At The Dream nightclub, inside the executive suites, the pounding EDM drowned out the chaos in the third-floor VIP room. Down the narrow hallway, the bass thrummed through the floorboards, a rhythmic pulse that synchronized perfectly with Cease's racing heart.
Cease stood frozen in the center of the room, his breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps. A long, hot streak of blood painted his cheekbone—a mark of the struggle he had just endured. At his feet, six massive bodyguards lay scattered across the corridor. They were down, broken by Cease's sheer force and combat instinct. As for the drug lord—the primary target—he lay crumpled on the floor, a messy end to a brutal confrontation.
Cease didn't feel pleasure in the gore, but he relished the heat of the fight. His knuckles throbbed, a dull ache that reminded him he was still alive, still standing. He looked at the fallen men not as trophies, but as obstacles he had successfully overcome. The adrenaline was a fire in his veins, a wild, flickering flame that made the rest of the world feel dull and slow.
The neon red lights bled into the crimson stains on the floor. The stench of expensive spirits and cigarette smoke mingled with the metallic tang of blood, creating a suffocating atmosphere that made Cease knit his brows in distaste. He hated the mess, but he lived for the rush.
A familiar, weary groan crackled through his comms.

"I told you. There's no such thing as an easy job."

Standing amidst the carnage, Cease felt a flicker of regret as the adrenaline ebbed. This was supposed to be a clean hit—not this pulpy, visceral mess.

"Yeah, yeah. How much time do I have before they catch on?"

"I wouldn't recommend lingering," Alert replied calmly, as if discussing the weather. "I've sent the extraction route to your HUD. See you on the other side."

"Move it. If you're caught, you're dead. Don't waste my distraction; being pawed at by a crowd of strangers isn't exactly my idea of a good time."

Currently, Alert was fighting the urge to swear. The man in front of him was literally blowing smoke into his face with a smug, unidentifiable smirk. If it wouldn't jeopardize the mission, Alert would have leveled him with a single punch. Through Alert's eyes, the world was filtered through a digital haze. Every unfamiliar face in the bar, including the man sitting across from him, was automatically "blurred" by his neural interface.

He didn't know the color of the man's eyes or the shape of his nose. To Alert, the face was just a featureless mass of flesh—like a corrupted photo obscured by a layer of smudged pixels.

The only thing sharp in his perception was the smoke.

A thick, grey cloud of tar-scented vapor, exhaled directly into his personal space. The man was laughing—a laugh that, according to Alert's logic, stemmed from a cocktail of low self-esteem and a desperate need for perceived power. Repulsive. That was the only word he had for this "pixel block."

Cease took one last look at the chaotic scene, sighed, and slipped out through the designated route, navigating the twisting turns of the back corridors.
As he burst through the emergency exit, the chill of the Rome night hit his lungs, clearing the foul cocktail of smells from the club. He jumped into the car waiting in the shadows of the alley.

Simultaneously, in the main lobby of The Dream, Alert stood up from the leather sofa. His face was a mask of indifference, even as the man opposite him continued to drone on through his smoke.

Click.

The sound of the man's lighter flicked again. Alert took a decisive step back, maintaining a strict safety perimeter—the minimum distance required to avoid smelling the man's breath.
"I have to go," Alert cut him off.
"Hey, wait, we haven't even—"

Alert didn't wait for him to finish. He turned and walked with cold precision through the throngs of gyrating bodies. Every time someone's sleeve brushed against his, his eyebrow twitched.

He reached the parking lot, stripped off his smoke-tainted overcoat, and tossed it mercilessly into a trash bin. Climbing into the driver's seat of the getaway car where Cease was already waiting, Alert immediately slammed the door locks. He pulled a bottle of hand sanitizer from the glove box, pouring a liberal amount and scrubbing his hands until the skin turned a raw red.

"You're overreacting, Alert," Cease remarked from the backseat, legs crossed, a smear of dried blood still visible on his hand.

Alert glanced at the rearview mirror, his eyes razor-sharp.

"Shut up and wipe that filth off before it touches my upholstery. Or I'll throw you out onto the pavement."

Cease clicked his tongue and carelessly wiped the blood with a scrap of cloth. Alert started the engine, the glow from the dashboard illuminating a file sitting silently in the console.
"Mission: Complete," Alert said, his voice flat and mechanical.
The car roared into the night, leaving The Dream behind just as the first screams began to erupt from the third floor.