the half-sphere.
Control. Fate. Luck. Chaos.
He had been moving through this city for days, threading through lives, listening, observing, learning. Every job, every shadow, every quiet moment of surveillance—it all built toward this. But control, he knew, was never absolute. You could manipulate events, predict outcomes, even bend fortune—but only within the narrow lines the world allowed. Push too far, and it broke. Push too soft, and it slipped through your fingers.
He thought about Gracie Antelotti, about Brucie, about the workshop, the mirrors, the streets, the shadows. Every person was a variable. Every action had a reaction, often unseen until it landed. People believed in their choices, in their free will—but the city, the system, the patterns—they didn't lie. They were constant.
Control was the illusion of inevitability. Fate was the acceptance of the consequences. Cole didn't pretend to own either. He only played them like instruments, testing the notes, bending the tempo without letting the song break.
And when the Antelotti family called? He would meet them. He would listen. He would act.
But he would not reveal himself. Not fully. Not yet.
Because to act with knowledge is to hold power, and to hold power is to be ready for the moment when everything depends on a single, careful decision.
Cole brushed his hands on the dust-covered floor, shrugged into his jacket, and left the workshop. The mirrors reflected nothing of him now—just empty space, a reminder that sometimes, the most important things are those you don't show.
By nightfall, he was back at Elizabeta's apartment. The city roared outside, oblivious to the calculations, the shadows, the quiet machinations moving between families, between crime, between lives.
Cole sat by the window, looking out over the lights, sipping a drink that didn't warm or cool him, just filled the silence. He didn't think about the meeting as a confrontation. Not yet. He thought about control. He thought about fate. He thought about the mirrors and the reflections he could bend, the people who could never know they were being watched.
Tonight, the Antelotti family would call him in.
And tonight, he would be ready.
For Cole, that was always enough.
... CHAPTER COMPLETE ...
TAKE A WILD GUESS ON WHAT THE LEAD MIRROR SPHERE IS FOR LOL, IF ANYONE HAS ANY THOUGHRS COMMENTS OR IDEAS ABOUT THINGS THEY WOULD LIKE SEEN IN THE STORY, FEEL FREE TO LEAVE A COMMENT, I LOVE HEARING ANYONES FEEDBACK