The reporter's face was inches from Vincenzo's now, close enough that the chained man could see the veins pulsing in his temples, the sweat beading on his upper lip despite the night's chill. The microphone trembled in his grip, the red light on the camera rig blinking steadily, feeding every word, every breath, to the unseen audience scattered across the city—families hunched over glowing screens in dim living rooms, bar patrons frozen mid-sip, office workers pausing their graveyard shifts to stare at phones vibrating with notifications. The man's eyes burned with a fire stoked by personal hell, his voice cracking as he leaned in, ignoring the police hands tugging at his shoulders. "Untouchable? You think that's what you are? My brother—gone because of your filth! Shot in the back over nothing, left to bleed out in some alley your empire owns. And how many more? How many families shattered, lives snuffed out like candles? You're a mafia criminal, Moretti—a plague dressed in a suit. And now? Now you'll rot. Finally rot where the light can't reach you."
The words spat out like venom, each one landing heavy in the charged air, the crowd behind him swelling with echoes: "Rot!" "Criminal!" "Plague!" Rocks skittered across the pavement again, one glancing off an officer's shield with a dull thunk, another shattering a nearby floodlight bulb in a spray of sparks. The police formation tightened, detectives growling low: "Back him up—get this clown out of here." They started to pull Vincenzo forward, their grips iron on his arms, the van's doors yawning open just steps away, exhaust fumes curling in the cold like impatient breath. The reporter lunged a fraction closer, defying the push: "Say it! Deny it to my face!"
Cathy was already there, slipping into the space like a shadow given purpose. Her movement wasn't hurried—no dramatic flourish, just a precise step that placed her between the reporter and her cousin, her skirt brushing the pavement with a whisper. The officers reacted on instinct, one arm shooting out to block her: "Miss, back down—" But she ignored it, her gaze locking on the reporter with that sharp, dissecting intensity, her lips curving into a smile that wasn't kind, wasn't warm—it was performative, a mask worn for the cameras she knew were rolling, turning the confrontation into her stage. "Evidence," she said, her voice smooth and cutting, laced with a mockery that dripped like honeyed acid. "You keep screaming, but where's the proof? A story? A whisper from some bar? Or just your grief making you see ghosts?"
The reporter's head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing in disbelief, his face twisting further. "Proof? You want proof? My brother's body was the proof—riddled with bullets from your family's guns! And the others? The kids vanished from streets, the wives left widowed over debts they never owed. Your brother's a killer—a mafia worm crawling through this city, and you're defending him like it's a game!" The crowd roared approval, bodies pressing harder against the barriers, more debris flying: a bottle shattering near Cathy's feet, splashing shards and stale beer. She didn't flinch, her smile sharpening, performative edge honing to a blade. "A game? Maybe it is. You throw words like they're weapons, but they bounce off. If he was what you say, you'd have more than tears and tales. Or is that all you've got—desperation dressed as justice?"
Police surged then, hands reaching for her shoulders to pull her back: "Enough—clear the area!" The reporter barked a laugh, bitter and broken: "See? Untouchable—your whole family's rot, and now he'll pay!" Vincenzo's escorts tightened their hold, starting to drag him the final steps to the van, one detective snarling over his shoulder: "Save the speech, pal—you're done here." The reporter's retort built on his lips, face flushing redder: "Innocent? You—"
Vincenzo stopped.
Not with force—not a jerk or a pull. He simply halted, his body going still as stone, the motion so absolute it yanked the officers to a jarring pause, their momentum interrupted like strings cut on puppets. His head turned slowly, deliberately, his blank eyes settling on the reporter with a weight that pinned him in place. The air shifted—thickened—as if the night itself leaned in. The crowd's chants faltered for a beat, rocks hanging mid-throw, the live camera zooming tight on his unchanging face, millions watching as the feed streamed unfiltered: viewers gasping in homes, "Look at him—just staring," online chats exploding with "He's mocking the guy!" The officers exchanged uneasy glances, grips slackening just enough, their earlier confidence cracking under the inexplicable pull of his presence.
"Do you believe," Vincenzo said, his voice low and even, each word dropping like lead into water, "if I say I am innocent?"
The question landed like a slap disguised as silk—simple, devoid of mockery on the surface, but twisting in the air into something cutting, a quiet challenge that made the reporter's face contort in rage. "Innocent?" he spat, voice rising to a near-shriek, the microphone shaking. "You still have heart to mock me? After the graves you've filled, the lives you've shredded?you monster, Mock me all you want—you're done!" The crowd echoed, fury reigniting: "Mocking us!" "Taunting us!" Police leaned in, one opening his mouth with a growl: "Shut your—"
Before he could finish his words, something happened.
The world tore open.
