Helen tried with all her strength to push this conclusion out of her mind. The idea that a cartel was involved in her case was terrifying, and she feared that if she voiced it, her colleagues would mock her or accuse her of exaggeration.
But the moment Louis uttered the word, a chill ran through her bones.
Louis was no ordinary agent; he was a man who had spent decades navigating the corridors of federal investigations, confronting the fiercest mafia leaders, interrogating unshakable crime bosses, and facing cartel psychopaths face-to-face in dark interrogation rooms. The fact that such a conclusion came from a man of his experience and authority meant the matter had transcended speculation and become an unavoidable reality.
In that moment, Helen's psychological defenses collapsed, and she grasped the magnitude of the catastrophe.
The cartel… and what do you know of the cartel? Police are familiar with the name, and every investigator understands that facing such an entity means entering a dark labyrinth with no exit.
In the world of crime, the mafia remains an organization with some old rules, a semblance of honor, and hands that don't always reach the depths of power. Federal agencies can deal with them, sometimes simply arresting the top figures to disrupt the cell.
The cartel, however, is an entity without rules, without mercy, and without boundaries to restrain its savagery. They don't stop at ordinary killings; they assassinate top politicians, shake the foundations of states, and possess military arsenals, tanks, and armored vehicles that any conventional gang could only dream of. They are organized armies disguised as criminals, and their power defies imagination.
But the true horror, feared by every security agency, lies in the twisted psyche of the cartel members. We are talking about psychopaths and sociopaths stripped of the simplest human emotions. To them, humans are not souls but tools or obstacles.
A cartel member possesses absolute emotional coldness, enabling him to separate his actions entirely from conscience. He might calmly dine beside a body still bleeding without a flicker of disturbance.
Even more terrifying is the purging logic they exercise toward those close to them. In the cartel's mentality, emotion is a security flaw, and family ties are chains the enemy can twist to break your will. Killing a spouse, child, or sibling isn't mere punishment—it is an act of power consolidation. They kill those they love in cold blood simply because they perceive that person as a weakness. They kill the human within themselves so that only emptiness and loyalty to the organization remain in their hearts.
For Leon to describe such a sick psyche with such precision means he is not merely observing from a distance; he may harbor the same terrifying calm within himself. Helen now realized that the case had transcended paper and that she was facing a mind that fully comprehends the perverse thrill a monster feels when severing the last thread of mercy.
"Hmm… contact our agents in Germany immediately. Have them put this person under close surveillance. I want his entire daily routine: who he meets, who he talks to… but beware, I don't want any arrests or reckless moves that might alert him. We only want to confirm if what he writes is mere fiction or actual spilled blood."
This deep voice came from a dark corner of the room, where Edward silently observed the scene.
He stepped forward confidently, and Ryan handed him the file, feeling the weight of responsibility. "Edward… you need to read this first before deciding anything."
Edward, a man who had spent half his life hunting crime emperors, took the file coldly. With every page he flipped, his features hardened, and silence enveloped the room. Everyone watched him expectantly; he was the most senior and experienced, and his word carried decisive weight in such complex cases.
Edward exhaled deeply, closed the file slowly, and said: "This isn't just a talented writer… this is a real cartel mentality. This person is a sociopath who fully understands how to kill and escape. His way of describing events proves he's not merely depicting images, but living experiences."
A wave of anxiety swept over everyone present. Edward added, questioning: "But, Helen, are you sure this Leon is still in Germany?"
Helen replied, tense: "Yes. Travel and border records confirm he hasn't left Germany for a very long time."
This statement puzzled everyone. How could a crime occur in Australia with such precision while the writer was in another continent? But Edward, aware that the cartel has arms that defy geographical boundaries, wasted no time.
He decisively said in a stern tone: "Contact our office in Germany. We'll also leave on the next available flight. Louis, coordinate with the higher-ups and secure the necessary international permits."
He then turned and left the room, lighting his cigar, leaving behind a cloud of smoke and terrifying questions about what awaited them in Berlin.
...
Leon woke up and headed straight to the bathroom, letting the hot water revive his body. He put on his new clothes, this time choosing the tracksuit that highlighted his physique, and then went to the kitchen.
"Damn… I completely forgot I didn't buy anything to eat. The kitchen's empty," Leon muttered, looking with disgust around the space.
The kitchen was old, reeking of neglect. Though the apartment was small and rundown, the rent in a city like Munich consumed $600 monthly—a high sum compared to its standard.
He put on his shoes and left the apartment at exactly noon. As he descended the stairs, he took out his phone and curiously opened Instagram.
He went to Emma's page and looked at the photo of them together. He was shocked to see the post had surpassed 120,000 views, and the comments exceeded 1,200.
He tapped the comments and began reading:
"Oh my god, he's so handsome… I'm now certain James is Leon. Those tattoos only suit a real gangster."
"I've fallen in love with you, dark writer…"
"This man can't be just a writer. Look at his gaze."
Leon felt a slight tightening in his chest. Social media was a double-edged sword, and the fame now chasing him could bring dangers he hadn't calculated.
He arrived at a large supermarket, grabbed a shopping cart, and headed to the fruits and vegetables section. He selected the best produce with care, then moved to the alcohol section.
He stopped at the shelves of premium bottles and picked up a high-end whiskey, priced at around $200. He recalled his old days in Australia when his father bought such types. Since his father's death and his plunge into poverty, he had never tasted fine alcohol.
He added some sweets, milk, and juices to his cart, then moved to the checkout.
While waiting in line, he overheard a commotion from the front.
A girl was struggling to pay with her card, but the machine repeatedly rejected the transaction. Embarrassment showed clearly on her face, especially with the growing impatience and complaints of the customers behind her.
The cashier said in a dry tone, mixing disgust and boredom: "If you don't have money, step aside and put these items back."
The girl replied hesitantly, trembling, pressing her card with a shaking hand: "No… please, I have the money, but I don't know what's wrong with the card…"