Chapter 4 Agents of the Unseen

The Nocoa Terminals worked efficiently, moving like shadows in their dark uniforms. They replaced the original Monet painting, get rid of the fake, and they approached the fallen thieves, dragging their limp bodies toward a large, matte-black vehicle that had arrived on the scene. This vehicle was no ordinary car; it was built for underground soldiers, armored with bulletproof windows and reinforced steel plates. The back doors of the vehicle swung open, and the Nocoa Terminals began loading the unconscious thieves inside, one by one.

Once the thieves were secured, Pablo, the captain of the Nocoa Terminals, tapped a message into his smartwatch. He quickly sent a message to Arthur: "Mission complete. Thieves secured."

Back in his office, Arthur saw the message appear on his screen. He smiled; his plan had worked perfectly. He typed a brief response: "Well done. Return to base."

With their mission complete, the Nocoa Terminals quietly left the scene, leaving no trace of their presence behind.

As people at the Belluva Art Gallery started to regain consciousness, the police finally arrived. Sirens blared in the distance before several police cars pulled up outside the gallery. The exterior of the building looked perfectly normal, but inside, the scene told a different story.

When the officers entered, they were greeted by a confusing sight. About sixty people were scattered across the floor, slowly getting up. Some rubbed their eyes as if trying to wake from a strange dream, others stretched their arms, and a few looked around in pure confusion, wondering how they had ended up on the ground. The guests' beautiful outfits and the pristine gallery space clashed with the chaotic scene of people sitting or lying on the floor, confused.

Detective Leo Armstrong, the first officer to step inside, paused, taking in the unbelievable sight. He raised his eyebrows and muttered, "What in the world happened here?" His colleague, Officer James Kennedy, standing beside him, shook his head in disbelief. "I have no idea, but this looks... strange," James replied as they both scanned the room.

The individuals on the floor ranged from young adults to middle-aged art enthusiasts, all looking lost and disoriented. No one seemed hurt, and strangely enough, there were no signs of a struggle or property damage. The artwork on the walls, including the original Monet now in place, appeared untouched.

Leo stepped forward; his voice loud but calm as he tried to get the attention of the confused crowd. "Can anyone tell us what happened here?" he asked, but his question was met with blank stares and unsure shrugs. No one seemed to have a clear memory of what had just occurred. People exchanged confused glances with each other, but nobody could explain why they had ended up on the floor.

Leo and James shared a glance, both sensing that something was very off but not knowing exactly what.

The officers got busy, moving from person to person, trying to piece together what had happened. As they questioned each guest, a peculiar pattern emerged; no one remembered anything.

"I just woke up," one woman said, rubbing her temples in confusion.

"I don't know how I got here," a young man replied, shaking his head.

"I was just sleeping, I think," an elderly man added, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his mind.

The responses were all similar, and Detective Leo Armstrong and Officer James Kennedy exchanged skeptical glances. Was this some sort of mass hallucination? Or was it an act of a well-crafted deception?

With the heart of uncovering the truth, Leo and James began searching the premises thoroughly. They checked the walls, the doors, and the windows. There were no signs of forced entry, no broken glass, no damaged locks. Nothing seemed out of place. They found the building's security cameras, but all were mysteriously disabled. Strangely enough, there was no evidence of tampering; it was as if they had simply stopped working.

As the investigation deepened, Leo and James began gathering evidence, but it only led to more questions. They couldn't find any common connections among the individuals. Some were local art lovers, others were just there for the charity event, but none of them appeared to know each other beyond casual small talk.

The officers also ruled out the possibility of substance abuse or drug intoxication after initial checks. There were no signs that anyone had been drugged, and no one could explain why they had passed out. The situation was confusing; there was no clear motive for why all these people had been gathered or why they had lost consciousness.

With no immediate answers, Leo decided to take the next step. "Let's get them back to the station for more questioning," he said to his team. Slowly, the individuals were escorted to the police vehicles and driven to the station for further interviews, where the mystery would continue to unravel.

The investigation had only just begun, but the strange events at the Belluva Art Gallery had already left the officers puzzled.

