"Mr. Night Watcher, you need to breathe," Twist's voice, laced with strained patience, crackled through the phone. "Just tell me what's going on."
   The response was a volcanic eruption. "My wife...is in that goddamn bank, and you expect me to be *calm*?" Mr. Brock bellowed, the words a raw, guttural threat.
   Twist pinched the bridge of his nose. He could practically see the vein throbbing in Brock's forehead. "Nothing's going to happen. I'm betting they won't have time to torch the place before the cops arrive."
   A strangled sound escaped Brock. "Well, fuck that." The line went dead.
   Twist swore under his breath, tossing the phone onto his desk. Brock was a loose cannon at the best of times. Now, fuelled by fear and a possessive love for his wife, he was a disaster waiting to happen.
   Brock, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of panic and rage. He slammed his phone down, the plastic groaning under the force. He roared orders into his phone, summoning Night Watchers from neighboring districts, his voice a barely controlled tremor. He then contacted the Police.
***
Inside the First National Bank of West Adam, chaos reigned, a counterpoint to the unnerving efficiency of the robbers. The air thrummed with the high-pitched whine of fear and the gruff, clipped commands of the masked figures.
   Two of the robbers, clad in dark hoodies, were methodically loading stacks of banded bills into a gutted minibus parked just outside the main doors. The back seats had been ripped out, leaving a cavernous space now rapidly filling with the spoils of their daring raid. The others, faces obscured by bandanas, stood guard, weapons glinting in the harsh fluorescent light.
   The minibus roared to life, its engine a defiant growl against the backdrop of panic. It screeched away from the curb, just as the first police sirens wailed in the distance, a mournful symphony of impending doom.
****
The chase was a blur of flashing lights and screeching tires, a high-stakes ballet of pursuit and evasion. The minibus, driven with reckless abandon, careened through the city streets, weaving through traffic, each turn a desperate gamble. The police cruisers, sirens screaming, hung on its tail, their drivers grimly determined. Miles blurred into a disorienting kaleidoscope of brick buildings and shadowed alleyways.
   Finally, the minibus slammed to a halt at a dead-end street, the driver boxed in with nowhere left to run. The first police officer, a young man with sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, cautiously emerged from his cruiser, a pistol held steady in his hand. He approached the minibus slowly, each step measured, his senses on high alert.
   He reached the driver's side door and rapped sharply on the window. "Open the door!" he barked, his voice amplified by adrenaline.
   A figure stirred within. A young boy, no older than nineteen, slowly lifted his head from where it had been resting on the steering wheel. The officer’s blood turned to ice. Around the boy’s neck was a crude but undeniably lethal device: a countdown bomb, its digital display ticking down with agonizing slowness.
   The officer stumbled back, adrenaline flooding his veins. He raised his pistol, his hand shaking slightly.
   The second officer, drawn by the commotion, scrambled out of the patrol car. "What the hell...?" he whispered, his eyes widening in horror as he took in the scene.
   "Don't move!" the first officer shouted, his voice tight with urgency. "Who did this to you? Where are the others?"
   Tears streamed down the boy's face. "Please, you have to help me! They put this on me. They said I had to distract you so they could escape. I didn't know what else to do."
   "You have three minutes," the first officer said, his voice hardening. "What did they say would happen if you stalled us?"
   "They said...they said if they got away safely, they’d disarm it. I’d be free."
   "Jesus Christ," the second officer muttered. "So we're supposed to *hope* they get away?"
   The commanding officer sighed, "They should have escaped by now, we lost them long ago." He said, and immediately the bomb, opened and fell to the chair. "Speak of the devil."
****
At the station, the boy, pale and visibly shaken, sat across from a stern-faced detective. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on his face, highlighting his youth and vulnerability.
   "So, Richard," the detective said, his voice devoid of warmth, "tell me again, in your own words, how you got caught up in this mess."
   "My mom asked me to run to the store," Richard stammered, "she said to take the minibus so it would be easy, and when I got to the car someone was behind me, before I could see who, a bomb was locked on my neck."
   "Do you need me to contact your parents?" The detective asked.
   "No, there's no need for that, I really don't want to cause them any anxiety." The boy replied, nodding gently as he stood up to leave. "I'll just take the stuffs I bought back with the bus."
   The boy left the station with the minibus.
   As soon as the boy left, Mr. Brock, his face etched with worry, arrived at the station, seeking answers.
   "Hey! I'm sure you're having a rough day, mind having a drink with me?" The commander asked.
   "Yeah I am, it's getting late, I'll have to return to my post." Mr. Brock said. "So, any lead on the robbers?"
   "So far we don't have one. How's your wife?" The commander asked.
   "She's okay though disappointed that I couldn't do a good job. It kinda hurts, who would have expected a bank robbery at such hour?" Mr. Brock asked.
   "Okay that's enough, have a taste and leave for your duty." The commander said, handing a glass of wine to Mr. Brock.
   "Thanks." Mr. Brock replied after gulping down the wine. "I'll take my leave now, please let me know when something turns up. Those bastards have to pay for what they did to my reputation."
    Back at his office, the red light on Brock's phone blinked insistently. It was Twist.
   "Who leaked the strategy?" Brock demanded, his voice tight with suppressed fury.
   "Alright calm down, first, we still don't know who did...."
   "So why'd you call?"
   "Can you stop acting like you're the boss? I just lost my chance of rising higher in rank and you are acting like this is about you."
   "Wait, have anyone been chosen, who attacked the bank?" Mr. Brock asked.
   "The upper ranks haven't gotten anything, no money and no candidate has summited the report." Twist replied, clearing his throat. "In other words, it was a normal robbery by guys who are camouflaging themselves as the 18th street gang, probably a newly formed gang we don't know about yet."
   "What! Are you saying we were outsmarted by a newly formed gang?!"
   "Uncertainly yes."
   "What do we do now?" Mr. Brock asked, taking a deep breath.
   "As the gang rules, we'd have to get another five successful operation before other local gang." Twist stated.
   "If you're saying we're back to square one, I simply can't give you my cooperation for now and besides, me and my wife are relocating to Cypress, we've had enough with West Adam." Mr. Brock said.
   "Well, congratulations. And I hope you're not planning on quitting your job too." Twist asked playfully.
   "I'm not but sooner or later, they'll have to fire me. The night watchers are getting suspicious of me now, they just don't know how to base it on me." Mr. Brock said.
   "You're suggesting we take a break, right?"
   "Of course, we need to take a break."
   "Heard you, till next time." Twist said and hung up.
   Mr. Brock ran a hand through his thinning hair, his face a mask of frustration. "Life can be so cruel sometimes, you just have to survive," he muttered to himself.
The next morning, as Brock was preparing to leave his office, a sleek black SUV pulled up outside. He paused, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. He didn't recognize the vehicle.
   He approached the car cautiously and knocked on the tinted window. The glass lowered, revealing the impassive face of Grandwalker.
   "Wow! It's you Grandwalker. What's the surprise about?" Mr. Brock asked.
   "I was asked to deliver your pass card," Grandwalker replied, handing over a card that looks like an ID card to Mr. Brock, "and two, Overlord has called a meeting to all the gang members in California."
.......
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