"Director, the suspects are using traditional pull-ring grenades."
The officer shifted uncomfortably.
"Under normal circumstances, they shouldn't detonate while the rings remain attached. Our bomb squad's initial assessment suggests some may have been modified with remote detonation devices."
New York's Police Director—a thick-set blonde in his fifties—stood motionless behind his desk. His expression darkened like a gathering storm.
"Initial assessment?" he snapped. The Manhattan precinct chief flinched.
"We're... we're pursuing all investigative leads, sir."
"I've heard that song before."
The Director's fist hit the desk.
"I don't care about their grenade modifications. What I care about is getting those hostages out alive. Do you have any idea how many civilians are trapped there? How many calls I've fielded in the past—" The shrill ring of his phone cut through the tirade.
The Director inhaled sharply before answering. His entire demeanor shifted; his voice took on an unctuous quality that made the precinct chief sweat. If the Director had to grovel, what hope did a mere station head have?
The call ended. The Director turned slowly. The precinct chief kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
"One hour."
At those words, his head jerked up. The Director held up a single trembling finger.
"That's all the time I could buy you. Every eye in New York is watching us right now. Watching those civilians surrounded by explosives."
He leaned across the desk, spittle flying.
"And it's not just New York! Half the country—hell, half the world—has their eyes glued to this disaster!"
The precinct chief opened his mouth.
"Director, I understand—"
"You understand nothing!"
The Director's finger jabbed toward the man's face.
"That's the Federal Reserve Bank! The goddamn gold reserves of half the planet are in that building! Those thieves couldn't carry out more than pocket change, but the political fallout—" He gripped the desk until his knuckles whitened.
"The international outcry alone could trigger economic chaos. Listen carefully—from this moment forward, abandon all delusions. When this storm hits, neither of us will have jobs by morning."
The precinct chief felt ice water trickle down his spine. If the Director was going down, what chance did he have?
The office door burst open. The Director whirled, terrifying the pale-faced secretary who stammered, "Sir, the suspects just—they threw someone from the roof. It's... it's..."
"Spit it out, woman!"
"The Federal Reserve Bank President!"
Both men went deathly pale.
"Lunatics!"
The Director nearly levitated from his chair.
"Absolute goddamn madmen! They've just lit the fuse on World War Three!"
He stalked back and forth like a caged animal.
"Get every precinct commander in here now. Order SWAT to initiate simultaneous breaches from all access points."
His fist came down on the desk with finality.
"We're dragging those psychopaths out—in handcuffs or body bags!"
---
Five minutes earlier...
Captain Boomerang and Killer Croc had received their orders: transfer all remaining grenades to Deadshot.
Deadshot grabbed the grenades from the two operatives as instructed. His updated mission flashed across his vision: Throw all grenades through the window into the Police, detonate after they've collected and moved them away. That explained the chaos unfolding on the TVs moments ago.
Following the new mission parameters, Deadshot headed to the roof to establish a sniper position. Meanwhile, Killer Croc and Captain Boomerang ascended from opposite sides of the bank, tasked with clearing out the remaining armed resistance. Hong Fei and Deadshot took the elevator to the top floor.
The ride was silent, save for the faint hum of the elevator cables. As they neared their destination, Hong Fei shifted slightly, positioning himself in front of Deadshot. Ding! The doors slid open, and a storm of gunfire erupted instantly. Bullets rained down like a tidal wave, hammering against the iron armor with relentless clangs.
Under the barrage, the subtle dragon patterns etched into the Black-Gold Armor began to glow faintly red. This was the armor's unique feature—an ingenious use of Vibranium to absorb and store kinetic energy from external impacts as a secondary offensive mechanism. Moments later, the gunfire ceased.
Outside the elevator, a circle of suited special security personnel stared in shock, their bullets utterly ineffective against the armor. Yet, their hands moved with practiced precision, swiftly swapping out spent magazines. These men were a cut above the downstairs security—calm, collected, and unshaken by unexpected threats.
But it didn't matter. With a flick of his wrist, Hong Fei's blade transformed into a Cross-blade. In the next instant, he surged forward with blinding speed, slashing the throat of one opponent before they could finish reloading. He moved like a whirlwind, cutting down the rest with ruthless efficiency.
A few operatives further back seized the moment to reload and took aim at Hong Fei once more. Inside the elevator, Deadshot raised his gun to assist, but the mission prompt on his visor flared a violent red, a stark reminder: Do not act outside mission parameters. He lowered his weapon reluctantly.
