Inspector Moore exhaled slowly, arms crossed as he leaned back, studying Zane. The overhead light flickered once, casting a shadow across his face.
"That's… a lot to bet on."
The room held its breath.
The low hum of the projector filled the silence, its glow reflecting faintly off the polished floor. No one shifted. No one interrupted.
Then—
"…Approved."
The word landed quietly, but it carried weight. Finality.
Zane's gaze stayed steady, though a subtle shift passed through his posture—something easing, something aligning.
He stepped forward and patted Moore's shoulder once. Firm. Familiar.
"Thanks."
Across the room, the police girl hesitated, fingers tightening at her side. Her brows knitted, trying to process everything.
"The Round Table… what exactly is it?"
Her voice cut the stillness—soft, but steady.
Zane didn't answer immediately. He turned slightly, eyes drifting toward the projector's glow, as if scanning something distant.
"Have you heard of the infamous White Tower Incident?"
A subtle tension ran through the room.
The scarred woman's gaze sharpened. Moore's jaw tightened slightly. Even the man in yellow shifted—barely, but deliberate.
Zane stepped forward.
"A sniper went rogue. One of the best. Took position in one of our skyscrapers… started firing across the city."
The projector flickered, casting moving shadows across the walls—echoes of chaos.
"Caused… a lot of commotion."
His tone was calm. Controlled.
"We were powerless."
A brief pause.
Then—
"Until… something came."
Not someone. Something.
"Turns out it was a conflict between them."
The air tightened.
"The scene was…"
Zane slowed his voice—deliberate, measured.
"…brutal."
A brief flicker of static ran across the screen.
"The aftermath—barbaric."
"Corpses of assassins. Police officers. Torn apart."
"Body parts… scattered everywhere."
His eyes swept the room.
"Work of… something inhuman."
The police girl swallowed.
"The sniper?"
Zane shook his head faintly.
"Nowhere to be found."
A pause.
"Gone."
Silence pressed in again.
"After that, the Round Table was founded."
"To surf the underworld."
His tone sharpened slightly—regret and calculation mingled.
"But before it could act…"
"…the leads disappeared."
"The Round Table got nowhere."
"One by one…"
"…the members vanished."
A beat.
"Dead."
No one spoke. No one challenged it.
"But now—"
Zane's voice snapped sharper.
"We have direction."
He reached down, flipping a stack of files from his briefcase and slapping them onto the desk. The papers rattled sharply, echoing through the room.
"And more importantly…"
A single, precise flick of his hand pointed simultaneously at the scarred woman and the man in yellow—marking them unmistakably as part of the roster.
"…the roster we have is formidable—"
Silence answered him.
Not doubt. Realization.
Something had been reborn.
And this time—
It wouldn't fail.
The ice cream shop smelled faintly of sugar and melted chocolate. A bell jingled as the group filed in—Zane, Moore, the police girl, the scarred woman, and the man in yellow.
Moore leaned against the counter, arms crossed, glancing at his watch.
"We've been waiting half an hour, you know," he muttered.
Zane smirked.
"At least I'm not the last."
Two more figures entered. One wore threads of blue, purple, and green, casual but deliberate. The other, a sly figure with a scar like a bison's mark across his face, a bear tattoo peeking from his collar. Hansen and Pooule.
Zane's eyes flicked between them, calculating.
"Order these first," he said calmly, pointing.
The new arrivals froze.
"What?" one asked.
"Just follow," Zane said, voice steady. "Then… after that."
They ordered. The shop hummed around them—the espresso machine, the chatter of customers masking the tension.
When their ice cream arrived, the clerk handed Zane the receipt.
"Why the receipt?" the police girl asked.
Zane examined the numbers. He typed the shop name and receipt number into a secure app on his tablet. A small window opened: a password-protected ZIP file.
He pressed a few keys. The file decrypted automatically, revealing a list of assignments, coordinates, and encrypted intel.
"The Rollbount app," Zane said quietly, almost to himself.
The scarred woman raised an eyebrow. The man in yellow's eyes flicked toward the tablet, focused and unreadable. Even Moore leaned slightly forward, tension in his stance.
Everyone understood—what seemed mundane, even casual, was the first step in a dangerous game.
"And we… roll the bounty," Zane added, voice sharp and controlled. Calm, but carrying the weight of the operation—an entire plan hidden in plain sight.
—END OF CHAPTER—