"Open the safe."
Those weren't the words the auto shop manager expected to hear at gunpoint first thing in the morning.
"Do you know who you're messing with, clown?" he sneered as he was forced toward the safe, once hidden behind a painting now lying cracked on the floor.
Behind him stood a man in black-and-purple carnival clothes, gold seams running down the back panels. A pistol was pressed firmly to Chris's temple.
The "clown" tilted his head. The bells on his hat jingled softly as his smile widened.
His lips were stained black, curling into half-spirals etched at their corners. A teardrop of the same inky color marked his pale face. He cocked the pistol with his thumb.
"Oh, I know exactly who you are—Mr. C.C., Chris," he said lightly, "and the authority you hold over your small-time gang."
"Then you know stealing from us won't end well for you."
"Perhaps," the man replied. "But could you hurry up? You'll need to take me to your weapons bunker afterward."
Chris glared at the intruder who had slipped into his base drenched in blood, escorted by one of his own men—claiming he'd already taken care of all the others on standby.
That was impossible. He had guards everywhere. They would've seen this gold-purple-and-black clown from a mile away.
So why wasn't he riddled with bullets?
"Tick tock~"
Not only was the man unscathed, he carried four rifles strapped across his back, three pistols at his waistband, and a machete dangling loosely from one hand.
Chris sighed in frustration. "I'm working on it," he muttered, reluctantly opening the safe.
Qiren leaned closer, the cold barrel digging deeper into his skin.
"Good. I'd hate to redecorate the wall before breakfast."
Chris's shoulders stiffened. His fingers moved faster across the lock—he had no intention of finding out whether the clown would follow through on that threat.
"There. It's open—"
A deafening gunshot tore through the room.
The gang member behind the desk flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as his ex-boss collapsed to the floor.
"Ah—my finger slipped~"
The clown turned to the gangster bound with iron cords, his painted smile bright against the dingy room. "You said this room was bulletproof, right?"
The man nodded frantically. "Y-yes."
"Good," Qiren said pleasantly. "Then it won't be a problem getting rid of you too."
"No—wait! The weapons vault—I know where it is, I—"
Bang!
A second round tore through the thug's skull.
"It's really frightening how easily I can pull this trigger," Qiren muttered as he sank into the leather chair behind the desk. The high-quality leather hugged his form as he spun slowly, surveying the room.
It was a classic boss's office straight out of a mafia drama. Aside from the chair he occupied, two smaller, less impressive seats faced the desk—meant to remind visitors of their place on the criminal ladder.
The walls were lined with framed photos over tasteful striped wallpaper. Bookshelves flanked both sides of the room, stuffed with ledgers and worn volumes.
The safe stood yawning open.
Inside were neatly stacked bundles of cash, rubber-banded and organized by denomination. Qiren gave a quick estimate—somewhere between ten and seventeen thousand dollars. Not impressive, but serviceable.
Two pistols rested beside the money, well-oiled and wrapped in cloth. Beneath them lay several folders stuffed with documents: transaction records, coded delivery schedules, names paired with locations. Useful.
Tucked against the back wall of the safe was a brick of cocaine, plastic-wrapped and pristine.
Qiren rose from the chair and approached the safe.
With deliberate care, he began emptying it.
Cash, guns, documents, drugs—everything vanished into the satchel he'd brought with him, the bag swallowing far more than its size suggested.
When he finished, the safe was left hollow—nothing but cold steel and dust.
He zipped the satchel shut and slung it over his shoulder.
Then he returned to the desk.
Qiren leaned forward, switching on the single monitor in the room.
He pressed the intercom button, resting his elbow casually against the polished wood. The faint hum of machinery and distant music filtered through the speaker before a voice answered.
Testing, testing…
His voice disrupted the mechanics' busy movements.
"Head mechanics, if you're all listening, you're ordered to stop working for a moment," Qiren said calmly, his tone relaxed—almost bored. "Come up to the second floor. Boss wants a word."
There was a brief pause.
A rugged white man walked over to the communication station on their side.
He flung a dirty cloth over his shoulder while wiping his fingers on his potbelly. "I'll be there in five. I don't know about the other two knuckleheads, but I'm busy stopping an engine from exploding."
He spoke urgently, puffing on a cigar.
Qiren smiled.
"Then let it blow up for all I care," he replied, releasing the button.
He leaned back in the chair, fingers drumming lightly against the armrest as he waited.
The bells on his hat jingled softly in the quiet room.