CHAPTER; Two
After The FBI left death who has been watching them form a very long time decides to play a game.
The sun hung high and merciless above the city, washing everything in bright, unforgiving light. On the surface, it looked safe—ordinary. Normal.
But inside the sealed perimeter around the church, nothing felt normal.
Officers moved carefully across the courtyard, scanning rooftops, windows, every possible angle. The Chief stood at the center, eyes narrowed, still replaying what happened in his head.
Then—
A sound.
Not from anywhere visible.
A voice.
"…Testing."
Every radio on their belts cracked at once.
Static erupted through their earpieces, followed by a soft, almost playful hum—like someone breathing through the line.
The Chief's head snapped up.
"Cut the frequencies!" he barked.
But it didn't stop.
Instead, the sound grew clearer… layered now, like it was coming from multiple directions at once.
"Good morning," the voice said calmly.
Every officer froze.
It wasn't just through the radios anymore.
It was in the air.
A low, distorted transmission echoed across the entire area, as if the city itself had become a speaker.
On a distant rooftop, barely visible against the glare of the sun, a small device sat perched on the edge of a building.
A transmitter.
Old-looking. Modified. Wired with precision.
It pulsed once.
Then again.
Each pulse sent the voice rippling through every communication channel in the perimeter.
"I've been watching you all sleep," the voice continued lightly. "You look… peaceful when you don't know you're being hunted."
A few officers aimed their weapons at rooftops. Others at windows. But there was nothing to shoot at—just sunlight and reflections bouncing off glass.
The Chief stepped forward slowly.
"This is a signal interception," he said firmly. "Find the source."
Then—
A soft chuckle came through every channel.
"Already did."
A sharp crack echoed from somewhere above them.
Everyone reacted instantly—guns raised, shots fired toward the sound.
A small object fell from the rooftop above the church, tumbling through the air before hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Silence.
Then hesitation.
Slowly, two officers approached it, weapons still raised.
One of them nudged it with his boot.
It rolled slightly.
Harmless.
Plastic.
A doll.
Dressed neatly. Sewn lips. Empty eyes.
Too deliberate.
Too familiar.
The officers stiffened.
The Chief stepped closer, his expression tightening as he recognized the design.
"This is—"
A voice cut through the air again, soft and close, almost delighted.
"Got you."
A beat of silence.
Then every radio, every speaker, every device on their belts exploded into deafening static at once.
And from somewhere unseen—
A soft laugh echoed through the bright daylight.
The static didn't fade.
It spread.
Every officer dropped to a knee, clutching their earpieces as the sound drilled through their heads like something alive. Even the Chief staggered back, jaw tightening as he tried to regain control.
"Shut it down!" he barked. "All channels—cut everything!"
But it was too late.
The voice was everywhere now.
Not just radios.
Not just speakers.
Even the emergency sirens in the distance flickered on by themselves, blaring a distorted version of her laughter across the city.
Then—
Silence.
Instant.
Unnatural.
The sudden absence of sound was worse than the noise.
The Chief slowly raised his head.
The doll was still on the ground.
But it wasn't alone anymore.
Small black devices—no bigger than coins—were now visible scattered across the rooftop edges, street lamps, and windowsills.
Transmitters.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds.
All blinking in sync.
One officer whispered, "We've been surrounded…"
A sharp beep cut through the air.
All devices activated at once.
The doll on the ground suddenly emitted a soft click.
Then—
It spoke.
In her voice.
"Run."
That was all.
The silence broke instantly into chaos.
Gunfire erupted as officers scattered, shooting at rooftops, walls, anything that might hide her. But the city itself seemed to respond—streetlights flickering, car alarms screaming, traffic signals changing erratically.
The Chief grabbed his radio.
"FBI unit! Move in formation! Don't break—stay—"
A burst of static swallowed his command.
From above, a slow clap echoed again.
One.
Two.
Three.
"Good," her voice said softly. "Now you're moving."
A sudden explosion rocked the far end of the perimeter.
Not fire.
Smoke.
Thick, blinding smoke released from vents hidden in the street.
Visibility dropped instantly.
Coughing, shouting, confusion.
And then—
A second doll dropped from the sky.
Thud.
Then another.
Thud.
Thud.
Each one landing closer to different groups of officers.
Each one identical.
Sewn lips.
Blank eyes.
Perfect replicas.
The Chief's eyes widened slightly.
"Don't touch them!" he shouted.
Too late.
One officer approached instinctively—
The doll's head tilted.
A soft mechanical whirr.
Then it whispered directly into his earpiece:
"You're already in my system."
His radio exploded into static.
He collapsed instantly, screaming as every device on him overloaded at once.
The formation broke.
Panic spread.
And above it all, her voice remained calm—almost amused.
"You came to hunt me in daylight," she said. "But you forgot…"
A pause.
"…I don't need darkness to hide."
From a rooftop across the street, the masked figure finally stepped forward into full sunlight.
Still.
Watching.
The Chief caught a glimpse of movement and shouted, "There!"
Everyone turned—
But the rooftop was empty again.
Only a single transmitter remained, spinning slowly as if recently placed.
Attached to it was a note.
The Chief grabbed it.
One line.
Fresh ink.
"You're not chasing me anymore.
You're inside my game."
Behind him—
The doll on the ground slowly stopped blinking.
Then went completely still.
And somewhere in the city—
A final soft laugh echoed through every remaining device. Ooh we'll have a nice day
√√√Somewhere In "ITALY"√√√√
The party in Italy was supposed to be private.
Exclusive.
Untouchable.
A sea of luxury filled the grand villa—crystal chandeliers glowing over polished marble floors, champagne flowing freely, laughter echoing through music loud enough to drown out conscience.
