Chapter 133: Global Paranormal Groups Summit - Part 4
The following noon, Leonard entered the UN district in the same outfit and accompanied by the same Resh-1 escort as the day before. The three unmarked black vehicles in his convoy pulled into the underground parking structure, moving with the same precision as before.
Leonard had once again activated his Administrator's Aura, the familiar pressure of authority radiating around him in silent waves. Without a word, he and his escort exited the vehicles and made their way through the corridor leading to the summit hall.
This time, however, the atmosphere was different.
The hall was already filled to capacity, with several new figures present, leaders who hadn't attended the first day or had arrived late. Conversations fell into a hush the moment Leonard stepped through the doorway. Everyone noticed.
The duel between Leonard and Midnight had spread like wildfire overnight. Those who had witnessed it firsthand had described it in detail; recordings had been passed discreetly through system-linked mental channels. And now, every leader in the room was watching him with newfound curiosity and respect.
Leonard walked forward calmly, nodding politely to DC, who was already in place, as well as Midnight,Clara and Elise. Their brief greetings were met with quiet acknowledgment.
Just like the day before, Leonard's presence was the gravitational center of the summit, but this time, it carried an even heavier weight.
DC tapped on the microphone, the subtle echo drawing the room's attention. He cleared his throat and spoke with a calm, commanding voice:
"Good afternoon, and welcome, everyone, to the headquarters of the Global Occult Coalition. I am Secretary-General DC. Al Fine, representing the leadership of the GOC. And today, I'm honored to welcome you all here into this hall, so that together, we may discuss the future, not only of the anomalous world, but of the entire world itself."
His voice carried weight, and as the words echoed across the room, the leaders and representatives of the assembly turned their attention fully toward the speaker. The second day of the summit had officially begun.
The second day proceeded far more calmly than the first. Leonard was able to contact and converse with several groups from the Hope System and even some from the Neutral Systems. Throughout the day, he successfully signed multiple cooperation agreements, established a few material exchange contracts, and even secured sponsorships from several nations and royal families, most of them European, in exchange for collaboration, protection, and access to certain Foundation-produced goods.
At one point, Leonard crossed paths with his mother, who was part of the delegation from the Gendastrerie Nationale. Unaware of the Administrator's true identity, unaware that it was her own son, she quietly noted to herself how different he seemed compared to the man she had glimpsed in past public appearances. The appearance, the presence, the silence… everything about him had changed.
As the day drew to a close, Leonard was approached by a man dressed in a deep violet suit, wearing an elegant, finely-crafted mask. The man bowed politely and spoke in a calm, composed tone:
"Good evening, esteemed Administrator. Might I request a moment of your time for a private conversation?"
Leonard smiled faintly. "Of course. But may I ask, who exactly are you?"
The man chuckled lightly, his voice smooth and composed. "Ah, forgive my manners. Where was my head? I am Amos Marshall, the master of Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd."
The moment the name was spoken, Leonard's expression hardened. "Oh? And how can I help you?"
Amos offered a polite smile. "Shall we speak somewhere more private?"
Leonard turned his head slightly toward Graves. Without hesitation, Graves snapped his fingers. Instantly, a shimmering bubble enveloped the four of them, soundproofing their conversation from the rest of the summit's guests.
Amos examined the barrier around them with evident curiosity, his gaze sharp yet amused. "I assume you're already familiar with MC&D. But still, it's best if I formally introduce us. We are Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd., a business club of aristocrats who specialize in the acquisition and sale of anomalous entities and objects, for profit, of course. Currently, we are aligned with the Neutral System."
He placed a hand over his chest and inclined his head slightly. "We wish to provide funding and financial support for the Foundation's operations."
Leonard narrowed his eyes, his tone skeptical. "Why?"
Amos chuckled, as if the question amused him. "Well, for starters… this is still our planet. If it's destroyed, what will become of my business? What of all my clients?"
Leonard's gaze didn't waver. "That's not the only reason, is it?"
