The Quantum Gift

"Are you sure of what you're saying, or are you just bluffing?" Carlo asked coldly, his voice steady but laced with doubt. He leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes locked on the trembling man in front of him.

"She killed eight of my men," Hobo replied, trying to keep his voice calm but failing to hide the tremor. "Eight. Like they were ants beneath her feet. Do I look like someone who would come here to bluff about something like that?"

His pride was bruised, but he knew better than to raise his tone with Carlo. No one dared. The weight of Carlo's gaze alone was enough to silence most men, and Hobo had already risked plenty just stepping into the room.

Carlo's expression remained unreadable, but his silence was not indifference—it was calculation. He leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed, his fingers rhythmically tapping the armrest.

"What did you say her name was again?"

"Layla," Hobo answered immediately. "A high school student, but I swear on everything I know—she's more terrifying, more cruel, than anyone I've ever crossed. I've seen killers, Carlo, but this girl… she didn't flinch. She didn't even blink."

Carlo's tapping slowed. His mind was turning over every possibility. "And yet I've never heard of her. Not a single whisper about someone this dangerous. How is that possible?"

"She's not connected to any crew," Hobo said, licking his lips. "No known affiliations, no records in any circle I know. But I've seen enough to know this wasn't chance. She's trained. Not by thugs—by someone serious."

Carlo turned his gaze toward Jarul, who had been sitting silently at the side of the room. Dressed in full black, his lean frame nearly melted into the shadows. One eye was covered by a curtain of black hair, the other cool and unreadable.

"Jarul," Carlo said slowly, "what do you think? Would you like to test her?"

Jarul didn't move for a moment. Then, in a voice low and smooth as silk, he replied, "Why would I waste my time on a high school girl?"

Hobo let out a short, humorless laugh. "You think she's just a girl? I bet you wouldn't last ten moves."

Jarul turned his visible eye toward Hobo, expression unchanged. "Just because you were beaten and ran for your life," he said lazily, "don't assume the rest of us are as pathetic as you."

Hobo clenched his jaw but didn't respond. He had barely escaped with his life. He knew what he saw—and he knew none of them were ready for her.

The tension hung thick between them. Even the distant sounds from the docks felt muted under the weight of the conversation.

Carlo rose slowly from his chair, walking toward the tall window where light filtered through sheer curtains. His eyes watched the horizon as if expecting danger to walk right in.

"Mahir," he called, not turning around.

A tall man in a grey suit stepped forward from the shadows, bowing his head slightly. "Yes, boss?"

"I want everything you can find on this girl—Layla—before the sun sets. Every piece of information. Her school, her family, friends, habits, enemies, what she eats, how she breathes. I want it all," Carlo said, his voice calm but commanding.

"Yes, boss," Mahir replied without hesitation.

There was no need to ask questions. Orders like this didn't come often, and when they did, they were never taken lightly.

Carlo turned now, his gaze colder than before. "And prepare a boat. Send Hobo to the Island. He'll stay there until things calm down."

Mahir gave a small nod and left the room in swift silence.

Hobo, who had been standing off to the side, rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. "Boss… Meher's been patrolling the sea lately," he said cautiously. "Everyday. Morning and night. He's looking for anything suspicious. You sure it's safe for me to go now?"

Carlo turned his piercing gaze on him, expression unreadable. "Who cares about Meher?" he said, voice low and dismissive. "He's just a fly. I could crush him between two fingers anytime I want."

Hobo managed a tense smile and gave a small nod. "Then… I'll thank you in advance."

Carlo stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on Hobo's shoulder. The gesture looked friendly—but coming from Carlo, it carried weight.

"No need for formality with me," he said with a quiet smile. "You're my man."

Hobo bowed his head in gratitude. "I won't forget that."

"See that you don't," Carlo said, then turned back toward the window, already lost in thought—his mind calculating, watching, preparing for the storm a teenage girl had brought to his door.

The atmosphere in the room was heavy, the sea breeze barely cutting through the tension. No one spoke for a long moment.

"The Creeds have been moving suspiciously lately," Jarul said suddenly, his voice calm but carrying weight. "It looks like they're searching for something—something highly secretive. Eleven of our spies who were monitoring them… are dead."

Carlo's brows shot up. "What?"

Jarul didn't flinch. "Their bodies were delivered last night."

A silence fell again—this one sharper, colder.

Carlo rose to his feet, his jaw tight. "And you're just telling me now?"

"I only received confirmation last night," Jarul replied. "They had gone silent for days, but that isn't unusual when they're deep in covert operations. We assumed they were staying low. But their corpses arrived with a clear message—The Creeds want us to back off."

Carlo paced slowly, seething with contained fury. "They send us bodies as warnings?"

"They're drawing a line," Jarul said. "But they've only made me more curious about what they're hiding."

Carlo turned sharply toward him. "What's the status on the Angels of Death?"

"They encountered complications," Jarul answered, voice still composed. "The client failed to provide key intelligence, which caused setbacks. But they're handling it. They'll return soon—no doubt about that."

"Good," Carlo said, his tone colder now. "Because the moment they're back, I want them on this. I don't care what the Creeds are guarding. I want to know. I want every secret they're trying to bury dug up."

Jarul gave a slight nod. "Consider it done."

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