In the interrogation room of the New York Police Department, a tall Black man sat handcuffed and shackled to a metal chair.
Across from him, Sheriff George Stacy—dressed in a crisp suit and tie—leaned forward, his expression grim.
"Who ordered you to do this? Where are your accomplices? You'd better tell the truth—otherwise, you'll face the consequences."
The man let out a dry chuckle. "Sheriff, I've told you already: it was just a robbery gone wrong. They refused to hand over the money, and my partner panicked—he fired the shot. That's all there is to it. No one sent us. No orders."
"Don't insult my intelligence," George snapped, slamming a palm on the table. "You really expect me to believe that nonsense?"
"Believe what you want," the man replied, then fell silent, as if he'd said all he intended to say.
Outside the room, Loren watched the feed from the surveillance monitor, a cold smile playing on his lips.
He knew how to extract information—better than most. But his methods weren't meant for public eyes. Too brutal. Too bloody.
He stood abruptly and turned to the cluster of high-ranking New York officials behind him. "Shut off the cameras in the interrogation room. I'll handle this myself."
The officials exchanged uneasy glances, then quickly masked their hesitation with deference. "Master Loren," one of them said smoothly, "surely a matter like this is beneath your attention. Allow our people to deal with him—we'll make him talk."
As the sole heir to the Morgan family—one of America's most powerful financial dynasties—Loren wielded influence that few dared to challenge. In a nation where capital often dictated policy, even members of Congress—and sometimes the White House itself—tread carefully around figures like him.
To many, elected officials were little more than figureheads; the true levers of power lay in the hands of those who controlled the economy from the shadows.
And yet, precisely because of his position, Loren couldn't afford to dismiss this incident as random violence. Someone had dared to strike at a pillar of that hidden order—the Morgan empire itself. That wasn't the act of common criminals. It was a message… or a declaration.
Which meant there was a hand behind the scenes pulling strings—someone powerful enough to think they could challenge the unchallengeable.
Loren's job was to find that hand… and sever it.
"Some things," he said quietly, "I prefer to handle myself."
Faced with the flattery of several senior officials, Loren ignored them and turned toward the interrogation room.
But at that moment, the entire police station suddenly lost power.
The screen that had just been displaying the suspect's image went black.
Loren instantly tensed, his senses sharpening.
Then—a burst of violent gunfire shattered the silence.
Before he could react, the wall of the room exploded inward from a direct shell impact.
A terrifying shockwave ripped through the space like a raging storm. In an instant, several people standing nearby were hurled backward.
At that critical moment, 2B stepped forward and placed herself squarely in front of Loren.
Her reinforced android body absorbed the brunt of the blast, shielding him from the same fate as the others.
Even so, shrapnel from the explosion grazed his face, and a thin trail of blood trickled down his cheek.
Loren touched the wound, his eyes blazing with fury.
"Boss, are you all right?" 2B asked immediately after deflecting the shockwave, turning to check on him with clear concern.
"I'm fine—for now, at least."
"Look out!!!"
Just as Loren spoke, several men in black tactical gear stormed through the gaping hole in the wall, submachine guns raised.
Without hesitation, they opened fire on the survivors, clearly intent on leaving no witnesses.
Loren dove sideways and took cover behind a section of intact wall, narrowly avoiding the hail of bullets.
Then, voice cold with rage, he barked his order: "Kill every last one of them."
"Yes, sir!"
2B shot forward like a cheetah. In one fluid motion, she closed the distance to the nearest gunman.
The man's eyes widened in surprise at the sudden appearance of a striking woman—beautiful, yet radiating lethal intent.
He swung his weapon toward her, but before his finger could squeeze the trigger, 2B seized his neck.
With a sharp twist—crack—his world went dark.
The remaining attackers immediately trained their guns on her, determined to riddle her body with bullets.
But 2B was already moving. She snatched the dead man's pistol, her reflexes far surpassing human limits.
Before they could fire, she had already pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three precise shots. Three bodies hit the floor.
Each bore a single, clean bullet wound to the head—proof of 2B's flawless marksmanship.
In mere seconds, every intruder lay dead.
"Boss," 2B reported, scanning the room once more to confirm the area was secure before approaching him. "Mission complete. All hostiles eliminated."
"Excellent," Loren said with a curt nod. He straightened his suit, brushed off the dust, and strode out with calm composure.
The room was chaos—over a dozen bodies sprawled across the floor. Among them were not only the black-clad attackers but also the high-ranking officials who had been fawning over him moments earlier.
He spared them no glance. His mind was fixed on one thing: the suspect in the interrogation room.
At that moment, Sheriff George Stacy emerged from the smoke, a streak of blood drying on his temple, his expression grim.
"Mr. Loren," he said hoarsely, "the suspect is dead."