Amos smiled again, this time with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "No, it's not. We hope that the Foundation might refrain from interfering with our operations. Perhaps, in time, we could even acquire some of your products."
Leonard raised an eyebrow, his voice calm but edged. "That would also give you extra protection, wouldn't it? You're well aware that the Foundation protects its partners."
Amos let out a short laugh, impressed. "Exactly."
Leonard stared at Amos for a few seconds, his sharp gaze locking onto the man's masked face. He said nothing at first, letting the tension linger. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Deal."
The two men extended their hands and shook firmly, sealing the agreement.
Amos's tone was light, but satisfied. "I look forward to a prosperous cooperation."
Leonard nodded. "As do I."
After a few polite words were exchanged, Graves snapped his fingers once again. The shimmering bubble of silence dissolved instantly, as if it had never been there.
The world returned, noise, movement, the bustle of the summit, all oblivious to the powerful alliance that had just been forged.
The days passed quickly.
The third and fourth days of the summit unfolded without any major incidents. Meetings were held, discussions exchanged, and agreements signed between the various factions. Compared to the tension and spectacle of the first day, everything felt more orderly, almost routine.
Leonard moved from one negotiation table to another, calm and focused, steadily building a growing network of cooperation. Minor frictions between organizations were settled diplomatically, and even the more cautious or paranoid factions began opening up, if only slightly, under the watchful eyes of the Administrator.
The atmosphere in the summit hall grew more familiar with each passing hour, like a machine finally warmed up and running at full capacity. Conversations that had once been measured and cold became friendly, even enthusiastic. The dream of a unified Hope System, something that had seemed impossible just weeks before, began to feel tangible.
But even as the surface appeared smooth, Leonard remained vigilant. He knew better than anyone that true danger often waited for the moment when everyone else had let their guard down.
At the end of the fourth day, Leonard returned to the Savoy Park Apartments.
There, he entered one of the heavily fortified apartments where nearly all the Resh-1 team leaders were present, except for the fifth group, who were still tasked with securing Site-01. Even the elusive leader of the sixth group, usually away due to his assignment protecting Leonard's mother, was in attendance.
They were gathered in a secure, shielded conference room, guarded by members of Resh-1, where a live video feed of Franz, TA-A, lit up the main screen.
"Good evening, Boss," Franz greeted with a respectful nod.
"Evening, TA-A," Leonard replied calmly. "How are things on your end?"
Franz gave a faint smile. "Still managing OoTA as usual. Thankfully, no major incidents during the summit so far."
"That's good to hear." Leonard nodded, then straightened in his seat. "Now, about tomorrow. What's our plan for the Backdoor SoHo visit?"
Graves, seated to Leonard's right, let out a short sigh. "Honestly? It's risky. Very risky."
Leonard tilted his head, unsurprised. "I figured as much. Care to elaborate?"
Graves tapped his fingers against a secured tablet before casting the contents to the room's display screen.
"Let's start with the basics," he began, pointing at a detailed tactical overlay of the area. "Backdoor SoHo is classified as a Free-Port Nexus. To be precise, it's an anomalous city-state dedicated almost entirely to anomalous art and expression. Accessible only through Ways opened from within Manhattan, it's a hotspot for powerful Groups of Interest."
He swiped to a new set of files. "The most dominant factions within include: Are We Cool Yet?, Ambrose Restaurants, Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd., and the FBI Unusual Incidents Unit. As you'd expect, the entire Nexus functions like a surreal mirror of SoHo, only this version hosts anartists, rogue thaumaturges, and countless black market galleries."
The next slide showed a map dotted with red zones. "We've already embedded over a hundred OoTA agents across the area. Additionally, the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Resh-1 teams will be deployed directly within the Nexus. One squad from the 6th team will provide off-route support and surveillance and will focus on the protection of your mother."
Graves paused, his expression grim. "The risk profile remains high. We're walking into a cultural and thaumaturgic minefield."
Leonard crossed his arms and stared at the map, quiet for a moment.
"Any sign of instability or recent tension inside the Nexus?"
