The scene at SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles was a storm of chaos and tension. The sprawling stadium, usually a beacon of excitement and entertainment, was now a fortress under siege. Bright stadium lights illuminated the area as police cars, SWAT vehicles, and ambulances surrounded the perimeter, their flashing sirens painting the night in ominous shades of red and blue.
Outside the stadium, police officers scrambled to contain the situation. Negotiators huddled behind makeshift barriers, their voices strained as they spoke into megaphones and radios. Tension was thick in the air, every word spoken charged with desperation. Beyond them, families and friends of those trapped inside gathered in terrified clusters, clutching their phones and praying for updates.
Inside the stadium, the atmosphere was nothing short of nightmarish.
On the massive stage at the center of the stadium, Alyssa Rayne sat trembling in a chair, her arms tied behind her back. Her signature slink silver hair—styled into voluminous curls for her performance—was now messy and falling into her face. She wore a striking, futuristic outfit of black leather with glowing neon accents, a look inspired by her sci-fi-themed tour. Normally known for her bold and edgy presence, Alyssa now looked small and vulnerable. Her hazel eyes, lined with glitter that had smudged from tears on her ebony skin, darted around in terror as she clutched onto what little composure she had left.
Beside her was Loco Blaze, the rapper whose intense stage energy and booming bass beats had earned him worldwide acclaim. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark brown skin, dreadlocks tied back into a tight ponytail, and tattoos covering his muscular arms. His usual confident swagger was gone, replaced by a mix of anger and fear as he sat bound in a similar chair. Dressed in a loose black hoodie with gold accents and ripped jeans, his signature look now felt out of place amidst the terror. His jaw was tight, and his dark eyes burned with defiance, though the occasional glance toward the frightened fans betrayed his underlying worry.
Scattered across the front rows of the stadium seating were about two dozen fans, their faces pale and tear-streaked. Many of them were teenagers or young adults, still wearing merchandise from Alyssa and Loco Blaze’s tour—light-up bracelets, oversized hoodies, and glitter-covered hats. They huddled together in terrified groups, their hands tied and their voices silenced by the looming threat of the men guarding them.
The terrorists were a brutal-looking crew. There were eight of them, each heavily armed with assault rifles and tactical gear. Their faces were covered by dark masks, except for their leader, a scarred man with a shaved head and piercing gray eyes. His face was cold, his every movement deliberate as he barked orders to his crew. Dressed in black fatigues, he carried himself with a chilling authority that made it clear he was the one in charge.
The others followed his orders with precision, patrolling the stadium with military-like efficiency. Two of them stood near the stage, their rifles aimed at Alyssa and Loco Blaze, while others guarded the exits, ensuring no one could escape. The hostages’ sobs were muffled by the oppressive silence, broken only by the terrorists’ barked commands and the occasional sharp sound of a rifle butt hitting the floor.
Outside the stadium, the police were desperate.
“We’re running out of time,” one negotiator whispered to another, his face pale as he reviewed the latest updates. “They’ve threatened to start executing hostages in the next hour if their demands aren’t met.”
“And what are their demands?” another officer hissed, his voice thick with frustration. “They’re so vague—they want attention? Money? What’s their endgame?”
“Whatever it is, they’ve got the upper hand,” the first negotiator replied grimly, glancing toward the tense crowd of onlookers and reporters kept at bay behind barricades. “If we go in, we risk everyone’s lives. If we wait too long…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
The tension was palpable, a mix of dread and helplessness hanging over the scene like a storm cloud. Inside the stadium, the hostages were trapped in a nightmare, and outside, the world watched and waited, holding its breath for a miracle.
The air around SoFi Stadium was electric with tension, a suffocating weight pressing down on the scene as the negotiators tried desperately to maintain control. The leader of the terrorists stood near the shattered glass entrance of the stadium, a cold smile tugging at his scarred face as he addressed the negotiators through a handheld radio.
"You've got one hour to comply with our demands," the man said, his voice sharp and deliberate, carrying a chilling authority. "We want $50 million in untraceable funds, delivered to the stadium within the next sixty minutes. No tricks. No delays. And we want a helicopter ready to fly us out of here, or…" He paused, letting the silence stretch ominously. "…we start making examples of the hostages. Beginning with your precious celebrities."