He couldn't fathom why he couldn't even lend a hand to the "Boss."
Stepping away from the fray, he followed the green indicator line toward his sniper position. On the other side, Hong Fei finished dispatching the last of the resistance with ease, then turned to face a massive alloy door. The entrance was secured with iris, fingerprint, and keypad authentication.
Beyond the door was the bank's panic room, housing its top executives—including the individuals Hong Fei had mentioned earlier, the holders of the three vault keys. Situated on the top floor, the panic room was designed to provide a safe haven for upper-level personnel during crises, shielding them from coercion and intimidation.
Inside the panic room, Arthur had hacked all surveillance feeds, leaving the occupants blind to the outside world. A suited security guard pressed his ear against the door, listening intently for any movement. Suddenly, his body jerked, then went still.
"What's wrong with you?" someone demanded. When he didn't respond, unease rippled through the group.
Just as they were about to step forward, they suddenly saw a streak of dark red blood trickling down the alloy door. Clang! A sharp blade tip pierced through the door, angled directly through the ear of the man pressed against it. The group screamed in unison, scrambling backward in panic.
The security personnel, forced into retreat, stepped forward with their guns raised. In an instant, the gleaming blade withdrew and vanished. Then, with a sickening ease, a straight cross-blade sliced through the alloy door, carving out a massive triangular gap. The impossibly sharp weapon cut through the metal as if it were paper.
Inside, faces paled. Even the high-level Federal Reserve security officers tensed, their grips tightening on their firearms. Bang! The triangular alloy block crashed inward, sending debris flying. Gunfire erupted again.
Those facing the block were pinned to the ground by the impact, while others fired wildly at the gap. Hong Fei stepped through, bullets ricocheting harmlessly off his armor. With a fluid, almost artistic motion, he disarmed every gunman in the room. Blood mist hung in the air as the so-called "elites" turned ghostly pale.
He took a single step forward, and the crowd shrank back, pressing into the corner. Hong Fei reached out and pulled three individuals from the huddle: two women and one man, representing the accounting, management, and security departments. The women trembled violently, while the security officer, though shaken, maintained a semblance of composure.
The man's eyes darted around as Hong Fei dragged him out, still calculating, still scheming. Hong Fei ignored the others, turning to escort the trio toward the door. Just as they approached, he sidestepped abruptly, shielding the accounting woman behind him.
Bullets struck his iron armor, sparking and clanging. Screams erupted. The shooter was an older man, squeezed into the innermost part of the crowd. His face was lined with age, his hair mostly white. Despite his frail appearance, there was an air of authority about him.
Seven shots rang out, but the clicking of an empty chamber followed. The man's expression twisted in frustration. Hong Fei turned and strode back. Seeing him approach, the man hurled the pistol at Hong Fei's face. Hong Fei caught it effortlessly, closed the distance, and grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him out of the crowd.
The others trembled, too terrified to intervene.
"Let go of me! Do you have any idea who I am?" the man shouted, struggling weakly. Hong Fei slammed him onto a nearby table. Arthur scanned his face—this was no ordinary man. He was the President of the Federal Reserve Bank, someone who'd just fired at his own employees without hesitation.
Hong Fei realized he'd underestimated the audacity of these capitalist figureheads. They flaunted their identities, trampled laws, and took risks without a second thought. It wasn't condemnation he felt, but a strange sense of inadequacy. He, after all, was still hiding behind iron armor and a mask. Arthur quickly supplied the man's extensive profile.
The string of accolades and titles was dizzying. Feeling the unyielding strength in Hong Fei's grip, the man finally stopped struggling. Panting, he asked calmly, "I am the President. What exactly do you want?"
Hong Fei remained silent, still processing the man's impressive resume.
"Even if you open the vault, you absolutely cannot take even a single gram of gold. Since you have the ability and courage to break in, you shouldn't be unaware of this. So you must have other plans. Tell me, what is your goal? My identity should be sufficient to negotiate with you."
Hong Fei straightened, dragged him out of the panic room, and turned toward the window.
The other party seemed to sense something. His feet scraped against the floor as he struggled violently.
"Wait! Let go of me!" he shouted, panic edging his voice.
"What are you going to do?"
Hong Fei said nothing. He gripped the man firmly with one hand, hoisting him up like a ragdoll. Without hesitation, he strode toward the window where the three tools holding the keys stood.
The President's protests turned desperate—curses, pleas, screams—but Hong Fei didn't flinch. With a single motion, he hurled the man out the window, sending him tumbling into the void below.