"System, track this one," Simo said casually, placing his phone beside the wide, curved screen mounted into the concrete wall. The glow from the massive display cast sharp shadows across his gaunt face.
A moment later, a blinking red marker appeared on the digital globe, zooming in with satellite precision to a sweltering plaza in the Philippines. The heat shimmered off the concrete there. Dozens of drones and microphones orbited the stage like mechanical bees.
"Target location confirmed," came the soft, precise voice of his AI assistant, a feminine tone that never changed, no matter how many lives it helped end.
"Activity?" Simo asked, his eyes scanning the incoming data.
"Target appears to be in the middle of an election rally. Currently delivering a speech. Based on historical data, his average speech length is twenty-one minutes and thirty seconds."
"That's more than enough." Simo's hands were already moving over his command table, fingers tapping and sliding across holographic panels with machine-like precision. Numbers and wind currents danced in the air above the screen.
"Give me the coordinates and other relevant data."
"Confirming... Coordinates and environmental metrics incoming."
His bunker, buried deep beneath the frostbitten surface of Northern Finland, hummed as the targeting array came alive. Glowing blue veins of power pulsed along the concrete walls, flickering every time a new calculation completed. Snowfall covered the landscape outside like a frozen shroud. No footsteps. No roads. Just cold silence.
Data streamed in—wind shear at various altitudes, atmospheric distortion patterns, the Earth's curvature adjustment, even stray bird flocks. Dozens of micro-variables, each capable of skewing a shot at that range, now computed in real time.
Simo's fingers worked like a painter's brush across death's canvas.
"Okay, Valkyrie," he muttered, running his hand gently along the weapon's steel spine. "Be a good girl today, okay?"
The Valkyrie-9. It didn't look like a sniper rifle—it looked like a piece of aerospace engineering fused with ancient war machinery. Mounted to the concrete foundation by a shock-absorbing cradle, it spanned more than ten meters long, its barrel extending like the horn of a mechanical god.
The Valkyrie-9 was Simo's masterpiece—his child. It was the first and only satellite-guided, hypersonic sniper system on Earth. A machine designed not to shoot across cities or countries… but across continents.
At Mach 10, its bullet crossed oceans in under a minute. The projectile was a modular device, beginning as a five-meter launch capsule before shedding down to its final form: a dart smaller than a finger. A weapon forged from tungsten alloy, stabilized by microfins, guided by AI, and enhanced with poisons that left no trace.
"Charging complete," the AI intoned.
Outside, icy wind howled through pine trees and over jagged stone hills. Below, in Simo's bunker, the Valkyrie hummed with restrained energy as capacitors juiced the firing rails.
Simo's eyes flicked back to the screen. On the rally stage in Cebu City, the target was nearing the climax of his speech. Mab De la Cruz. Billionaire. Vice President. Powerbroker. Secret kingmaker. One of twenty-four hidden rulers pulling the strings of Earth.
"Live feed delay?" Simo asked.
"0.0023 seconds."
"Target's behavior?"
"Preparing to end speech. Based on heart rate and body language, he will return to his seat within twelve seconds."
"Perfect."
Simo leaned forward, adjusting the firing arc. The barrel rose ten degrees. He tapped his wrist controller. The countdown began.
"Let's go, baby."
The Valkyrie-9 hissed with electrical discharge. Supercapacitors crackled. The long metallic projectile inside began to rotate with blinding speed.
Then—
BZZT—PHEEEEEWWWWW.
No smoke. No boom. Just a sonic blink. A burst of pressure. A ghost leaving the barrel.
High above the Arctic Circle, a streak of light vanished into the sky, faster than any plane or missile. It pierced the upper atmosphere in seconds, angling downward across the Eurasian Plate.
Thousands of kilometers away, on a tropical island surrounded by coconut palms and the hum of distant jeepneys, Mab De la Cruz stepped down from the podium with a glowing smile.
"Maraming salamat po!" he shouted, waving to the roaring crowd, his barong glistening with sweat under the lights. Giant LED banners flashed slogans behind him. Streamers flapped in the humid air. Drone cameras hovered, broadcasting live to millions.
Behind his smile, he was already thinking of the afterparty. He hadn't rested in weeks. Mab was powerful—untouchable, he believed. Ever since he received an original Inspira Capsule from the late Mr. Adam, his mind had become a weapon. He remembered everything. Predicted everyone.
Everyone except the man in the snow.
"You look sharp today, Vice," said a local mayor, shaking his hand.