Franz responded through the screen. "Nothing direct, but multiple factions have been unusually quiet. Are We Cool Yet? hasn't staged anything public in weeks, which is unlike them. Either they're planning something, or someone's keeping them in check."
Leonard's gaze didn't waver. "Either way, I want eyes on every gallery, studio, and lounge before we step foot inside."
"Already in motion," Graves confirmed. "We'll continue the prep overnight."
Leonard leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the glowing map of the Nexus.
"So tomorrow," he muttered, half to himself, "should we dive into the heart of the anomalous underworld… dressed like art collectors?"
A quiet chuckle passed around the room, but no one disagreed.
---
The following day, in the SoHo district of New York City, the entire street leading to the Banksy Museum was sealed off by the NYPD, though in truth, they were undercover GOC agents. Discreet black SUVs rolled to a halt in front of the museum's main entrance. From the lead vehicle, Leonard stepped out, cloaked in the invisible pressure of his Administrator's aura.
Dressed sharply in his signature black coat, he was immediately surrounded by eight Resh-1 operators, each clad in sleek formal suits layered with tactical vests, faces obscured behind expressionless masks. Mei Lin and Graves followed a few steps behind him, walking with the precise calm of seasoned professionals. The team advanced toward the museum entrance in formation, the click of polished shoes on pavement echoing under the summer sun.
They had received words the previous evening directly from DC Al Fine himself. No explanation, no additional briefing, just a simple information: Meet up at the Banksy Museum for the fifth day of the Summit.
The moment they entered, Leonard immediately sensed the oddity. The inside was… normal. Starkly normal. The museum's walls displayed the classic rebellious flair of Banksy's most well-known pieces, "Girl with Balloon," "Flower Thrower," and "Devolved Parliament", nothing anomalous, nothing out of place. The space was filled with a multitude of individuals, all conversing quietly as they examined the artwork. Some were dressed plainly, others in high fashion, and many bore the discreet but unmistakable signs of being part of the anomalous world.
Leonard's gaze swept the room, and then paused. There, amid a small cluster of French officials near the "Laugh Now" piece, stood a woman he immediately recognized.
His mother.
She stood just behind a taller, authoritative woman wearing a slim black coat adorned with the insignia of the Gendastrerie Nationale. Her presence confirmed what Leonard already knew: this was Director Aimée.
Leonard walked over calmly, his operators subtly adjusting to maintain a close perimeter. He halted before the group and inclined his head slightly.
"Director," he said, voice steady. "It has been a while."
Aimée turned, and her breath caught. Her eyes widened in shock. Her body froze for a moment, her lips trembling as a dozen memories crashed over her all at once. The Administrator… the man who had stood before a tide of demons and shielded an entire French fleet with his powers. The same figure who had battled a flesh monster in the forests of Germany, pushing back a force that should never have existed.
And now he stood before her.
She had not realized who he was at first until the first day of the Summit, when he silently walked to the seat marked "SCP Foundation" and introduced himself in that unmistakable voice. Since then, her mind had struggled to reconcile the polite and scary-looking man before her with the force she had seen in the field.
"H-Hello, Mister Administrator," she managed to say.
They exchanged a few brief, polite courtesies, nothing too formal, just enough to ease the tension.
Leonard then asked, "How are the scientific studies on demons progressing?"
Aimée let out a soft laugh, her composure returning. "Thanks to the support of your Foundation's Agent Sias, as well as the wealth of knowledge, data, and technology you've shared with us, the Gendastrerie is undergoing a full transformation. We are now fully backed by the state. In fact, I dare say that outside of our nuclear program, special forces, and foreign intelligence, never has the government invested so heavily into a strategic unit."
She paused, eyes gleaming. "And with the introduction of demon contracts and the use of demonic powers that enhance their wielders, we've managed to form a small experimental squad composed entirely of demon contractors. You refer to them as 'Demon Mode,' I believe."
Leonard nodded silently.