The negotiators exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale in the glow of the flashing police lights. The head negotiator, a wiry man with graying hair and a deep furrow in his brow, gripped his radio tightly before responding.
"Listen," he began, his voice calm but strained. "We understand what you're asking for, but this isn’t a simple transaction. Moving that kind of money takes time, and—"
"I don’t care about your logistics," the terrorist leader snapped, cutting him off. "You have resources. Use them. Or do you want their blood on your hands?"
The negotiator clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his tone steady. "You need to understand that we can't meet your demands in the timeframe you're giving us. We’re willing to work with you, but we need more time to—"
"You have exactly one hour," the leader said coldly, his voice filled with finality. "And if I see even one of your little SWAT toys get any closer to this building, the clock won’t matter. I'll start the executions right here, right now."
He ended the transmission abruptly, leaving the negotiators to stand in stunned silence. The head negotiator turned to the officers around him, his face tight with frustration.
"This is impossible," he muttered. "Fifty million? A helicopter? And they expect it in an hour? There's no way—"
"What do we do, sir?" one of the officers asked, his voice low and urgent. "If they follow through on their threat—"
"We stick to protocol," the negotiator interrupted, though his voice wavered slightly. "We don't give in to terrorists. But we need a miracle to buy us time."
Inside the stadium, the terrorists stood like statues, their rifles trained on the hostages as the leader returned to the stage. Alyssa Rayne and Loco Blaze glanced at each other, fear etched across their faces as the man began pacing in front of them.
“Show some resolve,” the leader barked at his crew. “These cops will try to stall us, but we hold all the cards. If they make one wrong move, we make our point clear. No hesitation.”
The hostages huddled together, tears streaming down their faces as the reality of the situation became clearer with every passing moment.
Back outside, the negotiators argued over their next steps.
“We can’t just let them start killing people!” one officer hissed.
“And what do you suggest?” another snapped back. “Charging in guns blazing? That’ll just get everyone killed.”
As the tension between the police mounted, a sudden movement in the sky drew their attention. It was faint at first—a dark figure against the backdrop of the night—but it grew larger and clearer with each passing second.
“What the hell is that?” someone muttered, pointing upward.
The negotiators and officers turned to look, their faces a mix of confusion and shock as the figure descended. It wasn’t a helicopter, a drone, or anything they’d seen before. It was a humanoid shape, sleek and glowing faintly with neon-blue veins of light. The thrusters on its back and feet flared as it slowed its descent, landing just beyond the police perimeter with a heavy metallic thud.
The officers stared, their hands instinctively moving toward their weapons as they tried to process what they were seeing. The figure stood tall, its polished navy armor gleaming under the harsh stadium lights. Its glowing visor scanned the scene, emitting a faint hum that seemed to cut through the chaos.
One of the negotiators stepped forward hesitantly, his voice trembling. "Who… who are you?"
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The figure didn’t answer immediately. Instead, it turned its head toward the stadium, the glowing veins along its suit pulsing rhythmically as if sensing the danger within.
Then, a calm yet commanding voice echoed from the suit: “I’m here to help.”
The officers exchanged bewildered glances, unsure whether to view the figure as a threat or an ally. The negotiator opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could, the figure crouched slightly, the thrusters on its back flaring to life.
“Wait!” the negotiator shouted, but it was too late.
The figure launched into the air, disappearing over the stadium's walls in a burst of light and leaving the stunned police force behind.
Inside SoFi Stadium, the terrorists remained oblivious to the arrival of their unexpected guest. But for the fans and performers trapped inside, hope was about to come from above—quite literally.
As Souta soared over SoFi Stadium, his heart raced—not just from the adrenaline of flight, but from how undeniably cool that entrance had been. He had seen the stunned expressions on the officers below just before he launched over the perimeter.
“That was awesome,” Souta thought, grinning beneath his helmet. “I probably looked like a total badass. They have no idea who I am, but I bet they’re all wondering if I’m some secret government weapon or something.” He chuckled, his confidence riding high.
