KINGPIN

_Inside A Mansion _

Coming Into focus was a living room, that exuded wealth. A silent, suffocating kind of wealth that was not meant to be flaunted but understood. Every inch of the space dripped in gold... golden armrests, golden table edges, even the intricate carvings on the walls had hints of gold threaded into their patterns. The chandelier above cast a warm, almost unnatural glow, reflecting off the polished surfaces and bathing the room in a subdued radiance. The air smelled of aged leather and faint cigar smoke, the scent clinging to the heavy curtains that draped over the towering windows.

Two men stood at the double doors, clad in sleek black suits, their expressions unreadable behind dark shades. They were statues.. unmoving, disciplined, watching over the room like silent sentinels. Beyond them, maids moved about, their footsteps light against the pristine marble floor, dusting furniture, adjusting vases filled with exotic flowers, performing their chores with practiced calmness.

Against the farthest wall, an enormous television screen dominated the room, its display crisp and vivid. The screen flickered with images of flashing red-and-blue lights, crime scene tape stretching across a devastated estate. A female news anchor sat upright in a pristine studio, her expression neutral, but her voice carried an undertone of unease.

"Breaking news tonight.. Dun, the infamous leader of the Ground Hogs faction, has been found dead. Or rather… what remains of him."

Footage cut to aerial views of the estate, now a desolate ruin. The camera panned across hallow windows, bloodstained walkways, and white body bags being carried away into waiting vans. The screen zoomed in on uniformed officers moving with careful precision, searching for evidence.

"Reports confirm that not only was Dun killed, but every single member of the Ground Hogs faction has been wiped out. Authorities have yet to identify Dun's remains, as what little they recovered was… unrecognizable. At this time, forensic teams are still investigating."

A pause. The anchor shifted slightly, as if uncomfortable with the words she was about to say.

"This leaves us with one pressing question: Is there a war brewing among villains? If factions have begun turning against one another, how long before this bloodshed spills into the streets for all to see?"

Another pause. Her lips pressed together briefly before she added, "I hope not."

The screen dimmed slightly as the news transitioned to another segment, but the words still lingered in the room like a ghostly echo.

Seated on one of the golden sofas, a man watched the screen with an air of quiet contemplation. His posture was relaxed, yet his presence demanded attention, one leg crossed over the other, an arm draped over the side of the sofa. His fingers, long and refined, rested lightly on the sofa's golden armrest, tapping against it in an unhurried rhythm. There was something intentional in the way he moved, as if every action was calculated down to the second.

Beside him, a cellphone rested on the polished glass table—a phone encased in gold, its surface gleaming under the soft glow of the chandelier. Slowly, with no urgency, he picked it up, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal. He pressed a button, lifting it to his ear as the call connected.

Then, in a voice deep enough to command silence, he spoke.

"Zero..." The word rolled out, heavy, weighted. His fingers resumed their slow tapping against the sofa armrest. "Did you see the news?"

There was a beat of silence. The air in the room felt thicker, heavier, as if the very walls were listening.

His head tilted slightly, his face obscured by shadows cast from the dim lighting. His voice remained even, devoid of emotion, yet there was something undeniably sharp beneath it.

"A stray…" he murmured, his fingers pausing mid-tap.

The golden glow reflected faintly off the side of his jaw, but his full face remained unseen.

"...is on the move."

The corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly.

"And it needs to be Tamed..."

****

_One Of The Hideout For Endbringers_

The mansion's passageway stretched out in unsettling calm silence, its walls draped in a deep shade of obsidian, reflecting faint streaks of moonlight through the narrow windows. A lingering scent of aged wood and something faintly metallic filled the air. Gina's boots pressed lightly against the marble floor as she walked, her movements calm, smooth, each step falling into a measured rhythm that barely disturbed the stillness.

Her black furry coat draped over her shoulders, shifting slightly as she moved, the soft fabric absorbing the dim glow of the wall sconces. Her red eyes, faintly illuminated like the crimson moon swept over the corridor with quiet intensity. She walked past heavy doors, past unlit chandeliers, past dark lines that seemed to breathe in the silence. Then, at a particular turn, she diverted.

A simple wooden door stood at the end of this side path, unassuming, ordinary. A room that could have belonged to anyone, its plain structure designed to blend in. Gina reached out, fingers curling around the handle, and pushed it open.

Inside, the room was sparsely furnished.. a bed, a desk, a chair, nothing extravagant, nothing that suggested anything more than an unused guest room. She stepped forward, her booted feet pressing soundlessly against the carpet. Her gaze lingered on the bed for a long moment, then, without a word, she raised her foot and tapped against the floor.

Three long, two fast, one loud.

A subtle shift in the air. Then, with a faint mechanical whir, the bed trembled. The sound of hidden gears clicking into place echoed through the room as the mattress split down the center, shifting apart in smooth, practiced calmness. What was once a simple bed unraveled, revealing the dark mouth of an underground passageway. A staircase stretched downward, the steps carved from cold iron, disappearing into the dim glow below.

Gina did not hesitate. She moved forward, her coat trailing behind her, the air growing cooler as she descended. The hum of machines, soft but distinct, greeted her as she took the final step.

A room unfolded before her, sterile and pristine, lined with medical equipment. The soft beeping of monitors pulsed through the air like a steady heartbeat, the scent of antiseptic sharp against the otherwise muted atmosphere. Dim fluorescent lights cast a bluish hue over the walls, illuminating the hospital-like space with an almost unnatural glow.

And there, just a few steps away, lay a figure.

A woman, motionless beneath the sheets, her breathing steady yet fragile. Oxygen tubes rested gently against her nose, her black hair cascading over the pillow, mirroring Gina's own. Her mother.

The leader of the Endbringers, the feared name that once sent shivers through the underworld, now reduced to this. A secret Gina held onto like a knife pressed against her own throat. If anyone knew… if the wrong people learned the truth… the Endbringers would not just crumble. They would be devoured.

She had made sure no one knew too much. Not the faction. Not the outside world. Not even those closest to her. Only two people carried this secret.

Her.

And him.

She did not turn when she spoke. "How is she?" Her voice was quiet, but the weight in it was unmistakable.

A figure moved in the dim light, stepping past her towards the hospital bed. Clad in a white coat, his face marked by years of exhaustion, the man approached with slow, practiced steps. Mark.

His presence was steady, unfaltering. He did not rush. He never did. He had been there when Gina's father still was in this life. He had been the only man trusted enough to stand beside their family without a knife hidden behind his back.

He checked the machines first, his fingers adjusting dials, scanning numbers, ensuring everything remained stable. Then, without a word, he moved to the bedside. His hand ghosted over the tubes, lightly touching the IV before pressing two fingers against the woman's wrist, feeling for her pulse.

Silence.

Only the rhythmic beeping of the monitors filled the space.

Then, he finally spoke. "She's still the same." His voice carried no comfort, no false assurances. Only truth.

Gina remained still, her gaze fixed on the figure in the bed. The weight of responsibility sat heavy on her shoulders, coiling around her like an unshakable shroud.

Mark exhaled, a slow, tired breath. Then, he looked at her.

"We have to talk."

His tone left no room for argument.

And Gina already knew what he was going to say.