BeZo crumpled to the floor, the once-gleaming throne he had manifested disintegrating into a cascade of golden light, its ashes floating like ethereal fireflies.

  His head hung at an unnatural angle, almost one hundred and eighty degrees from its normal position. Uncontrollable twitches flickered across his eyelids, and a guttural gurgling sound escaped from his twisted neck. With each desperate attempt to breathe, his chest rose and fell, blood pumping out of the stab wounds in sync with the rhythm of his failing breaths.

  Conor's eyes moved from him to the guards above. For what felt like minutes, no one moved, both groups waiting for the other to do something first.

  Kholwa bent down; her hand shook as she picked up her bloody dagger. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, taking a deep breath as her hand ran along its hilt.

  She opened them, feeling someone's hand take it from under her fingertips.

  Zheanni held it in front of her face. Her eyes ran down the damaged blade. "Don't worry," she smiled. "Later today, we can go get you another one."

  Kholwa looked from her eyes down to her torso, staring at the small hole in Zheanni's shirt from where BeZo had attempted to impale her, though he was never able to penetrate her skin. "Sure."

  Zheanni strolled down the stairs. On the second-floor balcony, Conor shoved aside a dead guard with his foot, clearing a way to one of the offices.

  Below, Kholwa flipped through many files, looking through drawers and cabinets behind the teller's desk. "There," she smiled.

  The metal detector beeped loudly as the trio walked down the hallway. Kholwa glanced down, the marble almost like a mirror; their shoes leaving bloody streaks across its glossy surface.

  Navigating through the office corridor and descending a set of pristine white stairs, they reached the basement. Conor effortlessly kicked open the metal security door leading to the area with security lockers and CCTV rooms, startling the four guards within. Meanwhile, Kholwa and Zheanni continued their advance into the heart of the bank's underground. Zheanni placed both hands on the thick metal bars that separated them from the two vault doors. A grimace crossed her face, and she gritted her teeth as the metal bent under her grasp.

  Behind them, Conor followed through the dimly lit vault hallway, the relentless clangor of alarm bells bouncing off the cold concrete walls.

  He looked back and forth from one door to the other. On his right was a short, thick metal door with a keypad. On the right was a shiny and circular, stereotypical bank vault door.

  "Well?" Zheanni gestured to both doors.

  The short steel door crumpled and was ripped off its hinges. Stepping into the room, they surveyed the scene, eyes widening at the sight of duffle bags brimming with cash and gold bars, representing a myriad of countries. Metal shelves lining the walls bore the weight of thousands of pounds in currency and gold.

  Zheanni bent down and opened a couple of zipped bags on the floor, rummaging through them, letting the bands of money run through her fingers. "This whole room gotta be over a hundred million. If they keep all this in here, I wonder what kinda shit they got in the big vault," she said wistfully, pocketing a rare-looking gold coin that looked old enough to be fought over by pirates.

  "Are we gonna carry these, or…" Kholwa trailed off.

  Conor's eyes glazed over the room, "First things first," he said, physically pulling himself away from the room and walking over to the other door.

  "Hm," Zheanni muttered, standing before the bank vault. "We ripping it open?"

  "You think we can?" Kholwa asked, looking at her hands, flexing her fingers.

  "It's gonna be awkward," Conor sighed contemplatively, "But if we pull all at once, it'd go."

  Kholwa placed her foot against the wall and dug her fingers into the groove of the door. "Alright," she confirmed.

  "Three, two, one…pull!" Conor instructed.

  An ear-splitting grinding sound ripped through the basement, and the marble ceiling began to crack and rupture; a plume of dust billowed.

  "Ah!" Kholwa fell to the ground, her hands to her ears.

  Conor stood in front, frowning at their progress. "Move," he instructed Zheanni, shoving past her and grabbing onto the door. The purple energy around him intensified, swirling like a violent storm. Sparks danced along its edges, illuminating the room in a flickering, purple glow. "Useless-ass women," he growled.

  After several hard yanks, the vault door wrenched free, crashing to the floor in a cacophony of splintering stone and shrieking metal.

  Once the dust settled, they stepped inside, admiring the room. Fancy red wool carpeted the floor. The walls were floor-to-ceiling cabinets. It was dimly lit, the fluorescent square ceiling lights only illuminating several large duffle bags and a luxury snakeskin purse on a stainless steel table in the middle of the room.

  "You should be able to use it, right, Kholwa?" Conor asked.

  "If it's in the room, I'll find it," Kholwa took a deep breath. The sound of muffled yips and bays of dogs filled the room. From under her Hanbok, a scaled head slithered from beneath the dress. Then another. And another. Soon, five creatures protruded from her dress. Each bore the face of a dog, but had the majestic neck of a dragon.

  One of the heads sniffed the air, then looked around wildly, craning its neck. Once it saw Conor, it stretched across the room, licking his face and panting happily. "Okay, you missed me, I get it," he chuckled, petting it half-heartedly. Another head did the same to Zheanni, but she didn't react.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Haemosu, help me," Kholwa instructed, imagining what the item looked like. The dogs perked up at the command; their eyes glowed like yellow spotlights, scanning the room.

