The chamber was dark—so dark it seemed the walls themselves swallowed light whole.
A single table stretched across the center, long and oval, its polished surface reflecting faint outlines of men cloaked in shadow.
Ten chairs.
Ten figures.
Each one leaned back with the quiet confidence of power.
Each chair bore a small brass plate etched with a number, from 1 through 10.
The air smelled of cigar smoke and leather.
Their voices—calm, sharp, venom-laced—broke the silence.
Seat 7
“Captain Tom… they say he calmed that beast with his own fists.”
A murmur of agreement followed, until another voice cut sharply.
Seat 4
“No.
That isn’t the issue.”
Seat 8
“He’s right.
The problem isn’t Tom.”
Seat 6
“It’s the boy.
The one Tom favors.
The one Trump backs.”
The shadows shifted, faint light brushing over cold eyes.
Seat 2
“That boy has already bent Kyle—Kyle!—to his side.
Do you understand what that means?
In a few years, Kyle himself could have been a candidate for the throne.
Instead… he bows.”
A scoff, bitter and disbelieving, filled the chamber.
Seat 9
“A candidate, kneeling already… and the same boy now commands an army of his own.”
Seat 10
“And more than that—he tamed it.”
The others turned slightly.
Seat 10 leaning forward
“The Talcon.
The very disaster Sulaiman forged in secret.
Tom crushed one disaster.
The boy took the other home.
And Interpol… can’t touch him.
They say if they tried to seize the beast, it might destroy a nation before it calms.”
Seat 5
“Three days.
That’s all it would take for that thing to reduce a country to ash.”
The room quieted—fear hung on their silence.
Then, at last, a voice more measured, deeper, carried authority that silenced them all.
The man in Seat 1.
Seat 1 (calmly, almost amused):
“So let me understand this clearly.
The boy has an army… a general… a president at his back… and now a disaster.
Hmph.”
Seat 1 continuing
“Let’s see.
Let’s wait.
What his next move will be.
Whether he’s strong enough to stand as more than a child chasing titles.”
Another voice—the man in Seat 3—leaned forward, the brass plate glinting faintly in the dark.
“Titles mean nothing.
He says he wants to be king, but he doesn’t even know what the throne is.
Before a king is crowned, he must be anointed by the priests.
In this case…”
The others waited.
Seat 3 with a thin smile finishes,
“…the priests are us.
And the throne itself remains empty.
Unless we say so.
Unless the present king dies… there are no candidates.”
Seat 7 asked “Then who are the candidates?”
The table clicked.
A screen slid down at the end of the chamber, humming alive.
The darkness glowed faint blue as two figures appeared on the screen.
On the left—a man clad in gold from head to toe, expression proud, untouchable.
On the right—a figure in a police uniform, cigarette smoldering at his lips, eyes sharp as blades.
The ten men watched their images with unreadable smiles.
Seat 2 (softly):
“These are the only ones we recognize.”
Seat 6:
“Will the boy join their ranks?”
Seat 9 says grinning, “Or will he fall short?”
At last, Seat 3 leaned back, his voice final.
“I don’t think he will.
Even Tom likes him.
And if Tom were not chained by government and duty… he might already be King.
But the throne isn’t for men under any crown or government of this world.”
The council chuckled quietly.
Seat 1 says,
“So let’s see if Tom is right.
Let’s see if the boy is worth watching.
Until then… the game begins.”
The lights flickered.
The screen cut off.
And the ten men faded back into silence, swallowed whole by the shadows.
The halls of Interpol’s European HQ were quieter now.
The chaos of the Sulaiman raid was behind them, and healing bandages wrapped most of the agents still limping around.
But in one of the reinforced training rooms, Tom stood with arms folded, facing three young men who had earned more than just respect.
“Consider this your reward,” Tom said, his grin lazy but his voice sharp.
“Not medals.
Not speeches.
Techniques.
If you survive long enough, these will matter more than anything.”
Rolf frowned.
Tom pointed his hammer at him.
“Rolf — you’ve got raw strength, but you swing like a bull in a market.
I’ll show you how to feel the ground.
When you strike it, the vibration will tell you where your enemy is, no matter how fast they move.
Close your eyes, trust the earth.”
Rolf smirked.
“So… the ground talks back.
Got it.”
Next, Tom turned to Marcus.
“You’re good with a rifle, but you rely too much on sight.
Close your eyes.
Listen, smell, feel.
When you shoot, it won’t matter if there’s smoke, light, or chaos — you’ll never miss again.”
Marcus adjusted his glasses, skeptical at first, but when Tom tossed a pebble across the room and Marcus hit it blind, even he smiled faintly.
Finally, Tom looked at Touya.
“You.
You’ve got instinct.
But instinct without discipline is suicide.
I’ll teach you something simple: read the eyes.
A man can fake his stance, his words, even his movements… but the eyes betray the truth.
Learn that, and you’ll turn chaos into order.”
Touya chuckled.
“So, stare into their soul, huh?
Noted.”
That was all.
No long lectures, no drawn-out drills.
Just Tom’s blunt teachings and the three of them trying, failing, then trying again.
The rest of the week passed quickly, the techniques settling into their muscles, waiting for the moment they’d truly need them.
Seven days later, Touya wandered into Tom’s office.
On the desk sat a file — the same one that had caught his eye before.
He flipped it open this time.
Two words stared back at him:
“Subject Zero.”
Status: Detained.
Location: Alcatraz Prison.
Touya closed the file slowly, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Zero, huh?
Must be destiny.”
The very next morning, Tom gathered them all — Touya, Rolf, Marcus — and told them they’d be leading the transport team for Sulaiman.
Rolf raised a brow.
“What prison?”
Tom’s answer was curt.
“Alcatraz.”
Touya’s smile widened.
Before departure, Aria practically begged to join.
Tom refused at first, but Marcus vouched for her, and finally Tom gave a small nod.
On the docks, the Interpol transport ship waited, armored and grim.
The agents boarded, chains clanking as Sulaiman was dragged aboard.
Touya turned to Tom one last time.
“Take care of the Talcon.
Make sure he behaves.”
Blue roared once from his holding enclosure in the distance — a sound only Touya seemed to understand — and then the boy stepped onto the ship.
The vessel pulled away from the European coast, cutting into open waters.