"Thirty years old. Six-foot-three. Eighty kilos. Cold, ruthless, and as dangerous as a Rottweiler. A frontline officer in the Special Crime Unit—doesn't socialize, has no close friends, and lives only for the job. An award-winning officer, raised as the adopted son of a former Swedish ambassador. His foster parents are now back in Sweden. Hobby…? Freelance retrieval jobs."
The raspy voice, half-mocking and half-sexy according to some, cut into the squad's voice chat. The speaker's avatar—a pixelated pyramid—flashed as he rapid-fired both words and bullets, spraying lead at Reya's character on the screen.
Somehow, even while playing on the enemy team, Midgie—the smallest but deadliest member of their gaming crew—was still feeding classified intel like a rap god with ADHD.
Reya and the others scratched their heads, rubbed their temples, or simply picked at their hair. It was impossible to keep up with the speed of his mouth.
Midgie's main function: loudmouthed trash talker who picked fights with strangers in-game. Secondary function: walking database. He'd cough up insider info only if bribed with snacks—or compliments about being the hottest guy in the crew. Short attention span, sharp brain, and a temper to match his raspy "duck voice."
"Is that a cop profile or a mafia rap sheet? Where the hell are you digging this up, Mid?" Rome groaned. "The kitchen sink?"
"Dark web."
"…And?" Reya leaned closer to the mic, listening more carefully now.
"Rumor is, the Siamese Savings Bank—you-know-who's bank—lost a billion. Not just your Inspector and that Lieutenant sniffing around, but dark web freelancers are being pulled in too. This isn't just a case. It's big."
"Why gather so many resources for one missing billion?" Versaille snorted, still giggling at his own joke about Reya's hair earlier. "Money always leaves a trail. Easy fix."
"Stop dragging houses into this conversation," Reya muttered, right before Midgie blew his arm clean off in-game.
"Your fault for bringing it up first!" Midgie ranted, voice tripping over itself as usual.
BOOM!
A grenade rolled in. Reya's crew cackled as Midgie's legs went flying across the battlefield.
"You cheating bastard, Reya!"
"I don't care about the money." Reya smirked, hauling his stolen loot into a white garbage truck and flooring it back to his hideout. "I care about why they're touching what's mine."
The level-up screen flashed. Victory was his. Midgie was left screaming in the rubble.
"Your Inspector isn't yours. He's just soft-hearted with everyone… or should I say, every mutt? Hahaha!" Versailles was still laughing so hard he'd been muted by the system, leaving Midgie helpless on the battlefield.
"He's mine. No one else. Got a problem with that?" Reya stretched, yawning as if it were nothing, his torn pants wide open at the crotch. Rome, of course, had his phone out—snapping a photo (face cropped out) to sell on the dark web's "fetish market."
Among the four of them, the only one who could shamelessly flood the internet with indecent pictures and still sleep like a baby… was Reya. If he wasn't stupidly handsome, his life would've been nothing but trash.
"Like a mutt guarding its master." Midgie gulped down his milk, snickering. "Careful, Reya. You're just a stray dog who stole his owner's collar. Strays get abandoned, you know. Hahaha!"
"You wanna talk about strays, Mr. Pervert Photographer? Selling my saggy balls online? Hand over the fifty bucks. I saw the listing—you made fifteen hundred off my nuts!"
"Fifteen hundred? Bullshit! I sold it for twenty-five hundred!"
"Then split the profit, you scammer!"
"No way! I'm buying a new camera! Reyaa—don't you dare step on my—ARGHHH!"
"Hand it over!"
"Sigh."
"Sigh~"
"…Are these degenerates really my friends?"
"Utterly cursed~" Versailles added, tone refined but words filthy, as usual.
Minutes later, Rome lay on the floor with a blue face, wallet empty, thanks to Reya's "ball-and-chain mugging technique."
"Only a thousand in his wallet and he still tried to scam me. Don't fall asleep, Rome, or I'll wax off Inspector R's leg hair and use it to wax your pubes until your balls peel!"
This was their normal. Just four idiots who once thought they were the "F4." Matching haircuts, matching outfits, looking like a boyband—but none of them could sing, none could dance, and the one time they performed at school, even their classmates walked out. Labeled "the most forgettable band of the year," they'd wisely switched to gaming instead.