The glowing lights of the stadium loomed closer as Souta descended to a higher vantage point, perching on one of the tall light towers. From here, he could survey the entire scene below—rows of seats, scattered hostages, and the pacing terrorists. He exhaled, his earlier excitement tempered by the reality of the situation.
“Okay, Sentinel,” he muttered, his tone growing serious. “This isn’t just about looking cool anymore. People are in real danger. How do I handle this?”
“Analyzing situation,” Sentinel replied, its calm, precise voice cutting through Souta’s swirling thoughts. “Hostages are located in multiple areas of the stadium. Primary group is concentrated near the stage, under guard by three armed hostiles. Additional hostiles are patrolling the perimeter and monitoring exits.”
Souta nodded, crouching low to avoid being spotted. “Yeah, I see them. But if I just drop in, guns blazing—”
“Direct confrontation would increase the likelihood of civilian casualties,” Sentinel interrupted. “Recommendation: utilize camouflage for infiltration. Neutralize threats systematically with long-range incapacitation tactics.”
Souta tilted his head, intrigued. “Long-range incapacitation? Like… what exactly?”
The suit’s HUD shifted, highlighting key targets and displaying several options. “Arm-mounted projectile launchers configured for non-lethal strikes. Capabilities include tranquilizer darts and low-impact energy pulses to disable hostiles without collateral damage.”
Souta let out a low whistle. “You really thought of everything, huh? Alright, sneaky it is. Let’s do this.”
The neon glow of his suit dimmed as he activated camouflage mode. The sleek armor shimmered for a moment before blending seamlessly into the background, rendering him nearly invisible. Souta adjusted his footing on the light tower, taking one last look at the scene below before leaping into action.
Souta landed silently on the stadium’s upper level, his suit’s advanced systems dampening the sound of his movements. He moved quickly and carefully, sticking to the shadows as he made his way toward the stage. The hostages were his priority—if he could take out the guards without alerting the others, he’d have a chance to turn the tide.
“Sentinel,” Souta whispered, his voice barely audible. “Mark the guards for me.”
Three red markers appeared on his HUD, outlining the positions of the terrorists closest to the stage. Two stood flanking the hostages, their rifles slung casually but ready for use. The third patrolled just behind them, scanning the area with a sharp, military-like focus.
“Got it,” Souta thought. “Now, how do I take them down without the others noticing?”
“Executing long-range incapacitation sequence,” Sentinel replied. A targeting reticle appeared on Souta’s HUD, locking onto the nearest guard. “Tranquilizer darts ready. Fire when ready.”
Souta raised his arm, his suit’s weapon system unfolding with a soft mechanical hum. He steadied his aim, exhaling slowly before firing. A silent dart shot through the air, striking the first guard in the neck. The man’s eyes widened briefly before his body went limp, collapsing to the ground without a sound.
“One down,” Souta muttered, quickly shifting his aim to the next target.
The second guard turned his head slightly, as if sensing something was wrong, but he didn’t have time to react. Another dart zipped through the air, striking him squarely in the shoulder. He slumped to the floor, his weapon clattering softly against the stage.
The patrolling guard was next. He paused mid-step, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area. Souta could feel his pulse quicken, but the suit’s confidence modulation kept him steady. With precise timing, he fired the final dart, hitting the patroller just as he began to raise his rifle. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
“Three for three,” Souta whispered, a small grin tugging at his lips. “This sneaky stuff is kind of fun.”
“Proceed to hostage extraction,” Sentinel advised. “Remaining hostiles are unaware of your actions. Maintain stealth to maximize effectiveness.”
Souta moved swiftly but silently, his camouflaged form gliding through the stadium’s shadows. As he approached the stage, he could hear the hushed sobs of the hostages and the occasional barked commands of the terrorists further away. His heart clenched at the sight of the frightened fans and performers, their faces pale and tear-streaked.
“Don’t worry,” Souta thought, his determination hardening. “You’re all getting out of here. The Iron Sentinel’s got this.”
