AN: MORE POWER STONES!!!
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The bounty didn't just ripple through the underworld. It detonated like a nuke. One moment, the global network of killers, mercs, shadow families, and contract syndicates was humming along in its usual quiet violence. The next moment, every encrypted phone from Tokyo to Timbuktu lit up with one notification.
Three hundred million dollars.
Not for a target.
For an entire organisation.
Spectre.
Continental hotels, black market forums, whisper-only dead drops. Every assassin, fixer, and sociopath with a working trigger finger suddenly sat up a little straighter.
An amount of money like that didn't just get attention. It rearranged the food chain.
...
[London Rooftops – Night]
Marcus lay prone on the ledge of a clock tower overlooking a manor estate. Rain pittered against the lens of his scope as he exhaled steadily. His finger was on the trigger. The target stepped into view.
Then Marcus' phone buzzed.
He almost never checked messages during a job. But the alert tone was one he reserved for only the highest priority clients.
He let out a low whistle. "Well. That's obscene."
He slid a glance at the screen.
Global bounty: 300 million. Target: Spectre.
Marcus shifted his focus to the target and took the shot. The bald millionaire drug dealer fell to the floor as the bullet pierced through his head.
He packed up the rifle, stood, and stretched. "Three hundred million. I guess, they finally messed with someone they shouldn't have."
He walked off into the rain with a half-amused smile.
"Guess I'm heading to America."
The man was already calculating routes, alliances, betrayals, and the appropriate number of bullets to pack. Probably all of them.
...
[Hotel Bathroom – New York]
Ms Perkins was washing her hands calmly at the sink. Behind her, a man lay on the marble floor, staring blankly at the ceiling. The fight had been quick and decisive. She fucked him before strangling him to death with his own tie.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
She glanced at it while fixing her lipstick.
Her brows lifted.
"Three hundred million? For Spectre?" She wiped a smudge off her mouth with her thumb. "Finally. Something interesting."
She tapped her phone.
"Time to see who's writing the checks."
...
[Kyoto – Hidden Dojo]
Twin blades clashed in perfect rhythm. The Shinobi twins moved like mirrored shadows, switching stance and tempo with uncanny synchronicity.
A phone chimed from the corner.
Both paused mid-swing.
In perfect unison, they crossed the room and checked the screen.
The younger twin tilted his head. "Spectre? I thought that was a myth."
The older one sheathed his blade with a quiet click. "If someone is paying this much, the myth bleeds."
Their eyes sharpened with shared excitement.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" the younger asked.
"If you are thinking that three hundred million could buy us a new compound, five training halls, and a lifetime supply of toys, then yes," the older replied.
They bowed to the empty dojo, then grabbed their gear.
...
[American Midwest – Abandoned Train Yard]
Mr Nobody, also known as the Tracker, sat in the back of a rusted cargo car, gently grooming his dog. He checked the message on his cracked phone and let out a low whistle.
"Well now," he murmured, "that bounty's bigger than the one for the Elder."
He set the phone down, leaned back, and rubbed the dog's ears.
"Spectre... never heard of it."
His grin turned sharp.
"But I'm good at finding things nobody knows."
He whistled for the dog and hopped off the train car.
"This might be fun."
...
[Rome – Private Bar]
Cassian poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the polished counter. He was off duty, or as close as he ever got. The message popped onto his phone with a quiet beep.
He stared at it for a long moment.
"Spectre," he repeated under his breath. "So the stories were true."
He finished his drink in one swallow, set the glass down, and adjusted his tie.
"If someone is putting up three hundred million, Spectre must be the kind of nightmare even nightmares cross the street to avoid. I need to assemble my old team and need more information."
He pocketed his gun and walked toward the door.
...
[Tokyo – Zero's Sushi Shop]
Zero stood behind the counter, slicing sashimi with surgical precision. His shop was quiet, lit by warm lanterns. Classical music played in the background.
His apprentice handed him his phone. "Sensei, urgent notification."
Zero wiped his hands and took it. His eyes widened slightly.
"Spectre has a bounty now," he mused. "Three hundred million dollars. That's more zeros than my name."
Zero set the knife down and poured tea.
