The reason they didn't just kill their targets outright was twofold: first, any loud commotion could draw unwanted attention; second, they didn't want the scent of blood spreading too far.
Most of the people living in this area had blood on their hands—those who smelled blood would likely be reminded of past traumas. Trying to take out the more dangerous elements without triggering their instincts was nearly impossible, so using smoke bombs that could knock them out was the smarter, quieter option.
In addition, they planted some small devices in key locations—tools designed to stir up chaos once the time came and muddy the waters of this already volatile slum.
And finally—
BOOM!
A thunderous explosion shattered the early morning stillness, setting the entire slum ablaze with panic.
Families clung to one another, hiding in places they deemed safe. Only a few with nerves of steel dared peek through cracks in their windows to see where the sound had come from.
No one in their right mind would venture outside now. Everyone knew that stepping out at a time like this either meant becoming cannon fodder or getting caught in the storm. Unless you were utterly brain-dead, no one gambled with their life like that.
Laila and Roy, of course, heard the explosion. It wasn't just a single blast—multiple detonations soon followed from all directions. No one could pinpoint the source or cause, but one thing was certain: someone had come for Martin, and they weren't playing games.
The explosions sounded intense, but they weren't particularly lethal. If they had been, given the density of the slums, the casualty numbers would've been horrific.
They weren't here to slaughter. All they wanted was to escape amid the chaos. Martin's people could die for all they cared, but the average slum dwellers were just people trying to survive under his heel—they didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire.
"You ready?" Roy took a deep breath and gripped Laila's hand tightly.
"Mhm, ready." She couldn't say she wasn't scared, but maybe because he was right there beside her, she hadn't thought about what failure would mean. Instead, there was a strange thrill in the air.
Roy crept to the window and peered out. "It's getting messy out there. I can see some fires—looks like they lit a few empty buildings on purpose, just like we planned."
Laila tried to take a peek as well, but Roy quickly pressed her head down. "Don't look. What if a stray bullet comes flying?"
"You're looking through…" she pouted, but obediently pulled her head back. Fine, she wouldn't look—she'd be running outside soon anyway. She'd get plenty of visuals then, whether she wanted them or not.
A few moments later, there were two light knocks on the door.
Roy opened it to find Dong crouching low, eyes alert as he scanned the surroundings. "Ready?"
"All set," Roy said firmly.
Dong gave a nod toward Laila and then pulled a pistol out of his bag. "Here, take this. The chopper will arrive at the designated location in fifteen minutes. It'll hover for three to five minutes, maybe less if we come under fire. Keep the gun close. Your aim sucks, but in close quarters, even a bad shot can help. And if you're scared to kill, just shut your eyes and pull the trigger."
"I understand." Roy didn't bother clarifying that he wasn't afraid to kill. Anyone threatening Laila's safety would be dealt with—no hesitation.
"Good. Let's go." Dong waved them forward and led the way down a narrow path along the wall, heading toward their rendezvous point.
Roy shielded Laila the entire time, her body tucked securely in his arms. From between his arms, she could glimpse the world outside—flickering flames everywhere, the acrid stench of smoke heavy in the air. She could hear voices shouting, trying to organize firefighting efforts, and occasional gunshots echoing in the distance.
She'd thought earlier that the warning about "stray bullets" was just an excuse to keep her from looking out. Now she knew—things were that chaotic outside.
What she didn't know was that Roy had grown up in slums like these. He knew exactly how desperate poor people could become when pushed. Dong and his team had targeted abandoned houses, sure—but that would spark panic. Some would start looting, while others would try to take advantage of the confusion. To quickly restore order, harsh and immediate measures would be necessary.
Meanwhile, Martin sat stone-faced, listening to a report from one of his men. The first blast had jolted him out of bed—he'd grabbed the pistol under his pillow before his feet even hit the floor.
It had been so long since anyone dared challenge him, that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be under attack.
"Who the hell is it?"
"No signs of the enemy yet," the man reporting said, wiping sweat off his brow.
Martin exploded with rage. He hurled a glass fruit plate at him. "My entire base is getting turned upside down, and you're telling me you don't know who's behind it?!"
"Y-Yes, sir." Embarrassing as it was, the man had no choice but to answer honestly. He felt cursed just being the one to deliver the message.
"Where are the others? Where's Flander?" Martin grabbed his coat and stormed out of the bedroom, barking names of his most trusted men as he went.
Soon, Flander arrived, clearly in a rush—his clothes were disheveled and his hair messy.
"You're just in time, Flander. Tell me—what the hell is going on out there?"
"Mr. Martin, things are in chaos all over."
He didn't get to finish before Martin cut him off. "Be specific. Where are the top guys? Why haven't any of them shown up?"
"I'm not entirely sure. On my way over, I saw residents fighting each other—maybe your men went to restore order."
Flander knew full well why they hadn't shown. They'd already been taken out of the equation. Laila had even invited him to flee with them during their final planning session—but he had refused.
He wanted to stay and watch Martin lose everything, piece by piece.
One of the fires was his handiwork. And not just anywhere—he'd torched the warehouse.
That warehouse held Martin's most prized possessions: money, weapons, explosives, antiques, calligraphy scrolls—everything he'd collected over the years to buy loyalty and power. Sure, some of the more valuable items were hidden in secret caches no one else knew about. But even just burning the warehouse was enough to make Flander feel a deep, satisfying joy.
Martin sat on the couch, face grim, legs bouncing restlessly. He wasn't scared—he was anxious.
He was getting nervous. From the moment he issued the order to gather, only Flander had shown up. What did that mean? It meant all his useful men were out of reach. If he was lucky, they were tied up trying to manage the chaos. If not, they might already be dead.