"However," Aimée continued with a touch of frustration, "we remain stuck at the tattoo phase. The full awakening still eludes us."
Léonard nodded lightly at Aimée's response, a faint smile on his lips. "Haha, don't worry. Just having a unit reach the tattoo stage this quickly is already incredibly impressive."
"You flatter me," Aimée replied with a soft chuckle, folding her hands respectfully in front of her.
Before their conversation could continue, a voice called out over the low hum of ambient conversation.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please," came the familiar voice of DC. Al Fine, standing at the edge of the hall, hands folded behind his back with an easy smile on his face.
The conversations faded. A few whispers lingered in the air, but they, too, were quickly silenced. All eyes turned toward DC. Al Fine, who stood confidently near the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back.
"Good morning to you all," he began, offering a polite nod. "I hope you've all had a good breakfast before coming here. You'll need it."
A few polite chuckles rippled across the crowd.
"As some of you might already know, there is a parallel city hidden right here in Manhattan. Or rather, beneath it. It's a place known as Backdoor SoHo. Think of it as a version of SoHo that peeled itself off from reality and decided to live its own life. Accessible only through specific Ways, dimensional portals scattered across New York or other anomalous sites, it's an extradimensional safe haven. Sort of."
He smiled again, more cryptic this time.
"Backdoor SoHo is a Free Port. A sanctuary of sorts for the anomalous, the strange, the creative, and the dangerous. And above all, it is a city of art."
He turned slightly, gesturing to the art pieces lining the museum walls.
"But not your typical art. In Backdoor SoHo, what you'll see are called Anarts, short for anomalous art. Each piece possesses properties far beyond normal comprehension. Some hypnotize. Some teleport. Some alter your form, your thoughts, your memories. They are beautiful. They are unpredictable. And they are powerful."
He took a moment to let the weight of his words settle over the room.
"These pieces are created by individuals we call Anartists. They don't rely on rituals or magic spells, at least not in the traditional sense. They use something called 'exploits', reproducible anomalous techniques. Think of them as scientific methods, but for anomalies. With enough knowledge and talent, anyone can replicate them."
DC raised a finger, walking slowly through the attentive crowd.
"Now, over the years, analysts have tried to classify these artists based on their philosophies. It's not perfect, and frankly, the anartists themselves would probably mock us for it. But it helps us understand them. So, for simplicity's sake, we've broken them down into four main schools."
He held up four fingers.
"First: The Reconstructionists. These are the idealists. They create anart to fix things, social issues, systemic flaws, moral decay. Their works are tools, meant to bring change and vanish once their job is done."
He paused briefly.
"There are Petty Reconstructionists, who piggyback on pre-existing movements. True Reconstructionists, who start their own. And then the Dadaist Reconstructionists… who, well, pursue absurd and often incomprehensible goals. They're usually insane, but surprisingly effective in their madness."
He folded one finger down.
"Second: Recreationists. These folks don't want to fix the world, they want to reshape it. Mold it. Make it better. Or stranger. Or more beautiful. Or more them."
DC's voice grew more animated.
"Minor Recreationists are the body mod crowd, they make small, personal changes. Major Recreationists work on the grand scale. Countries. Societies. Cultures. And then you have the Reformed Recreationists. These artists paint the soul, not the world. To them, their own existence is the ultimate canvas."
He lowered a third finger.
"Third: Deconstructionists. Destruction in its purest form. These artists want to break things. Tear down the structures of society. Shatter reality. Some want to erase specific institutions. Others want to wipe concepts from existence. And a few, Absolutists, believe existence itself is the problem."
His tone hardened slightly.
"They are, without question, some of the most dangerous individuals we monitor."
He held up one last finger.
"Fourth: Creationists. The artists who create just to create. Art for art's sake. Pure expression. No agenda. No revolution. Just beauty, or horror, brought into being because they can."
He walked back to his original spot and turned to face the group once more.
"Within the Creationists, you'll find True Creationists, most of them, really. Then you have High Creationists, who believe their art shapes reality. And finally, the Artistic Deists, those who see themselves as gods. The only gods. Dangerous megalomaniacs, the lot of them."
