Inside the abandoned hangar, Locke and Dickon Frost stood facing each other beneath the fading light. Both wore relaxed smiles, the kind exchanged between men meeting for business rather than bloodshed. To any outsider, it would have looked like a polite first encounter between two professionals who recognized something admirable in one another.
But beneath the surface, both sensed it.
The faint, unmistakable trace of killing intent.
For a few seconds, neither moved. Then Frost laughed lightly, breaking the tension as if it had never existed. Without turning around, he snapped his fingers.
The sharp crack echoed through the hollow structure.
The black Mercedes parked at the hangar entrance rolled forward, its engine humming as it crossed the dusty floor before stopping a few yards inside. The headlights cut off, and silence returned.
A second later, the driver's door opened.
Quinn jumped out and hurried to the trunk, moving with obedient efficiency. He lifted it and pulled out two standard hard-shell suitcases, one in each hand. Carrying them carefully, he jogged to Frost's side.
"Master," Quinn said quietly.
Frost gave a small nod and took the cases from him. "Go."
Quinn didn't hesitate. He turned and trotted back to the car without another glance.
"Mr. Underwood, please." Frost smiled and extended the two suitcases toward Locke.
Locke didn't take them immediately. Instead, his gaze settled on the cases with deliberate calm, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly.
Frost noticed the hesitation but didn't react.
Locke lifted his eyes again, amusement dancing in them. "Two million per suitcase," he said mildly. "Now you're handing me two of them. What exactly does that mean, Mr. Frost?"
How much space did two million dollars take? Locke didn't know in theory. But he knew from experience that two million in cash fit perfectly into a suitcase of that size.
He'd seen it before.
Years ago, when old Underwood was still in South Carolina before moving to Washington, a businessman had brought campaign funding in a case identical to the ones Frost now held. Two million dollars, neatly packed.
So this was four million.
Unexpected generosity.
Frost's expression remained smooth. "Two million is our apology," he said evenly. "The other two million is to wish us a smooth cooperation in the future, Mr. Agent Underwood."
Ah.
So that's the play.
Locke understood immediately. This was theater—for the Blade who was probably waiting above.
"Cooperation?" Locke asked, tilting his head slightly.
"Yes." Frost's sincerity was almost convincing. "Didn't you say on the phone that we'll be dealing with each other in the future? I hope that relationship can be… mutually beneficial."
As he spoke, Frost placed the two suitcases gently on the dusty ground in front of Locke. Then he extended his right hand once more.
"Happy cooperation, Mr. Underwood."
Locke looked down at the offered hand. He let a few seconds pass, as if weighing the meaning of it. Then he smiled again.
He reached out.
Boom!
The explosion of sound came from above.
Locke's head snapped upward toward the ceiling. Frost followed a fraction of a second later, though his reaction felt just slightly delayed—just enough to seem intentional.
A dark figure dropped from the steel beams overhead.
The man landed in a crouch, one knee to the ground, the impact sending a ripple of dust outward. He wore black tactical gear, and two swords were strapped across his back.
Blade.
Right on cue.
From the Mercedes, Quinn's panicked voice rang out perfectly on time. "Shit, Master, it's Blade!"
Blade rose smoothly to his feet. He reached back, pulled one of the long swords free in a clean arc, and spun it once in a controlled flourish before pointing it toward Frost.
A slow smile tugged at his lips, though his tone was low and heavy with hatred.
"Dickon."
"Blade." Frost narrowed his eyes and stepped subtly in front of Locke, as if shielding him. "Mr. Underwood, be careful."
Locke's eyes flickered with amusement, but he didn't expose it. He allowed Frost to position himself protectively, then stared at Blade with apparent annoyance.
"Who is he, Frost?" Locke said coolly. "I believe I made it clear this meeting was private."
Acting?
Please.
Anyone raised around politicians understood performance. Locke hadn't chosen that life, but he'd grown up immersed in it. Compared to Frost's slightly overplayed concern, his own reaction was effortless.
Quinn ran from the car again, eager to reinforce the narrative. "Mr. Underwood, that's Blade. He's killed many of us over the years."
Frost turned his head toward Locke, apology etched into his features. "I'm sorry. I didn't know he was following me. But don't worry. He won't leave here alive."
In a single sentence, Frost subtly positioned them as allies.
Then he looked at Quinn without emotion.
"Kill him."
Quinn froze.
For a brief second, his face twitched as if he wanted to point at himself and ask if he'd heard correctly. He felt like a small fish ordered to hunt a sea monster alone.
Even if he didn't know what a sea monster was.
Blade had slaughtered him multiple times before. The memories weren't distant—they were visceral.
Just as panic began creeping up his spine, Quinn caught the cold look in Frost's eyes.
That chill was worse than death.
Quinn swallowed and inhaled deeply. He turned toward Blade, who stood relaxed with sword in hand. The humiliation, the repeated deaths, the rage—it all flooded back.
"Blade!" Quinn roared, fangs extending.
"Quinn." Blade's smile sharpened. "Honestly, I've killed you so many times I'm bored of this game."
He shouldn't have said that.
The moment the words landed, Quinn's vision reddened. Every memory of being toyed with, sliced apart, and reduced to dust surged up like a tidal wave.
Quinn screamed and lunged, moving in a blur toward Blade.
"This time you die!"
Blade didn't retreat. He raised his sword and charged forward to meet him.
Their clash was immediate.
Quinn's claws struck the flat of Blade's blade with explosive force. The impact sent vibrations up Blade's arms, and instinctively he shifted his grip, crossing the sword defensively across his chest.
Too late.
The force behind Quinn's strike was far greater than before.
Blade's boots left the ground as he was hurled backward through the air.
He slammed against the concrete and skidded across the dusty floor.
『Ding!』
『Obtained extraordinary points: "1"』
『Current extraordinary points: "3"』
『Ding!』
...
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