In the softly illuminated space, the air vibrated with the constant hum of antiquated devices, a noise that blended effortlessly into the ambiance like the rhythmic thumping of a pulse. The area was small, its iron-paneled sides adorned with corroded racks, bowing beneath the burden of neglected tools. Cables sprawled across the ground in an untidy mess, connecting to a cluster of screens piled precariously in a disordered fashion.

The glowing monitors flickered, battling constant interference, emitting a weak light that did little to brighten the messy space. A few displays struggled to maintain focus, displaying the chaotic flow of updates from the infamous platform, Espergram.

Across every display, the title The Triads stood out prominently, impossible to overlook and commanding focus. Hashtags erupted uncontrollably, interlacing dramatic headlines that flickered across the screens, with each update outdoing its predecessor in exaggeration. The seductive pull of brutality and dominance was tangible, enhancing the legend linked to The Triads.

A single incident propelled them into public attention—their savagery at The Threshold elevating them from ordinary wrongdoers to something far more fearsome: legends.

At the center of the room stood Kofi Mensah, his presence commanding amidst the clutter. The harsh, fluorescent light overhead cast a stark, almost clinical glow on his skin, a sharp contrast to the dim ambiance that enveloped the space. His pink polo shirt, crisp and freshly pressed, clashed with the grime of the room, the tailored lines of his trousers emphasizing his meticulous nature. But it was his expression that told the authentic story—his brow furrowed in deep concentration, his eyes sharp as they flicked from one screen to the next, trying to piece together the chaos surrounding him. Each post, each video, was a puzzle he was determined to solve, his mind racing to form a coherent picture from the disorder.

Beside him, Lina Zhang lounged casually in her chair, her relaxed posture a stark contrast to Kofi’s tense focus. Dressed in a simple t-shirt and well-worn jeans, she exuded an effortless ease, as if the gravity of their situation barely registered with her. Her long fingers absentmindedly twirled a strand of her dark hair, the motion repetitive, almost meditative. Yet, her gaze was far from distracted—every few seconds, her eyes flicked toward Kofi, observing him with a keen awareness, as if waiting for a signal, an unspoken command. Despite her casual demeanor, there was a sharpness to her, a readiness that lay just beneath the surface.

On the far side of the room, Cinder Blaze sat cross-legged on the floor, her presence less imposing but no less significant. Her floral-patterned pajamas, soft and innocent in their design, contrasted with the fierce intensity of her gaze. The vibrant red of her hair, wild and untamed, framed her face like a halo of fire, casting shadows that seemed to flicker with the same energy that burned within her. Cinder’s sharp eyes were locked onto the screens, absorbing every detail with a silent, steely focus. Her usual fiery spirit was muted, replaced by an eerie stillness that hinted at the storm brewing inside her.

The monitors continued their relentless display, feeding a stream of images and text into the room like a lifeline to the outside world. Espergram, with its blend of fandom and fear-mongering, had become the perfect platform for amplifying The Triads’ exploits. The Threshold, the site of their most recent and brutal display of power, had ascended to near-mythical status overnight. Clips of the event looped endlessly on the screens, showing the devastation in all its raw, visceral reality—buildings reduced to rubble, streets bathed in the eerie glow of neon lights mixed with blood, and people cowering in fear or fleeing in terror. The stark contrast between the invincible and the vulnerable played out on repeat, a visual testament to the ruthless might of The Triads.

The atmosphere in the room was thick with unspoken tension, the weight of the images pressing down on the three figures who watched in silence. The world outside was descending into chaos, and here, in this small, dimly lit room, they were witnessing it all unfold in real-time, their minds already racing ahead, trying to figure out their next move.

The silence was abruptly shattered as the door flew open with a force that sent a gust of stale air swirling through the space. Miguel burst in, his entrance as loud and brash as the man himself. He swaggered into the room with the exaggerated confidence of someone who believed the world revolved around him, each step a performance designed to draw eyes and attention. His grin stretched from ear to ear, brimming with self-satisfaction, as if he had just won the lottery and was here to claim his prize.

Miguel was decked out in his usual flamboyant style, a garish Hawaiian shirt clinging to his broad frame, its vivid colors and gaudy floral patterns clashing spectacularly with the grim, utilitarian décor of the room. The shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a hint of a gold chain nestled against his chest, catching the light with every movement. His crisp white trousers stood in stark contrast to the dark, dusty floor beneath his feet, worn with the kind of casual arrogance that suggested they were more suited to a beachside bar.

