The roar of engines echoed through the abandoned industrial district.
One after another, black SUVs surrounded the warehouse.
Armed men from different cartels poured out, rifles raised.
Their leaders scanned the battlefield.
Silence.
The drug crates...
Were gone.
Only bodies remained.
Police officers.
A small gang that had tried to steal the shipment.
Nothing else.
One cartel member stared in disbelief.
"¿Qué verga?" (What the hell?!)
Another crouched beside a corpse before looking around.
"How is this possible?"
"I think another group got here before us."
"But... who?"
No one had an answer.
Whoever had taken the shipment had left behind only death.
Far beneath the Gulf of Mexico...
A massive submarine drifted silently through the dark waters.
Inside, masked soldiers carrying assault rifles patrolled steel corridors.
At the center of the vessel...
A heavy steel door slowly opened.
A dimly lit interrogation chamber came into view.
A man was strapped to a metal chair, trembling uncontrollably.
His body showed no visible wounds.
Yet his face was twisted in unbearable agony, as though he had been tortured in ways no one could understand.
Standing before him was a tall man covered in black tattoos.
The markings on his arms were disturbing.
The tattoo that should have been on his left arm was etched onto his right...
And the one meant for his right arm appeared on his left.
As if someone had deliberately reversed them.
He slowly walked toward the prisoner.
"Tell me..."
"How did the drugs disappear?"
The prisoner burst into tears.
"I swear... I don't know!"
"I wasn't involved!"
"Please... have mercy!"
The tattooed man remained expressionless.
"I hate lies."
A knife slid into his left hand.
The prisoner's terrified screams echoed through the chamber—
Then...
He took his arm and stabb back the hand into his heart..
A huge scream..
Then
Silence.
The room fell deathly quiet.
At that moment, the steel door opened again. A masked operative stepped inside and lowered his head, his posture radiating deference and tension.
"Boss..." The operative's voice was carefully modulated, betraying nothing. "We arrived too late. The evidence was already taken."
For the first time, a flicker of something crossed the tattooed man's face—a shadow that might have been anger, might have been interest. "...Impossible." The word hung in the air like a challenge. "How could someone reach it before us?"
"The scene contained only the bodies of police officers... and a small gangster crew," the operative reported, his eyes fixed on the floor. "We couldn't identify who was responsible. No fingerprints. No witnesses. No surviving cameras."
The tattooed man turned slowly, his tattoos seeming to writhe in the dim light. "Any evidence at all?"
The operative looked down at the tablet in his hands, its screen casting a pale glow on his masked face. "...None, sir."
Just as he finished speaking, the tattooed man's eyes narrowed. Something had caught his attention—a detail on one of the bodies displayed on the screen. Something small... half-hidden beneath dried blood and the grim tableau of death.
"Zoom in."
The image enlarged with a flicker of pixels. A blood-soaked card was pinned to the dead man's clothing, its edges ragged, its surface almost entirely obscured by crimson. But something about it was unmistakable—a design, a symbol that spoke of a power beyond the ordinary.
The room fell silent. The only sound was the low hum of the submarine's engines, a constant heartbeat in the darkness.
The tattooed man's lips slowly curved into a faint smile—the first expression he had shown since the interrogation began. It was not a pleasant smile. It was the smile of a hunter who had finally caught the scent of elusive prey.
"...Bring me that card."
The masked operative immediately bowed. "Yes, Boss."
TO BE CONTINUED....