11:30 PM
Ironport Police Headquarters – Commissioner's Office
Sinclair massaged the bridge of his throbbing nose. Before him, scattered across the heavy mahogany desk, were reports from the ballistics and forensics units. The result was always the same: Nil.
"Still no signs of gunpowder residue?" Sinclair asked without lifting his head.
Detective Miller, standing in front of the desk, shook his head slowly. "Nothing, Sir. The wounds on the victims in Sector 7 were clean. No lead remnants, no rifling marks. Forensics says it's as if they were hit by steel bolts propelled by pure energy. And even crazier—the acoustic sensors in that district didn't pick up a single gunshot."
Sinclair stood up and walked toward the glass window overlooking the harbor. His mind was split. On one hand, he felt a sense of peace because his "protection" of Ren was going smoothly; on the other, he felt Ironport transforming into something he no longer recognized.
"The Black Group," Sinclair muttered under his breath.
"The name is starting to spread on the streets, Sir," Miller added. "Informants are calling them 'the shadows that swallow color.' They don't seize territory; they don't sell drugs. They just appear, dismantle a target with military precision, and vanish."
Sinclair clenched his hands behind his back. He felt like he was chasing a ghost. Every time the police conducted a raid based on old intelligence, they were always one step too late—as if someone were leaking their schedule (a thought he pushed far away because he only shared that information with one person: Ren).
"Are they part of Seifong?" Sinclair asked.
"Doesn't seem like it. In fact, Seifong lost three logistics warehouses tonight. And Cosa Nostra? They're terrified. They think the police have a new black ops unit assigned to eliminate them quietly."
Sinclair stared at his reflection in the window. He looked exhausted. "If it's not the old gangs, and it's not the police... then we are facing an anomaly. Something organized, possessing technology that exceeds our budget, and most dangerous of all: they have no face."
Sinclair's phone vibrated on the desk. A short text message arrived.
*"You look tired in your office, Sinclair. Go home; don't let this city eat you alive. – R"*
Instantly, the tension in Sinclair's shoulders eased. A thin smile appeared on his hardened face. Ren's attention was the only thing that made him feel human amidst the madness. He had no idea that the woman sending that sweet message was the mastermind behind the "Black Group" he was hunting.
"Miller, close the file for tonight," Sinclair ordered. "Increase patrols in Sector 7, but do not take provocative action. I want to know who they are, not start an open war in the dark."
As Sinclair switched off his office lights, he didn't know that out there, Nero Familia was watching his every move through a camera lens hacked by Key. To Sinclair, they were just a black stain on a police report. To Ironport, they were the storm that had only just begun.