He paused, scanning the room. His smile widened just a touch.
"I share all of this not to scare you, but to prepare you. Today, we step into their world. A world where art bleeds and breathes. Where a gallery might transport you across dimensions. Where reality bends to the will of a brushstroke."
He extended one hand in a sweeping gesture.
"So… if you're ready, let's open the door to Backdoor SoHo and see what the anartists have created for us."
As DC stepped forward, his long coat billowing behind him, four figures emerged from the crowd. They wore deep navy-blue robes with the GOC logo, hoods pulled low over their faces, their hands already weaving complex gestures in the air. Glyphs shimmered briefly, suspended in glowing runes, before folding into one another like origami made of starlight.
With a deep hum, a portal tore open in space itself, a vertical oval of rotating, jagged energy that pulsed like a heartbeat. It stretched open like the iris of a great eye, revealing a darkened alleyway bathed in violet light beyond it.
Without hesitation, DC passed through the portal, his escort of GOC agents following in perfect formation. One by one, the leaders of the anomalous groups followed, flanked by their personal guards, each delegation distinctive in color, dress, or aura. The energy of the portal swirled violently as each entered, as though reality itself was reluctant to let them pass.
Leonard, surrounded by the eight silent, masked operators of Resh-1, stepped through last. Graves and Mei Lin flanked him without a word, their expressions calm but watchful.
And then, the world changed.
They emerged into a street, or something that resembled a street. The sky above was a dark, swirling violet, pierced by streaks of gold lightning that shimmered in silence. Buildings leaned at odd angles, their surfaces covered with living graffiti, murals that blinked, breathed, and twisted as if reacting to the people staring at them.
The air was thick with a strange perfume, a mix of paint, ozone, and something vaguely nostalgic. Holographic fish swam lazily through the air, occasionally flickering between forms, koi, ravens, human faces, and giggling when people looked at them.
The leaders began to split off, wandering slowly down the pulsating streets of Backdoor SoHo. GOC forces, clad in black tactical gear and bearing the insignia of Physic division, stood discreetly along rooftops and alleyways. Their eyes were everywhere.
Leonard walked forward in silence, his presence unmistakable. His aura, that belonged to a Supreme Divinity, thanks to the fragment of the Administrator, distorted the nearby air like heat waves rising off asphalt. Civilians and anartists instinctively gave him space, though a few looked on with curiosity rather than fear.
As he walked past a storefront, the window display animated itself, the mannequins inside morphed into miniature versions of Leonard and his team, reenacting their actual appearance in looped slow motion.
Leonard raised an eyebrow. "Subtle."
Mei Lin smirked. "I think they like you."
A voice from behind made Leonard turn. A young woman, wearing an apron covered in shifting colors, stood at the doorway of the art shop.
"Are you a part of the Foundie's? Damn, you guys inspired a lot of us," she said. Some say your way of containing anomalies and working is boring as hell. Others say you rewrote the memories of the World like a painter corrects a mistake on canvas. Did you guys really do that?"
Leonard said nothing, merely nodded before continuing on.
Farther down the street, he passed Ambrose Restaurant – Backdoor Branch, where a server with goat horns and a five-piece tuxedo handed out gelatinous cubes on crystal trays.
"Care for a pre-lunch thought?" the waiter asked, smiling with fanged teeth. "Flavored with memory and salted with déjà vu."
Graves glanced at Leonard, but the Administrator waved it off politely. "I'm already full, thank you."
A few minutes later, they passed an open-air square where an anartist stood before a crowd. With a wave of his hand, the man pulled a strand of light from the air and shaped it into a sculpture that rippled like water. The crowd clapped. Then gasped, when the statue turned its head and asked, in a perfect voice: "Do you love me?"
They passed by the delegation of the Serpent's Hand, who were engaged in animated conversation with an elderly anartist painting sigils across the side of a sentient building. The sigils flickered like fireflies before embedding into the structure.
