After some time, the police arrived—and with them, thousands of people. They poured in from every street, every corner, as if the city itself had been dragged toward the smell of blood. They gathered around the scene, staring at the massacre with wide, hollow eyes, unable to look away.
"The massacre at the Vivilla Supermarket has left the entire world in shock," a news reporter said into the camera, her voice steady but her hands trembling.
"Around a hundred—or perhaps even more—people have lost their lives," another reporter continued. "Police suspect this to be a large-scale gang operation."
People were everywhere.
Some stood on tiptoe, trying to see past the barricades. Some whispered prayers. Others stared silently, their faces drained of color. The supermarket was sealed off completely. Yellow tape stretched across shattered entrances. Only police officers and medical staff were allowed inside.
Outside, phones were raised.
People filmed.
Some cried.
Some stood frozen, as if their bodies had forgotten how to move.
And in the middle of it all stood one man.
Unmoving.
Like a mountain that refused to bend—his back so firm it felt as though it could shield you from thousands of bullets.
Nicolas.
He was shaken by the scene, though he did not show it. His eyes absorbed everything—the bloodstains, the broken glass, the silent stretchers being rolled out one after another.
But Flint was worse.
His jaw was clenched tight, his fists locked at his sides, his breathing uneven. He looked like a man holding himself together with sheer will.
Christine was bent over near a fire truck, vomiting violently. A medic hovered nearby, unsure whether to help or give her space.
"P-people's heads and bodies are… are shattered inside," her voice cracked inside her mind, the words refusing to leave her throat properly.
Nicolas turned toward the crowd.
Old.
Young.
Families.
Strangers.
They cried like hell—clutching police collars, grabbing uniforms, begging through tears and broken voices.
"Let me see her! Let me see her!"
"My son was there—please, look for him!"
"Kyle! Kyle! Kyle!"
The names blurred together, turning into one long scream of loss.
Keeping a straight face felt unbearable. Every instinct in Nicolas told him to look away, to shut his eyes for just a second.
But he didn't.
He forced himself to remain still.
Someone had to look unbroken.
Then his expression changed.
He saw a man sitting on the ground, legs curled inward, arms wrapped around himself as if trying to stop his body from collapsing. The man stared at the supermarket with his head tilted upward, eyes wide, empty, lost in disbelief.
In his hand was a ring.
Gold.
Simple.
Probably meant for someone.
Someone close.
Someone who had been his heart.
A heart now standing on the brink of extinction.
A memory struck Nicolas without warning.
"So why do you want to be an inspector, Mr. Nicolas?" a man in a black coat asked calmly, his tone practiced, almost bored.
"So tell me," the man continued, leaning back in his chair, "which answer will it be? 'I want to end crime'? 'I'll be the best officer in the world'? 'I'll end evil'?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with expectation.
Nicolas stood tall, his presence firm, unyielding. He lifted his gaze slowly, deliberately.
"I'm not here to end crime, sir," he said. "No matter how strong you are, you can't be a god. I can't end crime—and that is my limit."
The man raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not an angel," Nicolas continued. "And I don't need to be."
The officer's eyes lifted fully now, interest flashing for the first time.
"I'm not an angel," Nicolas said again, his voice calm, steady. "But I can be Lucifer to criminals. I can't end crime… but I can end the criminal."
A faint smile rose on Nicolas's face.
The officer smiled back, slow and knowing.
Back in the present, Nicolas looked once more at the shattered man on the ground—then at the ruined supermarket behind him.
"The crime has ended," he said quietly.
"Now it's time—"
—
VCCH — PRESENT
The room was silent as the final image faded from the projector.
"The massacre was too big to be handled by a single man," the DGP said at last, his voice low but firm.
"Nicolas is one of our best officers. Even he can't fight a gang this large."
He clicked the remote. The photographs disappeared, replaced by bold white text on a dark screen.
THE KEY SYSTEM
"We have decided to initiate a Key System," the DGP said, his eyes fixed on the screen. "It will work in our favor to eliminate this gang—this mafia."
"There will be seven keys," he continued. "Seven officers. They may work together or alone, but their objective is the same: locate this gang and eliminate it."
"Six other officers besides Nicolas?" the Home Secretary asked, leaning forward.
"Yes."
The DGP took a long breath, as if preparing himself for resistance.