"You think so?" Mab laughed. "Maybe I'll find a wife here in Cebu."
"Plenty of beauties, sir."
"I'll need two then."
As the crowd laughed, the dart descended. In the stratosphere, it shed its outer shell, revealing a smaller, sleeker frame. Its micro-thrusters fired in bursts, adjusting trajectory mid-fall.
A gust of wind, a warm current—adjusted.
One final pulse. The last casing detached.
Only the final dart remained. Needle-like. Coated in a chemical compound that defied detection. It rotated silently through the clouds above Cebu.
Simo's voice echoed from Finland: "Final correction inputted."
Then, silence.
Below, Mab chuckled with his guards, finally allowing himself to sit.
"Ahhh. That's better," he sighed.
He barely exhaled.
Then—nothing.
No scream. No twitch. Just… stillness. His head bowed forward, as if in prayer.
"Vice?" one of the guards asked.
No response.
"Sir?"
He placed two fingers against Mab's neck. The pulse—was there—but erratic.
"Emergency medical!" he barked into his radio. "NOW!"
The mayor leaned in. "What's going on?"
"He just collapsed. No gunfire. No wounds."
"Cardiac arrest?"
"No—it's… I don't know."
Crowds surged forward. Panic rippled through the plaza.
"Is he dead?"
"What happened?!"
"Get him to the ambulance!"
But it was too late.
Ten meters underground, buried in the soil beneath the rally stage, the needle-like projectile had come to rest. It had passed clean through Mab's chest—sealing the wound as it exited—before embedding itself into the earth.
No sound. No trace. Only death.
Back in the icy shadows of Finland, Simo exhaled through his nose, a small smile twitching across his face.
"That's another bird down. Clip the footage. Send it to him. I want the money transferred by tonight."
"Footage sent. Transfer initiated," the AI confirmed.
Simo stood, cracking his neck, and stretched as he whispered in Finnish: "Hyvä elämä… A good life."
—
Thousands of miles away, in a gleaming penthouse in Manhattan, Mr. Jones swirled a glass of aged merlot. The window behind him overlooked the skyline. Storm clouds brewed on the horizon.
He tapped his tablet once.
Transaction Confirmed: 30 Billion USD.
"Mab is gone, huh?" he said aloud, sipping his wine. "That Simo works fast. Just like his bullet."
He turned to face a massive world map on the far wall. Twenty-four names were scribbled on it, some crossed out. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a steel dart, and flicked it toward the map.
TUK!
It landed in China.
"Let's try a bigger fish this time."
—
Back on Bantayan Island, the sky glowed orange as the sun dipped behind the palm trees. The scent of grilled bangus and burning coconut husks filled the air. Birds chirped lazily from distant banana trees. Inside a beautiful two-story house, Kaizen was pacing.
Allan sat by the old upright piano, now more confused than ever.
PLANK ~ PLONK ~ PLANK.
Wrong notes. Fumbling hands. Just minutes ago, he had played with breathtaking mastery.
Now? He sounded like a toddler poking keys.
"I really don't know how I did that," Allan muttered, scratching his head.
Kaizen exploded. "Stop bullshitting me!"
His voice cracked with emotion. "You played like a damn prodigy and now you're saying it was luck?"
"I swear, Kaizen. I don't remember how. It was like my hands moved on their own."
"Don't play dumb. That wasn't some fluke. Did you steal my talent somehow? Is that what this is?!"
"I told you—I. Don't. Know!" Allan's voice trembled.
Kaizen's mother entered, drawn by the shouting.
"Enough, both of you," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Maybe Allan's right. Maybe it was a one-time thing. We're all tired. Maybe… maybe we're just chasing ghosts."
Kaizen clenched his fists. His breathing was shallow. Something inside him had stirred during that performance. A twitch in his fingers. A shadow of old instincts.
"Please…" he whispered, stepping closer to Allan. His voice softened.
"I'm sorry, okay? I'll keep it secret. Just… play it again. One more time."
Allan looked up, eyes full of sorrow and confusion.
But before he could answer—
"What the hell are you doing?"
The door slammed open. Kaizen's younger brother, Kokong, stumbled in. His eyes were bloodshot. Shirt soaked with tuba. The stench of alcohol wrapped around him like a cloak.
"You kneeling to that demon?" he slurred, pointing a shaking finger at Allan.
Everyone turned. Silence fell over the room.
Kaizen rose slowly. His heart sank.
Allan sat frozen at the piano. Kokong's glare burned through him.
In that quiet, humid room, the air grew heavy. The storm was coming.