Nearby, the delegation from the Three Moons Initiative stood before an art installation shaped like a tree made entirely of living whispers. It bent slightly toward Leonard as he passed.
Then came a moment Leonard didn't expect, a child approached the group.
He turned. The child, maybe nine or ten, had eyes like shattered glass and held out a small, shimmering paper bird.
"Are you guys Foundie's ?" he said. "Do you like my origami? I folded it for hours."
Leonard crouched, took the bird, and smiled. The bird's chest was moving as if he was breathing. "It looks perfect."
In that moment, beneath a sky that wasn't their own, surrounded by creations both divine and dangerous, Leonard knew: this city, this entire Nexus, was more than a sanctuary. It was a reflection of what the world might become… if creativity was left unchecked, unshackled, and unafraid.
And the day had only just begun.
As Leonard continued down the winding streets of Backdoor SoHo, surrounded by neon calligraphy that wrote itself into the air and faceless statues that wept ink from marble eyes, a familiar sound echoed quietly in his mind.
A small, luminous interface appeared inside his head, invisible to everyone but him.
[Ding! It has been detected, the Host has entered and explored the Free Port "Backdoor SoHo."]
Leonard's steps faltered slightly. His expression remained composed, but Mei Lin, ever alert, raised an eyebrow. He gave her a slight nod, the universal signal for nothing to worry about.
Then, three more chimes followed in rapid succession.
[Ding! Congratulations to the Host for acquiring Site-28!]
[Ding! Congratulations to the Host for acquiring MTF Pi-1 "City Slickers."]
[Ding! Congratulations to the Host for acquiring MTF Upsilon-23 "Art Critics."]
A slow grin curled at the corner of Leonard's lips.
Site-28. An official Foundation stronghold hidden within New York City.
And with it, two highly specialized MTFs.
Pi-1, "City Slickers", experts in navigating urban environments, mainly focused on New York.
Upsilon-23, "Art Critics", a mobile task force composed of former anartists, thaumaturgical analysts, and cultural reconstruction experts. They didn't just neutralize anart-based threats, they understood them, interpreted them, and sometimes… curated them.
He kept walking, his boots echoing softly against paint-slick cobblestones. Around him, the Nexus pulsed with life. A living mural beside him stretched and morphed into an image of a GOC logo melting into surrealism, half owl, half gear, and underneath it, a quote that read:
"Control is an art form."
He smirked.
"You have no idea," Leonard whispered.
Mei Lin gave him a sidelong glance. "Something amusing?"
"Just a very productive walk," he replied.
And without another word, Leonard continued his exploration of Backdoor SoHo, his presence now firmly engraved into its very foundation, quite literally.
---
Empire State Building, New York City.
The elevator ascended in silence. Its destination: the 107th floor, the observatory deck.
Inside, a dozen figures stood motionless, cloaked in black tactical gear, assault rifles clutched tightly to their chests, faces masked beneath black balaclavas. They surrounded two central figures, a man, tall and imposing, his features obscured beneath the shadow of a long, heavy coat, and a woman, calm and composed, wrapped in a similarly dark overcoat. The two did not speak. They did not need to.
The elevator dinged.
The doors slid open.
They stepped into the light.
The observatory was moderately busy. A few tourists wandered near the glass railings, admiring the skyline. A security guard stood nearby, sipping coffee from a thermos.
Then the armed figures emerged in synchronized motion, silent, lethal, and efficient.
The guard blinked, instinctively reaching for his sidearm.
He never got the chance.
BRATATATATAT.
Gunfire erupted with mechanical precision. The first bursts tore through the guard's chest, sending his body crashing against the railing. Blood painted the glass behind him.
Screams followed.
Panic spread like wildfire.
Tourists shouted, stumbled, scrambled, but it was far too late.
The man in the long coat walked forward, calmly, his boots echoing against the cold marble floor. He stopped at the glass wall, overlooking the endless sprawl of New York City. His hands remained clasped behind his back.