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Perched atop his nose were oversized sunglasses, the lenses so dark they completely obscured his eyes, adding to the air of mystery and bravado he always seemed to cultivate. Even indoors, in the low light of the room, Miguel refused to remove them, as if to remind everyone that he lived in a world far brighter and more glamorous than their own. The flickering monitors reflected off the surface of his sunglasses, making his entrance even more theatrical.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s official—I’m a celebrity!” Miguel’s voice boomed, rich, filling every corner of the small room. He spread his arms wide, the gesture grand and exaggerated, as if he were a conquering hero returning home to the cheers of an adoring crowd. The fabric of his shirt fluttered with the movement, the bright colors blurring together into a kaleidoscope of tropical hues.

He paused in the doorway, waiting for the adulation he was certain awaited him, his grin widening as he soaked in what he imagined were the impressed stares of his audience. There was a smugness to his posture, the tilt of his chin, the way he rocked back on his heels as if the weight of his newfound fame had elevated him above the rest. To Miguel, the world outside that door might as well have been chanting his name, and he carried that delusion into the room with all the confidence of someone who truly believed it.

Lina barely glanced up, her expression deadpan. “Is that what they’re calling clowns these days?”

Unfazed, Miguel ignored her and continued his self-congratulatory rant. “I mean, did you see the comments? ‘Miguel, the next big thing!’ ‘Miguel, the hero we need!’ They’re practically begging for autographs!”

Lina rolled her eyes, but her attention drifted to Cinder. The silence from the fiery young woman was unsettling. “You’ve been quiet, Blaze,” Lina observed, a hint of concern in her voice. “What’s on your mind?”

Cinder’s eyes remained glued to the screens, the chaos reflected in her gaze. “I keep thinking about the kid who saved me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kofi, who had been scrolling through the latest news reports, paused and turned to face her. “Sabir Quinn,” he said, his voice low and measured. “The man who saved you at The Threshold. He was captured by Hunter… Noah Voltaire’s crew.” With a few swift keystrokes, he changed one monitor to display a database search screen. “I’ve been trying to find him in the system.”

The monitor flickered, loading data from the vast network of government files and classified databases. Kofi’s fingers flew across the keyboard, but after a moment, he frowned. “Nothing,” he muttered, frustration creeping into his tone. “There’s no record of him.”

Miguel, who had been leaning against the wall, watching the scene with a bored expression, suddenly perked up. “Maybe it’s because he’s from Limbo,” he suggested, smirking as if he’d just solved the world’s greatest mystery.

Kofi glanced at him, realizing he made a mistake. “That could be,” he admitted, trying to inflate Miguel’s colossal ego. “But then what about his friends? The nosy kid and the girl… What were their names?”

Miguel snapped his fingers, trying to recall. “The nosy kid was called… Max Crawfish? Or something like that.”

Lina groaned, shaking her head. “Crawford, you idiot. Max Crawford. And the girl’s name was Samantha Hart.”

Kofi nodded, typing the names into the database. Within seconds, a grainy image appeared on the screen—a young boy with a shaven head and a wide, innocent smile. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen in the photo.

“Max Crawford and Samantha Hart,” Kofi read aloud, his voice tinged with sadness. “They were both arrested and placed in a cell with an unnamed prisoner in The Commons. They’re being transferred to The Storm Bay Institute.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. The Storm Bay Institute, belonging to The Tempest family, one of the noble families, was a brutal labor camp where prisoners were worked to the bone, often until they died in the mines.

Cinder’s jaw clenched, her fists tightening in her lap. “They’re sending them to The Tempests,” she spat, disgust thick in her voice. “They’ll be slaved in those mines until they die.”

Miguel, ever the opportunist, grinned excitedly. “So… are we gonna do a jailbreak next? This could be fun. Maybe we wait for them to be sent to Storm Bay. Make it more fun!”

But Kofi shook his head, his expression somber. “There’s no point. Those kids are adults now. They were responsible for their situation. We’d be wasting time and resources on something that doesn’t help our goals.”

Cinder’s eyes flashed with defiance, her voice low but fierce. “A Blaze always pays back their debts.”

Kofi looked at her, surprised by the intensity in her words, but before he could respond, Miguel was already pulling out his phone. “That settles it then!” he exclaimed, punching in a number with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Yuen, buddy! Guess what? We’re doing a jailbreak!”

As Miguel’s voice echoed through the room, Cinder and Lina exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them. They both knew what this meant—another mission, more blood on their hands. But for Cinder, it was personal. She owed Sabir Quinn her life, and she had to pay him back. It was one of the first lessons her father ever taught her. Pay back what you owe. Pay it in double.