The white room was silent.
As officers filed in beside Flint and Nicolas, none of them looked particularly threatening at first glance.
They appeared ordinary—disciplined, calm, restrained.
Men shaped by duty, not by chaos.
All of them… except one.
He was enormous.
A giant of a man, almost identical in build to Doccaro.
He sat at the table assigned to him, his presence overwhelming the space around him.
Flint froze for a moment, staring.
The man's body was so massive it felt as if he were wearing invisible armor—thick, unbreakable, forged from raw strength.
Flint's eyes dropped to the nameplate on the desk.
Galvado Hill.
Even the name sounded heavy—solid, immovable.
Looking around again, Flint realized something unsettling.
These men weren't loud.
They weren't arrogant.
They weren't reckless.
Every single one of them carried the same stillness Nicolas did—the kind that came from devotion, not ambition.
They were silent.
Dead silent.
At the head of the room stood the DGP.
He was an old man—wrinkled skin, fragile frame, shoulders slightly bent with age.
Yet when he spoke, his voice cut through the room like a trained blade.
Strong. Sharp. Commanding.
The voice of someone who had given orders long before these men ever held badges.
Thin brown hair rested over his forehead as his eyes moved across the seven officers seated before him—the Seven Keys.
"All of you are ranked," he said. "And when I say ranked, I mean precisely that—based on your ability to hunt criminals, end crimes, think critically, and react under pressure."
His gaze stopped on Flint.
"Currently, you are the weakest Key here."
Flint stiffened.
"And no," the DGP continued calmly, "that is not an insult. Being chosen as a Key itself is a privilege beyond most officers' reach."
Flint met his eyes, steady but tense.
"However," the DGP added, "you must become better. Much better."
"Yes, sir," Flint replied, his voice firm.
Satisfied that the hierarchy was understood, the DGP exhaled slowly—like a man preparing to explain a truth too heavy to carry lightly.
"You must be wondering," he began, walking slowly through the narrow space between the two tables, "why I would grant seven officers authority so vast that it could challenge even the political system itself."
He stopped.
"I never would have… if the name Vega had not resurfaced."
The room tightened.
"He was not a threat to the country alone," the DGP said.
"He was a threat to the world. This was never about killing a hundred men. It was about the potential slaughter of thousands of innocents."
He clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes sweeping across every face.
"We believed he was dead ten years ago. Turns out… he wasn't."
A brief pause.
"He is dead now. That is a relief. But the real problem remains."
His voice hardened.
"Who is the organization that killed him?"
The room remained silent.
"Because that," he continued, "is the entire reason Vega was unreachable to us for so long."
Galvado finally spoke, his deep voice steady.
"If you knew who he was… how he looked… how did none of your officers realize who they killed ten years ago?"
The DGP turned his head slightly.
"Because none of us had ever seen Vega's face," he replied. "We only knew him through fragmented intelligence—details provided by one man."
His eyes shifted toward Nicolas.
"He is the only one here who has seen Vega with his own eyes."
A low voice rose from the table.
"Then why didn't Mr. Lucifer catch him himself?"
The tone was mocking.
The man who spoke leaned back slightly—Krill.
"I wasn't in the city at that time," Nicolas replied evenly.
"Then why di—"
"Enough, Krill!" the DGP snapped.
The room flinched.
"He had his reasons," the DGP continued coldly, "just as we had ours. Nicolas encountered Vega one day before we eliminated the man we believed was Vega. That is settled."
Krill raised his hands in mock surrender, smirking.
"Alright, alright. I understand."
His eyes lingered on Nicolas.
Nicolas closed his eyes briefly—not in anger, but in disappointment.
A voice cut in from the far end of the table.
Calm. Commanding.
"You're both here for something bigger. Focus on that."
The speaker's presence alone silenced the room.
The DGP nodded.
"Now," he said, "whether you choose to work together or alone is irrelevant to me. However—every report, every piece of research, every clue and fragment of evidence will be submitted to the Key ranked first among you."
Nicolas shifted in his seat, already preparing to stand.
"And that," the DGP added, "is Wolhard."
Nicolas froze.
The name struck him like a verdict.
For a moment, he had been certain—it would be him.
Devastation washed through him, but he remained seated.
Flint noticed everything.
Wolhard—the same man who had earlier silenced both Krill and Nicolas—stood from his chair and walked toward the front.
Galvado and Krill exchanged glances, faint smiles tugging at their lips.
"You're ranked third, Nicolas," Krill said casually.
"What?" Flint snapped.
"Yes," the DGP replied calmly. "It is correct."
Nicolas said nothing.
The rage inside him burned violently—but he kept it caged.
Wolhard placed both hands on the desk and surveyed the room.
"Just as I said," he spoke. "I became the best."
A slow smile spread across his face.
"I will lead this operation," Wolhard declared. "And I will find them—no matter the cost. I will give everything within my capacity… and beyond it."
The room listened.
Some with trust.
Some with resentment.
And some—with fire quietly building.
A memory flashed through Nicolas's mind—the night the Psycho massacre occurred.
Sirens had howled like wounded animals.
