The reporter's face was inches from Vincenzo's now, close enough that the chained man could see the veins pulsing in his temples and the sweat beading on his upper lip despite the night's chill. The microphone trembled in his grip, the red light on the camera rig blinking steadily, feeding every word, every breath to the city watching live—families hunched over screens, bar patrons frozen mid-sip, office workers pausing mid-shift, millions leaning closer in the dark.
The man's eyes burned with personal hell. His voice cracked as he leaned in, ignoring the police hands tugging at his shoulders.
"Untouchable? You think that's what you are? My brother—gone because of your filth. Shot in the back, left to bleed out in some alley your empire owns. And how many more? How many families shattered, lives snuffed out like candles? You're a mafia criminal, Moretti—a plague dressed in a suit. And now? Now you'll rot. Finally rot where the light can't reach you."
The words spat out like venom, each one landing heavy in the charged air. The crowd behind him swelled with echoes: "Rot!" "Criminal!" "Plague!" Rocks skittered across the pavement again, one glancing off an officer's shield with a dull thunk, another shattering a nearby floodlight bulb in a spray of sparks. The police formation tightened, detectives growling low: "Back him up—get this clown out of here." They started to pull Vincenzo forward, their grips iron on his arms, the van's doors yawning open just steps away.
The reporter lunged a fraction closer, defying the push. "Say it! Deny it to my face!"
Cathy was already there, slipping into the space like a shadow given purpose. An officer's arm shot out to block her: "Miss, back down—" But she ignored it, her gaze locking on the reporter with that sharp, dissecting intensity, her lips curving into a smile that wasn't kind. It was performative, a mask worn for the cameras she knew were rolling.
"Evidence," she said, her voice smooth and cutting, laced with mockery that dripped like honeyed acid. "You keep screaming, but where's the proof? A story? A whisper from some bar? Or just your grief making you see ghosts?"
The reporter's head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing in disbelief, his face twisting further. "Proof? My brother's body was the proof—riddled with bullets from your family's guns! And the others? The kids vanished from streets, the wives left widowed over debts they never owed. Your cousin's a killer—a mafia worm crawling through this city, and you're defending him like it's a game!"
The crowd roared approval, bodies pressing harder against the barriers, more debris flying: a bottle shattering near Cathy's feet. She didn't flinch. Her smile sharpened. "A game? Maybe it is. You throw words like they're weapons, but they bounce off. If he was what you say, you'd have more than tears and tales. Or is that all you've got—desperation dressed as justice?"
Police surged then, hands reaching for her shoulders to pull her back: "Enough—clear the area!" The reporter barked a laugh, bitter and broken: "See? Untouchable—your whole family's rot, and now he'll pay!" Vincenzo's escorts tightened their hold, starting to drag him the final steps to the van.
The reporter's retort built on his lips: "Innocent? You—"
Vincenzo stopped.
Not with force—not a jerk or a pull. He simply halted, his body going still as stone, the motion so absolute it yanked the officers to a jarring pause, their momentum interrupted like strings cut on puppets. His head turned slowly, deliberately, his blank eyes settling on the reporter with a weight that pinned him in place. The air shifted—thickened—as if the night itself leaned in. The crowd's chants faltered for a beat, rocks hanging mid-throw, the live camera zooming tight on his unchanging face.
"If I say I'm innocent… would you believe me?"
The question landed like silk over steel—simple, but twisting in the air into something cutting. The reporter was stunned. His face contorted in rage. "Mock me all you want—"
Before he could finish, the world tore open.
It started as a low vibration—not thunder, but something deeper, a rumble rising from the ground like the earth itself groaning in protest. The precinct behind Vincenzo seemed to inhale, walls bulging for a fraction of a second. Then the blast—reality fracturing in a deafening roar that swallowed everything. It erupted from within, a violent burst of fire and pressure that tore through concrete, steel, and glass. Windows exploded outward. Walls collapsed inward. The building didn't burn. It came apart.
The shockwave slammed outward like an invisible hammer, crushing breath from lungs and flinging bodies like discarded rags. Officers near the doors were swallowed in the initial flash. Protesters nearest the barriers were hurled backward. The front lines collapsed instantly. Some didn't get up. Screams replaced anger in a heartbeat. Panic spread faster than thought. No one pushed forward anymore. Everyone was running, shoving, clawing desperately to get away while debris rained down—chunks of stone and twisted metal clattering across pavement and shields.
Inside, there was no time to react. Rooms vanished. Floors gave way. Whatever had been inside the building was simply swallowed in seconds. Mateo never made it out. Whatever evidence he carried—whatever truth he held—vanished with him in the blast.
Outside, the horror rippled. The reporter was flung sideways, his camera rig smashing into the ground, lens cracking but still feeding the live stream. Millions watched as the screen shook, voices screaming in unison across the city: "What the—explosion!" "The station's gone!" Debris rained deadly. People crawled over broken ground. The air thickened with smoke and the sharp, choking smell of destruction. Blood slicked the asphalt in places, mixing with glass and dust. The wounded gasped names of loved ones amid the wails.
Cathy staggered, the shockwave buffeting her like a heavy blow, her ears ringing with a high whine that drowned the screams. For a brief second, shock cut across her face. Then it changed—not to fear, but to something sharper. Understanding. An electric thrill flickered in her eyes, dark and controlled, souring into a cold exhilaration as the flames lit the night and the chaos unfolded. She absorbed it, her sharp smile returning fiercer, almost reverent.
"You did this," she said quietly, looking at Vincenzo as if that alone confirmed everything—as if she were witnessing something sacred and terrible at once.
Inside, Vincenzo's thoughts fractured into noise, a child's terror gripping his chest.
What just happened…?
The station… people… Mateo…?
This wasn't supposed to—
So many…
What am I supposed to do?
Outside, nothing changed.
He stood exactly the same, unmoved amid the flames and scrambling bodies, the horror only sharpening the weight of his presence. Flames reflected in his unblinking gaze.
Then Vincenzo slowly turned his head toward the burning ruins of the precinct.
Orange light danced across the jagged silhouette of collapsed walls, thick smoke curling into the night sky like something alive and hungry. Twisted metal glowed where fire still licked at the edges. The distant wail of sirens had begun to rise, but closer, all he registered was the raw, broken sound of people scrambling away from what had once been a building full of lives.
And now… this too would be laid at his feet.
The live camera captured the untouchable figure while viewers whispered in dread across the city: "He did it, didn't he… Planned it."
The reporter lay on the ground, barely moving, staring up in shock. Police survivors scrambled, weapons forgotten, one doubling over, overwhelmed by the smoke and heat.
The city reeled.
And the blame settled exactly where it always had.
On him.