It began with a rumble—not thunder, but something deeper, a vibration rising from the ground like the earth itself groaning in protest. The precinct behind Vincenzo seemed to inhale, walls bulging for a fraction of a second, windows bowing outward in silent strain. Then the blast—reality fracturing in a deafening roar that swallowed sound, the explosion erupting from the building's core like a beast clawing free. Flames punched through every seam, walls disintegrating in a cascade of concrete and steel, glass shattering in a lethal hail that sliced the air. The shockwave slammed outward, a invisible hammer that crushed breath from lungs, flinging bodies like discarded rags—officers at the doors vaporized in the initial flash, their forms silhouetted black against orange before dissolving into mist; protesters nearest the barriers hurled backward, spines snapping against pavement, skulls cracking with wet thuds.
Inside, the devastation was total, a chain of horrors unfolding in seconds. The evidence room detonated first, volatile chemicals igniting in secondary blasts that ripped through floors like knives through flesh. Dispatchers in their booth were buried alive under collapsing ceilings, screams cut short as beams crushed windpipes, blood bubbling from mouths. Forensics techs in the lab were shredded by flying equipment, bodies punctured by scalpels and glassware turned shrapnel, one woman's face peeled away in strips by a whirling centrifuge blade. The night shift chief's office caved in, his desk splintering as the roof fell, pinning him alive long enough to feel his legs pulverize, gasping for air in the dust-choked dark before flames consumed him. Mateo, the witness, in his secured room—chained to a table, mid-sentence perhaps pleading for protection—met the end in a wall of fire, skin blistering instant, bones charring as the room imploded, his body reduced to ash amid twisted metal, the key evidence against Vincenzo erased in a single, merciless inferno.
Casualties mounted in brutal waves: a rookie cop in the hallway bisected by a falling beam, lower half twitching as blood pooled; a clerk in the break room scalded alive by exploding pipes, skin sloughing off in sheets; interrogators in adjacent rooms crushed under debris, ribs piercing lungs, drowning in their own fluids. Dozens perished—thirty, forty, the count climbing as flames spread—bodies mangled beyond recognition, limbs scattered like forgotten parts, the air thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid stink of burning flesh. Survivors inside crawled through rubble, fingers broken on jagged edges, coughing up black phlegm as smoke filled corridors, one man dragging his shattered legs only to succumb to collapsing stairs.
Outside, the horror rippled: the reporter flung sideways, his camera rig smashing into the ground, lens cracking but holding the feed—millions watching live as the screen shook, viewers screaming in unison across the city: "What the—explosion!" "The station's gone!" Debris rained deadly—shards embedding in throats, rebar impaling chests, concrete chunks caving skulls with sickening crunches. A protester's arm severed at the elbow, arterial spray painting the barriers red; a woman's face caved by flying brick, teeth scattering like dice; children in the crowd—dragged by parents—trampled in the panic, tiny bones snapping under boots. Blood slicked the asphalt, mixing with glass and dust, the wounded crawling through it, gasping names of loved ones amid the wails.
Cathy staggered, the shockwave buffeting her like a giant's slap, her ears ringing with a high whine that drowned the screams. Exhilaration hit first—a wild, electric rush, eyes widening as flames lit the night, she started trembling after seeing the destruction, in fear and worship. her laugh bubbling up unbidden, knowing now Mateo is dead, she personally witness how he handled it, her voice sharp, alive yet crazed : "you did this?" She looked at Vincenzo as if looking at her god, laughing ike a maniac, looking at mangled corpse and running people her thoughts got darker—something twisted, exhilaration souring into a cold thrill, her mind flashing to the lives snuffed, the power in the destruction. She didn't fear; she absorbed it, her sharp smile returning fiercer, stepping toward Vincenzo amid the chaos.
The city reeled—live feeds looping the moment, the explosion's roar replayed on every screen, casualties reported in real-time: "Dozens dead, witness Mateo who was inside custody now dead burned among them—sole evidence against Moretti vaporized." Vincenzo turned slowly toward the ruins, his blank face a symbol etched in fire, the horror amplifying his presence—the man who stood unmoved as the world burned, blame coalescing around him like smoke, the legend hardening in the inferno's brutal light.
Vincenzo stood frozen—internally shattered, mind a whirlwind of horror: the blast's thunder echoing in his skull, the realization crashing like waves—*The station... people inside, Mateo, gone? This wasn't—lives, so many lives—* Shock locked him, pulse thundering, a child's terror gripping his chest: *What just happened? Will this be Blamed on me too, all of it—* But externally, nothing. No flinch, no widened eyes—he remained a statue amid the apocalypse, flames reflecting in his unblinking gaze, the live camera capturing the untouchable figure, viewers whispering in dread: "He did it didn't he... Planed it." The reporter, bloodied on the ground, stared up in terror, his retort forgotten; police survivors gaped, weapons forgotten as they scrambled, one vomiting from the stench of charred meat.
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Author : Hello Readers I opened an Instagram account you can follow, i share manhwa/novel memes, edits and can discuss about my novel and its future direction. Id:@silentverdictwriter