Saint Patro Headquarters
The office was dark.
Not because the lights were off—they were on, dim and amber, casting long shadows across expensive furniture and polished wood. Chandeliers hang high that made of beautiful glass. But the darkness seemed to cling to the room anyway, like it belonged there.
Vincent Delgado sat behind his desk, only his silhouette visible. Broad shoulders. Strong hands clasped together. The faint ember of a cigar glowing red in the shadows. Beside him stood another figure—lean, nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"I told you, boss," the man said quietly. "I saw the whole thing. Two guys in suits—purple and red. They came out of nowhere, beat the hell out of our guys, took the woman."
The door opened. Two men dragged someone into the room—the thug from the alley. The one who'd assaulted Elena. The one Kínitos and Monti had beaten bloody.
His face was swollen, one eye completely shut. His arm hung at an odd angle. He could barely stand. They dropped him in front of the desk.
"Boss, I—" the thug started, his voice cracking. "Boss, I'm sorry, I didn't know they were—"
"No, no," Vincent's voice cut through the darkness. Smooth. Calm. Almost gentle. "It's not your fault."
The thug looked up, confused.
"I shouldn't have just sent someone there. I should have handled it myself," Vincent continued. He took a long drag from his cigar, the ember flaring brighter.
"You did what you were supposed to do. You found her. You brought her in….But"
He leaned forward slightly, his face still hidden in shadow. "She wasn't just a whore on the streets, you know."
The thug swallowed hard. "I… I didn't know, boss."
"Of course you didn't." Vincent's tone was almost understanding. "She was a spy. Working for a small little revolution—idealistic children playing at resistance. Trying to stop us from taking over their precious neighborhoods."
He stood, his silhouette massive and imposing. "There are three other big heads in this city. Right now, we're at peace. But peace?" He chuckled darkly. "Peace is just the time to be getting ready for war."
Vincent walked around the desk slowly, his footsteps heavy on the polished floor. "Speaking of war… we had something planned yesterday night. Big deal. Important. Weapons, connections, expansion. And well my friend"
His voice hardened. "That went to hell."
The room fell silent except for the thug's labored breathing.
"And now," Vincent said, his voice dropping to something cold and furious. As he squatts down to his level "I don't know where my lucky charm is." Getting back up as he walk in front of the desk he looks up at the quite room.
He slammed his fist on the desk.
"WHERE IS MY SON?!"
The sound echoed through the office like a gunshot. The thug flinched. The lean man beside the desk took a step back.
Vincent stood there, breathing heavily, his silhouette trembling with barely controlled rage.
Then—
The door opened. Slowly. Heavy mechanical sounds filled the room. Whirr-click. Whirr-click. The rhythmic hiss of hydraulics and servos, the faint hum of powered systems.
Everyone turned.
A figure stepped through the doorway.
A man—if it was a man—in full black armor. Not medieval plate, but something modern, technological. Sleek panels of dark metal interlocking seamlessly, glowing blue lines tracing across the joints like veins. The helmet was smooth and featureless except for a single horizontal visor that pulsed with pale light.
Each step was accompanied by those mechanical sounds—whirr-click, whirr-click—as the suit's systems adjusted to movement. The armor looked heavy, but the figure moved with unnatural grace, like the weight meant nothing.
Behind the armored figure came another.
This one was harder to see. Wrapped entirely in long, flowing cloth—not robes exactly, but layers of fabric that seemed to move on their own, shifting and rippling like they were underwater. The figure was tall, thin, completely obscured. No face visible. No hands. Just cloth moving in ways cloth shouldn't move, and the vague sense of something underneath.
The two figures stopped just inside the doorway.
The armored one's visor pulsed brighter for a moment, scanning the room. The cloth-wrapped figure remained perfectly still, but there was a presence to it—something that made the air feel heavier, colder.
Vincent turned to face them, his silhouette shifting. When he spoke, his voice had regained its composure—cold, controlled, commanding.
"Report," he said simply.
The armored figure's voice came out filtered, mechanical, layered with electronic distortion. "The Stack is destroyed. No sign of Marco in the wreckage. Emergency services found forty-three bodies. He's not among them."
"Then he's alive," Vincent said.
"Most likely."
"And the ones who took him? The purple and red suits?"
"Unknown," the armored figure replied. "But we have footage. Partial. Before the explosion. We're analyzing it now."
Vincent nodded slowly. "Find them. I don't care what it costs. I don't care who you have to go through. Find my son."
The armored figure's visor pulsed. "Understood."
The cloth-wrapped figure still hadn't moved. Still hadn't spoken. But something about its presence made the room feel wrong—like reality was bending slightly around it.
Vincent looked at the thug still kneeling on the floor. Then at the lean man beside the desk.
"Get him out of here," Vincent said, gesturing to the injured thug. "Get him medical attention. He did his job.But fail me again then you'll share the fate of the women" he said as if he was telling him a fact like the sky is blue.
The two guards grabbed the thug and dragged him out, leaving just Vincent and his two mysterious enforcers.
Vincent walked back to his desk, sitting down heavily. The cigar had gone out. He didn't relight it.
"Any words from the maker" Vincent says said silent percise.
"No" he replied coldly
"They have my son," he said quietly. "And they have no idea what's coming."
The armored figure tilted its head slightly. "Orders?"
"Mobilize everyone," Vincent said. "Every asset. Every contact. Every soldier. I want eyes on every street, every building, every goddamn corner of this city. No one can take a shit without me knowing"
He leaned forward, his shadowed face barely visible. "And when we find whoever took Marco? Who ever messed with my business"
His voice was ice.
"I want them to wish they'd never been born."