But the moment he arrived…
Everything stopped.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
The doors didn't burst open.
They were simply held open by his bodyguards.
And then he walked in.
Silence followed him like a shadow.
Tall. Immaculately dressed in a black tailored suit that looked almost too perfect to be real. No effort. Just control. His face was striking—beautiful in a way that made people both uncomfortable and impressed.
Because beauty like that shouldn't feel this cold.
Behind him, his men filled the entrance without a word.
The music didn't stop because someone told it to.
It stopped because no one dared let it continue.
Even the air felt tighter.
People forgot how to breathe properly.
Some lowered their eyes without realizing why.
Others froze mid-step, drinks trembling in their hands.
The man in the black suit slowly removed his jacket and placed it over the back of a chair like he had all the time in the world. The gesture was almost polite.
That made it worse.
The traitor was shaking uncontrollably now, backed into the center of the marble hall where every guest could see him clearly.
No one spoke.
No one even dared to shift their weight.
Even the mafia men in the room—men who had built empires on violence—stood frozen in a silence they had never known before.
Because this wasn't chaos.
This was control.
Absolute control.
The man in black stepped closer.
Calm. Composed. Beautiful in a way that didn't belong in something so dangerous.
Not a single person moved.
The mafia men who had once commanded armies and burned cities were now reduced to stillness—staring at a man whose reputation was built on blood.
The man in black calmly reloaded; the metallic click was loud in the silence.
Then he stepped back and said, "You know me."
The man replied, "Yes, you're the devil."
"Fantastic. My reputation precedes me," he said with a devilish smile, making him look even more striking and handsome. For a moment, most of the women forgot their fear and simply admired him.
Not rushed.
Not emotional.
Controlled.
Always controlled.
He looked up at them.
One by one, every gaze dropped instinctively.
No one could meet his eyes for long.
And then, as if nothing remarkable had happened at all, he spoke.
Low.
Calm.
"Come here."
Every head turned slowly toward the center of the room, watching the classic scene of a man walking to his death.
He had been laughing nervously and acting arrogantly a second ago. Now he was shaking violently.
His drink slipped from his hand and shattered on the marble floor.
He tried to move back.
But his legs wouldn't listen.
The guest beside him whispered, "What has he done? Why does he have to drag us along with him?"
No one answered.
Because they already knew.
The man in the suit stood up and took one step forward.
Only one.
And the entire room felt it—like pressure dropping before a storm.
"Do you know," he said softly, tilting his head slightly, "what happens to traitors?"
The words weren't loud.
They didn't need to be.
They landed like something physical.
The trembling man shook harder. "P-please… I didn't—I swear I didn't—"
He couldn't finish.
Because the man in black was already in front of him.
No rush.
No anger in his expression.
That was the worst part.
Nothing emotional.
Just certainty.
Absolute judgment.
His gaze lowered slightly.
"You ran from us," he said.
A pause.
Then colder—
"But we always finish what we start."
One of his bodyguards stepped forward and placed a hand on the traitor's shoulder—not rough, not dramatic. Just final, as if it had already been decided.
The man's knees gave out immediately.
He was crying now.
Begging without sound.
The guests turned away, but no one left.
No one moved.
Because leaving wasn't an option anymore.
The man in black adjusted his cufflinks slowly, as if the entire situation was beneath his attention.
"We don't chase," he continued calmly. "We collect."
He leaned slightly closer now.
His voice dropped even further.
"Diamo la caccia a chi ci dà la caccia."
A beat of silence followed.
The man in the black suit slowly removed his jacket and placed it over the back of a chair like he had all the time in the world. The gesture was almost polite.
That made it worse.
The traitor was shaking uncontrollably now, backed into the center of the marble hall where every guest could see him clearly.
No one spoke.
No one even dared to shift their weight.
Even the mafia men in the room knew better.
The man in black stepped closer.
Calm. Composed. Beautiful in a way that didn't belong in something so dangerous.
"You understand," he said.
The traitor tried to move back—but there was nowhere left to go.
The man raised his hand.
And without hesitation, he took the weapon himself.
The first shot cracked through the hall like thunder.
The sound didn't just echo—it shattered the air.
People flinched violently.
Some collapsed instantly under the shock of it. Others covered their mouths, struggling to contain their reactions, eyes wide with disbelief as the reality of what they were witnessing sank in.
A second shot followed.
Then silence again.
Heavy.
Thick.
Unforgiving.
The traitor dropped where he stood.
No dramatic words. No final plea that mattered anymore.
Just finality.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Not a single person.
The man in black calmly reloaded; the metallic click was loud in the silence.
Then he stepped back, retrieved his handkerchief, and wiped his hands with the same precision he used for everything in life.
Not rushed.
Not emotional.
Controlled.
Always controlled.
He picked up his jacket again and slipped it on.
The room still hadn't recovered.
Not fully.
Not even close.
He looked up at them.
One by one, every gaze dropped instinctively.
No one could meet his eyes for long.
And then, as if nothing remarkable had happened at all—
"Continue," he said.
No rise in tone.
No hesitation. But no one moved.
The bodyguards moved instantly, efficiently toward the door.
He simply turned slightly, scanning the room slowly and deliberately.
Everyone straightened instinctively under that gaze.
A woman dropped her glass.
No one looked at her.
No one dared.
Because when he looked at you…
it felt like being evaluated for survival.
His eyes stopped briefly on the crowd.
Then he spoke again, softer this time.
"I said continue."
One word.
The music obeyed.
The laughter returned—but weaker now, forced, nervous, careful.
Like a warning no one needed him to repeat.
Because everyone there understood one thing very clearly:
He didn't come to negotiate.
He came to end things.