Every officer in the district had converged on the supermarket.
Medics. Firefighters. Police.
Red and blue lights bled into one another, staining the streets in artificial dawn.
Bodies everywhere.
Broken glass under boots.
Blood soaking into concrete that would never forget.
Flint stood beside Nicolas, his face pale, voice hollow.
"Nobody survived, sir."
Nicolas turned slowly.
"No one at all?" he asked, disbelief cutting into his tone.
"There has to be someone. Someone who had a pulse left. Even barely."
Flint swallowed.
"There's none, sir."
The words hit harder than gunfire.
Nicolas's shoulders sagged—not visibly, but internally.
Something in him cracked.
He turned slightly, ready to walk away, when Flint spoke again.
"There is someone," Flint added, hesitation weighing down his voice. "But… he's no use to us."
Nicolas spun around instantly.
"What do you mean no use?"
He grabbed Flint by the shoulders, fingers digging in.
"He doesn't talk? He's in shock? I'll make him talk."
Flint didn't resist. He just looked at Nicolas—eyes heavy, resigned.
"It's a baby, sir."
Nicolas's grip loosened.
"A… baby?"
His voice dropped, disbelief laced with something colder.
"Yes," Flint said quietly.
"His mother's dead. But he's alive. We found him in the bathroom."
Silence spread across Nicolas's face.
Not rage.
Not sorrow.
Something emptier.
He turned his back to the supermarket and walked toward his van.
His silhouette stood rigid against the chaos behind him—like a fallen hero carved into stone, carrying a truth too heavy to speak.
Inside his head, his own words echoed, fracturing again and again.
The crime can win against me, sir… but not the criminal.
The crime can win against me… but not the criminal.
…but not the criminal.
"So what happens to the baby now?" Nicolas asked without turning back.
Flint hesitated.
"We'll find him an orphanage. Or foster parents. I guess."
Christine stood a few steps away, staring at the child.
The baby cried—soft, broken cries—reaching for a warmth that no longer existed.
She gently lifted him into her arms, cradling him against her chest.
His tiny fingers curled instinctively, grasping at nothing.
She began to sing.
A quiet lullaby.
Trembling.
Uncertain.
Inside her mind, images of the massacre replayed relentlessly.
The monster who had done this.
The senseless cruelty.
The helplessness clawed at her chest.
What can weak arms like mine even do? she thought, tears spilling freely as she held the child closer.
Still, she sang.
♪ Let the leaf fall on the road ♪
♪ Let the world learn how to grieve ♪
♪ Let the baby hold the moon ♪
Her voice cracked—but she didn't stop.
Now,looking at all of the Keys, Nicolas realised how helpless he would be in this whole operation.
His back suddenly started to feel heavier.
It was as if no one was there to stand beside him, and darkness was just about to consume him when—
Flint put his hand on Nicolas's back and asked,
"Are you alright, sir?"
And that voice was enough for Nicolas to be pulled back from all the darkness that was about to consume him.
He looked at Flint and smiled, assuring him he was alright.
The meeting ended.
Meanwhile, at the Darima family…
Psycho came back from his unconsciousness and sat, hunching his back against the wall, one hand resting on his curled leg.
He looked at Noir and Silver and asked,
"Who will die?"
Silver looked at Noir.
"Tell me. What have you planned?" Silver asked Noir.
And Noir started to explain the plan.
"We will make the police force think that you are the leader of the gang—the one Vega worked under."
"To do that, we have to leave deliberate clues in the cities, and even some of our guys will have to act as fake rats to them, telling them that indeed you are the leader of the whole operation."
"And why only me? Why not that idiot?" Silver hinted toward Psycho.
"It will be easier. Just listen to me, ok."
"When the police start to look into you seriously, we will create a fake hideout for them to investigate."
"And inside that hideout, several of our guys—or maybe some rookies that we will hire—will kill those police members. Whoever dies, we don't care."
"Ok, I'm listening," Doccaro said.
"When the police finally start to look for you—if they can, of course—they will find you: a man with silver hair."
"We will use a duplicate of you, or I should say a man with silver hair will be enough, since they have not seen your face."
"So someone posing as Silver will die, not the real Silver," Doccaro seemed a little disappointed.
"So you wanted me dead, huh, big guy?" Silver looked at Doccaro.
Doccaro started laughing, mocking Silver.
"And that's how the whole plan will work," Noir ended the explanation.
"What if anything goes south?" Silver asked.
"The Einstein will have a plan for it too, no?" Doccaro lifted his head, looking at Noir.
"Yes, I will, big guy," Noir said, putting one leg over the other.
The meeting here ended too.
Silver came out of the room, went down the lift toward the area where all the Painkillers were, and asked for Kirk.
When he finally found him, he saw Kirk standing beside the sleeping area.
"How is the kid now?" Silver asked Kirk.
"He is sleeping now," Kirk replied.
"He is torn from all the mess now, you know."
"I really want his side of the story now," Silver said, looking at the sleeping Bond.
"Well, he really hates you. He even wants to kill you," Kirk told Silver.
"Who wouldn't want to avenge their father, right?" Silver added.