Souta crept along the edge of the stage, still cloaked in camouflage as the remaining five guards patrolled the area. His HUD tracked their movements, marking each one with precision. He took a deep breath, his pulse steady thanks to Sentinel’s calming influence.
“Alright, five left,” Souta whispered under his breath. “Let’s make this quick.”
“Recommend systematic neutralization,” Sentinel advised. “Proceed with stealth until final target.”
Souta nodded, crouching low as he approached the first guard, who was pacing near the edge of the stage. With a swift motion, Souta swept the man’s legs out from under him, catching him as he fell and delivering a precise nerve strike to his neck. The guard crumpled silently to the floor.
“One down,” Souta thought.
He moved toward the second guard, who was leaning against a pillar, rifle slung over his shoulder. Souta tapped into the suit’s silent propulsion system, leaping forward and grabbing the man from behind in a sleeper hold. Within seconds, the guard was unconscious, his rifle clattering softly to the ground.
The third and fourth guards stood together near an equipment rack, chatting in low voices. Souta smirked beneath his helmet. “Time for a two-for-one.”
Using the suit’s grappling mechanism, he fired a tether that latched onto the rack. With a sharp yank, he pulled the entire structure down, sending it crashing onto the guards. They fell with it, momentarily stunned, and Souta moved in quickly, dispatching them with tranquilizer darts before they could recover.
Now, only one guard remained—the leader of the group. Souta spotted him pacing in front of the hostages, barking commands into a handheld radio. His scarred face twisted into a scowl as he tried to reestablish contact with his team.
Souta paused, his heart racing with anticipation. “This is it. Gotta make this one count.”
“Recommendation: reveal yourself for maximum psychological impact,” Sentinel said, its tone steady. “Enhancing vocal output for intimidation.”
“Wait, you can do that?” Souta asked, blinking in surprise.
“Affirmative. Adjusting voice modulation for optimal intimidation.”
Souta grinned. “Alright, let’s give them a show.”
He deactivated his camouflage, the sleek lines of his suit glowing brilliantly as he stepped forward. The sudden appearance of the Iron Sentinel was like a thunderclap in the otherwise tense room. The hostages gasped, their tear-streaked faces lighting up with a mixture of awe and hope.
The guard spun around, his eyes widening in shock as he saw the imposing figure before him. “What the hell?” he snarled, raising his rifle. “Who are you?”
Souta took a step forward, his glowing visor locking onto the guard. His voice, now deep and resonant, echoed through the stadium like a superhero stepping straight out of legend.
“I am the Iron Sentinel,” he said, the words carrying a weight that silenced the entire room. “And I’m here to end this.”
The guard sneered, masking his fear with bravado. “You think you can take me, tin can? Let’s see what you’ve got!”
The man charged, swinging the butt of his rifle toward Souta’s head. But Souta was faster, sidestepping the attack with ease. He grabbed the guard’s arm, twisting it behind him before delivering a devastating uppercut. The punch landed with a resounding crack, sending the guard flying backward. He slammed into the stadium wall, the impact so powerful it left a dent in the concrete. The man crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
The room fell silent, the only sounds the faint hum of Souta’s suit and the labored breathing of the hostages.
Souta turned toward the stage, his visor dimming slightly as he approached the captives. His hands moved with precision as he untied Alyssa Rayne first, her hazel eyes wide with disbelief.
“Y-you’re… the Iron Sentinel?” she stammered, her voice trembling.
Souta nodded, his voice softening slightly. “That’s right. You’re safe now.”
He moved quickly, untying Loco Blaze and the rest of the hostages. The rapper stood, rubbing his wrists as he gave Souta a look of grudging respect. “Yo, man,” Blaze said, his voice deep and gravelly. “I don’t know where you came from, but that was some serious hero shit. You saved our lives.”
Souta nodded again, glancing at the terrified fans huddled together. “It’s what I do,” he said, trying to sound as confident as he felt in the moment. “Now, let’s get you all out of here.”
As the hostages began to gather their belongings and prepare to leave, Souta turned his attention back to Sentinel’s HUD, scanning the area for any remaining threats. The danger might not be over yet—but for now, the Iron Sentinel had made his mark.