  A beam of light pierced through the building, illuminating a medium-sized lockbox as if a crack in the structure allowed sunlight to filter through each floor.

  Kholwa, her lower body now replaced by Haemosu, glided across the floor with serpentine grace. She swiftly tore open the lockbox, seizing the small wooden box concealed within.

  "That's it?" Both Conor and Zheanni looked shocked, then severely disappointed.

  "A wooden-fucking-box," Conor grumbled. "Grab some bags if you want, and let's go."

  The helicopter’s blades roared overhead as Kholwa, Zheanni, and Conor emerged onto the roof. The wind whipped at their faces, sending loose debris skittering across the concrete. Below, sirens blared, and red and blue lights flashed, illuminating the chaos they had left behind. "Go ahead of us," Zheanni yelled, her voice barely audible over the noise. She pointed at the rope ladder dangling precariously from the side of the helicopter.

  "Why?" Conor asked.

  "Kholwa's wearing a dress or some shit, that's why."

  "You really think I'm gonna—okay, whatever," Conor scoffed, rolling his eyes. He slung several duffle bags over his shoulders, gripped the rungs firmly, and began the ascent. The wind atop the roof, coupled with the helicopter blades cutting through the air, felt like an icy bath against his clothing.

  Kholwa and Zheanni followed suit, climbing up to join him.

  "They're following us," Kholwa pointed out the helicopter window. They'd been flying for several minutes.

  Zheanni peered outside; "They shut half the city down," her gaze narrowed as she spotted the convoy of black limousines and sports cars weaving through the streets. Even over the helicopter’s roar, the distant hum of other helicopters circling the city reached their ears.

  Conor sighed with annoyance, "Hold on, both of you, shut it!" He picked up his phone, dialing a number. Screaming over the noise, "Poatan, can you hear me? Okay, yeah, meet us outside the city…yeah, they on us. Just go to that ghost town area we saw the other day." He hung up, and knocked on the window between them and the pilot, "Hey bruh, bring us over outside the city. To the north where that forest is."

  Poatan, the man Zoe and Marcello attempted to find earlier, stood against a tree that protruded from the cracked sidewalk. The ground beneath him was littered with empty beer cans and shards of broken rock.

  The screeching of tires and the blades of helicopters filled the air as the trio flew closer.

  He glanced up, seeing their helicopter speed over him. He stepped out into the middle of the road and waited.

  A block in front of him, a convoy of sleek sports cars and limousines roared into view, drifting around a corner, their headlights slicing through the dim light of the setting sun. Poatan's expression impassive. The first car—a matte-black sedan—hurtled toward him.

  Blue energy formed around Poatan, creating a small dust cloud as the vehicles closed in quickly.

  The car collided with him head-on. The hood crumpled like paper, the windshield shattering into a spiderweb of glass. The impact sent a shockwave through the street, but Poatan didn’t budge. The driver and passengers inside the vehicle slumped forward, lifeless. The Lamborghini behind it swerved violently, skidding out of control and slamming into an abandoned building. The structure groaned under the force, bricks crumbling as the car came to a halt.

  Several more cars and limos came into view; above them, helicopters circled, shining spotlights down on Poatan as he deactivated his energy.

  Soon, over fifty men, all from different gangs and crime families, surrounded him either on foot or in their cars.

  A man in a gold suit and a scar across his right eye maneuvered through the quickly growing crowd. Poatan watched him with no visible emotion as the man took a large .50 cal gold and ivory pistol from his pocket and aimed it at his head. He was a lot shorter, the top of his head only coming to Poatan's chest.

  He spoke with a heavy accent, "I'm going to guess you're with the group who robbed the bank."

  "Yup," Poatan said.

  "Do you know who I am?" The man snarled.

  Poatan looked past the man. "No, but I am curious as to why you're all workin' together."

  "I'm Ugo," the man introduced himself. "You broke the sacred rule," the man sneered, taking a pistol. "You don't fuck with the money! Normally, no one else would give two shits as to what happens with them…but pulling that little stunt fucks up our pockets, ya know? We gotta eat too, ya feel me?"

  "Okay," he said dismissively.

  Ugo's face turned several shades of purple, and he tried pulling the trigger. He blinked, looking at it with surprise, peering down the barrel, attempting to squeeze the trigger a few more times before realizing he still had the safety on, and pointed it at Poatan again.

  As he pulled the trigger, Poatan put his index finger inside the barrel. The gun exploded in Ugo’s hand with a deafening bang, sending shrapnel flying. Ugo screamed, clutching his mangled hand, blood dripping onto the asphalt. Large chunks of metal stuck out of his flesh.

  Poatan raised his hand; it was grey and cracked, covered in a layer of rock.

  With a quick downward motion, Ugo's head caved in with a single blow.