"Spectre is not an enemy to take lightly," he said.
One student raised a timid hand. "Master, are we taking the contract?"
Zero smiled. "Of course. It would be rude not to."
The students bowed like they were about to march into Valhalla.
...
[The Continental: New York, Private Suite]
Winston stood by the fireplace with a glass of brandy when Charon approached.
"There is an update you should see," Charon said, extending a tablet.
Winston read the alert. His expression didn't change, but his voice dropped a degree. "My word. Someone must truly dislike Spectre."
Charon clasped his hands behind his back. "With considerable enthusiasm, sir. Three hundred million worth of enthusiasm."
Winston sipped his drink. "This is going to ignite the entire underworld."
"Shall I prepare contingency plans?"
"Several," Winston said. "And polish the armor. If every assassin on earth is about to go hunting, we must be prepared for the ones who miss the mark and come crashing through our door."
Charon nodded.
"I will prepare the good silver."
...
[The Soup Kitchen – Bowery Underground]
Steam curled from giant pots of vegetable stew, the smell of onions, garlic, and questionable charity drifting through the air. Underneath the kitchen noise, whispers moved like rats between the walls. The Bowery King stood at the center of it all like a conductor in a symphony made entirely of secrets.
He ladled soup into a bowl with the flourish of a man serving caviar. He just heard the news of the biggest bounty in the history of the underworld.
"Three hundred million. For Spectre. Now that is a number that makes even the saints reconsider their retirement plans," he said, savoring every syllable.
His right hand, the Linguist, approached with a tablet. "It's real. Confirmed on every channel. Someone put a global bounty on Spectre."
The Bowery King tapped his ladle twice against the rim of the pot. The clang rang out like a starting bell. "Three hundred million," he repeated, savoring the number. "A figure so generous it could make a choir boy throw hands for a slice."
The Linguist lowered his tablet. "Everyone is talking about it. But no one knows anything beyond the name: Spectre."
The Bowery King grinned. "Which means the world is about to pay for an education. And I, my eloquent friend, am about to reopen the family classroom."
He turned around and walked past volunteers and the homeless patrons who were very much not so homeless but spies, messengers, watchers. Every pair of eyes tracked him.
"Gather my birds," he said. "All of them. Little birds, loud birds, the ones with questionable hygiene. The whole flock. If there's a whisper of Spectre anywhere on God's green earth, I want it in my hand before the tea cools."
The Linguist typed quickly. "Already spreading the word."
The King paused, pointing a spoon at him. "Not just the regular channels. I want the sleepers too. The ones we paid in favors instead of cash. Wake them gently... they tend to stab first and ask questions never."
"Gently," the Linguist echoed with a smirk.
The King resumed pacing, coat flowing behind him as he approached a rusted metal door. Two guards straightened instinctively.
"You know what this means," he said. "Spectre won't take this slap quietly. They'll crawl out of their hidey-holes. They'll try intimidation, erasure, maybe buy silence with bullets."
He smiled again. This smile had weight.
"We will not be intimidated. We will not be erased. But we will absolutely sell them out to the highest bidder."
One guard blinked. "You plan to help the assassins after Spectre?"
"Oh, heavens no," the King laughed, musical and dangerous. "I plan to help everyone. Spectre will pay for secrecy. The assassins will pay for clues. The High Table will pay for deniability. And I will pay off my shoe collection."
He turned toward a concealed staircase leading deeper underground.
"Unlock the vault. The Spectre files. Every scrap we've got. Sort them, digitize them, cross-reference everything. There's treasure in those pages."
The Linguist hesitated. "Those records are from the 19th century, filled with rumors and ghost stories."
The King rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Ghost stories keep the living awake at night. And someone just paid three hundred million to exorcise a very old ghost."
He pointed upward, toward the streets of New York.
"When assassins start hunting Spectre, Spectre will hunt back. The whole underworld is about to become a blender with no lid."
The Linguist raised a brow. "So what do we do?"
The Bowery King spread his arms like presenting a grand performance.
"We sell the recipe."
He let the words sink in, then finished with a satisfied grin:
"Wake the birds. A storm is coming."
*****
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