The storm didn't fade. It simply leveled up.
Corpses still smoked in the lobby, blood flowed down the cracked tiles like a red carpet to hell. But this "red carpet" wasn't for heroes—it was for traitors.
The surviving high-level officers emerged from the conference room, dressed in bloodstained suits yet carrying a calmness that belonged at a luncheon, not a massacre. They held thick dossiers like priests clutching bibles, except their voices offered no salvation—only business.
"The Director is no longer fit to lead us," said a gray-haired deputy director coolly. "The Black Veil Organization's terms align better with our interests."
The surviving agents gaped. Some cradled bleeding comrades, staring as if they'd stumbled into a shareholder meeting held on corpses.
"Interests?" I couldn't help laughing. "You're holding a boardroom while standing in blood. That's—what? A crash course in corporate leadership?"
The deputy looked at me like I was a talking cockroach. "Young man, you don't understand. Loyalty is short-term investment. Power is long-term profit."
Another exec pinned a Black Veil insignia to his chest, smooth as a promotion ceremony. "We're not traitors. We're simply… cutting our losses."
My partner almost choked with laughter. "Perfect. Market logic applied to betrayal. Now that's financial innovation."
The defectors began assigning tasks. Black Veil promised "stable nightmare energy utilization," and even a "New Order Committee." A hybrid of cult and multinational. Some agents defected, some hesitated, some raised guns—but most just sat, as if waiting for overtime meals.
"Ever wonder," I asked, barely keeping a grin, "if Black Veil really controls nightmare energy, why would they need you? What, are they short on suit-wearing mannequins?"
Silence. Smiles tightened. Eyes sliced over me like ice.
"You talk too much," the deputy said coldly. "Young men usually die young."
My partner nudged me. "Congrats. You just wrote your own obituary."
They prepared to order a "cleanup," but then a young agent shouted:"Aren't you afraid of backlash? You think you're controlling the nightmare, but it's just waiting to eat you alive!"
The high-levels glanced at each other—and laughed. Their laughter blended with gunfire, grotesque harmony. The deputy raised his dossier like a talisman:"We've signed the agreement. Black Veil promised the nightmare won't harm us."
The absurdity was staggering—yet in that bloodbath, it almost sounded reasonable.
"An agreement?" I sneered. "That's like signing a contract with a shark, where it promises to leave one leg bone after eating you. What a bargain."
They smirked. "You've got humor… but humor won't save you."
Taking files and defectors with them, they left gun barrels aimed at us—the "unqualified leftovers." They no longer belonged to the Bureau. They were Black Veil's new faces: suited, profit-driven, standing on corpses. Their image was more terrifying than any nightmare.
Watching them vanish into the ruined hall, I whispered, "The Bureau's storm is over. But the real hurricane's only beginning."
My partner shrugged, flicking blood off his gun. "At least one thing's clear."
"What?" I asked.
"The deadliest nightmares aren't gods outside. They're coworkers in suits."
I froze—then laughed. Laughter echoed through the bloodstained lobby, raw as a final declaration.