The night of the mission had arrived.
Military units were in position. Snipers secured the rooftops with calculated focus. Hackers were stationed in dark-lit vans, fingers racing across keyboards.
Lorenzo watched everything from a distance—Tyson's men, Tesmee's forces, the streets, rooftops, and shadows that didn't belong. He was calm, collected, and deadly aware.
Near the quiet sea shore, Tesmee's matte black BMW M8 GTR sat idle. She leaned against it, arms crossed, eyes on the waves, as if the sea could calm the storm inside her. Her gaze lingered on the moon's reflection. The night was too still—it unnerved her.
Tyric stood atop a tall building, overseeing the biggest arsenal base. His stance was sharp, rifle slung behind his back, eyes tracking every movement like a hawk.
They all knew this wasn't just another mission. This was war.
Tesmee's voice crackled through their comms, low but firm:
"Everything is set and ready. We know the traps—we studied their types, their locations, their patterns. We built one solid plan to survive them. So whatever happens out there tonight..."
She took a breath, her eyes hardening as they watched the waves crash.
"Good luck—and stay alive."
The mission began.
At exactly 22:00, the first team breached Warehouse 9—silent, fast, surgical. But what greeted them was nothing but dust and silence.
"TESMEE, THE WAREHOUSE IS EMPTY," the captain's voice buzzed in her ear. "WE RECENTLY GOT REPORTS THAT TWO OTHERS ARE ALSO EMPTY."
Tesmee didn't flinch. Her eyes narrowed, jaw tightened.
"He's set a trap," she said coldly, fingers tightening on the comm device. "How sad… but at least it's not bombs. Leave the warehouses—bomb them all. I'll take that land as mine later."
"Roger that," the captain confirmed.
As the units rerouted, moving away from the now-worthless warehouses, smoke began rising in the distance. Controlled explosions lit the night sky. The sound of crumbling steel echoed behind them like a closing door.
Meanwhile, other teams moved forward toward the real targets—the hidden bases. Their steps were calculated, every move weighed. But they all knew the deeper they went, the closer they were to Tyson's trap. They just didn't know how close.
"The soldiers have settled closer to the base," Tyric's voice came through Tesmee's comm—low, calm, precise.
She responded without hesitation, "Keep it going."
The air was thick now. Tension pulsed through every channel. The sea wind whipped past her, the dark waves crashing behind her motionless BMW. It was 22:22 PM.
Across the city, a voice crackled through a different line—sharper, colder.
"You set?"
"Yes, boss," a sniper confirmed. "The target is clear. Shall I take the shot now?"
A pause.
Then came Tyson's voice—commanding, resolute. "NO. WAIT TILL I'M CLOSER TO THEM TOO."
His black Bugatti Chiron tore through the city like a bullet shot straight from hell—low engine growling, tires gripping every curve with purpose. Tyson wasn't just coming for a fight. He was coming to end a war.
"You may fire now."
Tyson's voice was razor-sharp, calm—just meters from the target. He knew the roar of his Chiron would rattle them, make them turn, make them see him. And they did.
Tesmee saw it first—the glint of his headlights slicing through the night, the unmistakable growl of his engine howling toward her. Her eyes locked on the beast approaching.
Tyric heard it. From the rooftop, his senses sharpened, instincts firing. He knew that sound—it wasn't just a car, it was a declaration.
"Copy that," the sniper responded, steadying the barrel of his rifle.
Across the comms, Tesmee's voice rang out—firm and final.
"Remember—whatever happens, the mission continues."
Then—
Thip.
A whisper of death in the air.
The needle struck her neck like a sting of betrayal. Her hand flew up, ripping it out. Her pupils dilated as the tranquilizer surged through her veins.
"Fuck…" she breathed, staggering. Her knees gave out. The sea beside her shimmered, the sky spinning above—then everything went dark.
She collapsed to the ground—unconscious.
And just like that—the storm began.