His gaze, however, that gaze, held nothing but cold, unfiltered hatred.
This city.
This world.
So tall. So proud. So vulnerable.
A timid voice broke the silence.
"P-Please… don't hurt us."
The man turned.
A small family cowered in a corner. A man, shielding his wife and young son, his arms trembling as he stared back at the faceless killers.
The man in the coat approached, slowly.
He knelt before the child, eye-level with the boy whose legs were shaking uncontrollably.
"Let me see him," the man said.
The father did not move.
A sharp gesture. Two commandos surged forward, ripping the parents away from the boy, dragging them to opposite ends of the room. Their screams echoed across the walls.
The boy sobbed, frozen with terror.
The man reached out and gently placed a gloved hand on the child's head.
"Tell me, little one…" he whispered. "Are you afraid of me?"
The boy's voice shook. "N-No…"
The man sighed.
"Aaah… I hate lies."
He stood up. His voice dropped an octave.
"Kill them."
Two rifles turned in unison.
BANG. BANG.
Two gunshots. Two lifeless bodies.
The boy screamed, racing toward the corpses of his parents.
"M-Mom… Dad… Please… wake up…!"
He grabbed their hands, pulling, pleading, tears pouring down his cheeks. The room watched in stunned, horrified silence.
The man approached again, his shadow looming over the child.
"And now?" he asked softly. "Are you afraid?"
The boy looked up, eyes wide, lips quivering. No answer came.
From behind, the woman stepped forward. Her voice was calm, eerily serene.
"How touching," she murmured. "A child watching his parents die at the hands of strangers… Someone should write a revenge novel about this."
The man stared down at the weeping child. His expression remained unreadable.
"…Disgusting," he muttered.
He drew a massive revolver, a polished magnum with dark steel plating.
BLAM.
One shot. Clean. Precise.
The child's skull exploded. Blood and brain matter splattered across the corpses below. The headless body slumped forward, collapsing over his mother's chest like a discarded doll.
The woman blinked once.
"Cruel."
The man exhaled slowly, lowering the smoking gun.
"I'm simply pruning the root," he said. "Before it becomes a weed."
Then, turning back toward the city skyline, he raised his hand and gestured toward the remaining civilians, now reduced to trembling, broken hostages.
"Kill them all."
The observatory had become a chamber of death.
The masked commandos moved with ruthless precision, executing the remaining hostages without hesitation.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Muffled screams were silenced one by one. The air grew thick with smoke, blood, and the iron stench of slaughter. Red pooled across the marble floor, streaking between the bodies, trickling like rivers of violence beneath shattered glass.
Children. Elders. Tourists. Gone.
The man in the long coat didn't blink.
This was no act of madness.
It was choreography.
It was purpose.
One of the masked soldiers stepped forward, holding a radio device to his ear. "Sir," he reported, voice steady beneath the mask, "all leaders attending the Summit have entered Backdoor SoHo."
The man smiled, not with joy, but with cold certainty.
He reached inside his coat and pulled out his own radio, black and sleek, and pressed the button.
"All units," he spoke clearly, his voice laced with venomous resolve, "this is The Engineer. Commence the operation."
Static crackled. Then silence.
He lowered the radio and slid it back into his coat with mechanical calm.
Then he turned away from the bloodbath, walking slowly back toward the center of the observatory. He whispered a few sharp syllables in a tongue lost to modern ears, a language carved from primordial hatred and forbidden power.
The air trembled.
A vertical line of burning red light ripped into reality, splitting space like paper. The line expanded into a glowing rift, a swirling portal of unstable energy and dark smoke.
One by one, the commandos disappeared into the breach without a word.
And finally, The Engineer stood before it.
He turned his head slightly, casting one last glance over the city skyline, over the steel towers and sleeping streets of New York.
His smile returned, sharper this time, tainted with loathing.
"Today," he whispered, "New York will burn."
Then he stepped forward.
The portal collapsed behind him with a snap, leaving only corpses and silence at the top of the Empire State Building.