"We don't know their numbers. We don't know their resources. To counter that, these seven officers will be granted full governmental privilege. Access to any CCTV network. Any classified document. Unlimited backup. Unlimited resources."
Murmurs rippled across the room.
"You're giving them full authority over government details?" the Crime Branch head asked sharply.
"This gang is far greater than you think, Mr. Head," the DGP replied without hesitation.
"All of them are reliable officers. I selected them personally."
He scanned the room. Faces were tense. Uneasy. Suspicious.
Everyone—except Nicolas.
The Home Secretary suddenly stood and slammed the table, the sound echoing through the hall.
"If anyone here disagrees," he said coldly, "you will be labelled a traitor."
"What?" several voices gasped.
"It is the right decision," he continued. "We all know who Vega was. He never feared the police. Never feared the government. Someone powerful is backing this—and I don't want to believe it's one of you."
Silence swallowed the room.
"Well," the NIA Director finally spoke, breaking the tension, "if that's the case… so be it."
"Everyone leave the room," the DGP said calmly. "The keys will enter."
Chairs scraped back. People stood and filed out, one by one.
Everyone—except Nicolas.
As Flint rose from his seat, the DGP stopped him.
"You're not leaving, Flint," he said. "You are one of the keys."
Flint's eyes flickered—shock giving way to hope. He hid it quickly and sat back down.
He looked at Nicolas.
Nicolas looked at him—
and smiled.
"What made you think killing hundreds of people wouldn't make the police hunt Darima all over the country?" Noir snapped, his voice sharp as a blade, eyes locked on Psycho.
"He just did what I told him to do."
Darhua's calm voice cut through the tension as he entered the room. All four Pillars were already present. The air tightened the moment he spoke.
"He must've left thousands of clues for the police to chase," Noir said, turning his gaze to Darhua.
"It doesn't matter," Darhua replied, unbothered.
"So we're fighting the police again now?" Doccaro asked, folding his arms.
"We can't fight the whole government," Noir snapped back.
Doccaro chuckled lightly. "Why not? Aren't we the ones controlling them?"
Noir leaned forward, his tone losing its edge and gaining weight. "It's not that simple, Doccaro. Yes, we control the government—but when an incident this big happens, even they start to rebel. There are people in this country. And when a government stops listening to them, the nation revolts. Sometimes…" He paused. "Sometimes the government has to turn against the families."
Noir leaned back in his chair and smiled faintly.
"Well," Doccaro said, eyes still on Noir, "has there ever been a time when a government actually won against a family?"
"Yes."
Darhua's answer was immediate.
Doccaro's eyes widened.
"There was a time," Darhua continued calmly, "long before I became the Father of Darima. A government completely disbanded a family. Others took care of the aftermath—but it happened."
Silence swallowed the room.
Then—
"Did you not see Ruri's memory while killing all those innocent people?" Silver asked.
Every head turned toward Psycho.
Psycho smiled. "Just like you didn't see Haori's face in Ariadna."
Silver stood up so fast his chair crashed to the floor. No one had time to react.
His fist struck Psycho's face with a sound that cracked through the room. Psycho collapsed instantly. Silver placed his foot on Psycho's chest, rage burning through his eyes.
"You have no idea what I went through after that," Silver said, his voice shaking. "And you will never say Haori's name with that filthy mouth again."
Doccaro, Noir, and Darhua all rose from their seats. Seeing Silver like this—uncontrolled, raw—was unsettling.
Silver stepped back, picked up his chair, and sat down as if nothing had happened. His eyes returned to Darhua.
"Well," Noir said slowly, "he probably deserved that."
"So," Silver asked, cold again, "is there any way to end this rat-and-cat chase?"
"Darima's name cannot reach the public," Darhua said firmly. "If it does, every other family will target us for their own comfort."
He turned to Noir. "You're the brain of Darima, Mr. Noir. Tell us something." His tone was light, almost mocking, as he stretched his arms across the table.
Noir inhaled deeply. Darhua wanted an answer—now. Mocking him back would be a death wish.
Noir's fingers moved slowly as he calculated every possibility. Even for a mind like his, this was heavy.
"There is a way," he finally said. "It's complicated. Many of our people will die. But Darima's name will stay buried. It'll take several steps—but in the end…" He looked at each of them. "We win."
"And what is it?" Doccaro asked, tilting his head.
Noir looked at Silver. He took a long breath.
"You have to die, Silver."
The room froze.