The next morning, Rhomana Ivanovick sat at the breakfast table with his wife, Alexis, and daughter, Camilla. The sun shone softly through the wide windows, lighting up the room in a calm, golden glow. The family was having a typical Mafia-style breakfast, enjoying fresh croissants, slices of ham, eggs cooked to perfection, and rich, dark coffee. The atmosphere was peaceful, with the faint sound of the Television in the background, playing sports news.

Rhomana wasn't interested in sports, so after a while, he turned his attention to Camilla, who was quietly sipping her coffee. She held the cup delicately, her long silver hair falling over her shoulders. Noticing his daughter, Rhomana decided to ask her about her training.

"How's your training going with Sophia?" he asked, looking at her with curiosity.

Camilla paused, lowering her cup, and smiled. "Sophia is a great sensei. She pushes me hard, but I'm learning a lot," she replied, sounding proud of herself.

Rhomana nodded, satisfied. "I'm sure she's a good sensei," he agreed, knowing Sophia's reputation was solid.

Alexis, always supportive, added, "Camilla is doing great with her training. She's getting stronger every day."

Before Rhomana could say anything more, Camilla's eyes darted to the Televidion. Something on the screen caught her attention, and she leaned forward, grabbing the remote to turn up the volume.

"Look at this!" she said, her voice filled with surprise. The Television showed a scene of people stumbling to their feet, looking confused, clearly lost. "What's going on?"

The headline read: "Mysterious Gathering at Belluva Art Gallery."

Alexis leaned in, narrowing her eyes at the screen. "What on earth happened there?" she said, trying to sound just as confused as Camilla.

The news analyst's voice filled the room: "Last night, nearly sixty people were found unconscious on the floor of the Belluva Art Gallery. Police say there are no signs of forced entry, and the guests claim they have no memory of what happened. The investigation is ongoing."

Camilla, her curiosity aroused, started asking questions. "How could something like this happen? Do you think someone drugged them? Who would do this?"

Rhomana and Alexis exchanged a brief glance, knowing deep down it was likely the work of another Mafia family, maybe even an ally, but they couldn't let Camilla in on that. Keeping their faces neutral, Rhomana acted like he had no clue.

"That's strange. I hope the police can figure it out," he said, shaking his head as if it were just another mystery.

"Yes, hopefully, they'll get to the bottom of it soon," Alexis added, echoing her husband's words.

While they tried to seem puzzled, Rhomana knew deep down that whoever was behind it had likely been taken care of by Arthur and his team. There was no need to worry.

After a brief silence, Rhomana shifted the conversation back to Camilla. "Just remember to focus on everything Sophia teaches you," he said, giving her a firm nod. "You're making great progress."

With that, Rhomana patted his family goodbye, leaving the table to head off to work. The day was just beginning, and there was always more to do in his world.

Nosa Costra Prison wasn't like any other prison. It was a fortress, designed to hold the most dangerous Mafia criminals in the world. The walls were thick and the air inside felt cold and heavy. The prisoners locked up there were notorious; men and women who had run criminal empires, their faces hardened by years of crime and survival. Some had scars, tattoos of their past lives, and eyes that showed no fear.

The guards patrolled the halls in pairs, always on alert. They were dressed in black tactical uniforms, each armed with heavy-duty batons and tasers. Their boots echoed in the long corridors as they moved up and down, making sure that security was tight. The guards were strong, disciplined, and serious, knowing they were responsible for keeping the world's most dangerous criminals behind bars.

Arthur, watching from a secure room, had just given the order to make the thieves talk. He wanted to know who had sent them to steal "The Avante" painting from the Belluva Art Gallery. Pablo, along with two of his soldiers, walked down the cold hallway toward the cell where the seven thieves were being held. The cell was small and bare, with concrete walls, metal bars, and a single dim light hanging from the ceiling.

Inside, the thieves were restless. They paced around, pulling at the bars, looking for any possible way to escape. Some were trying to pick at the locks with pieces of metal they had found. The tension in the air was thick, but as soon as Pablo and his soldiers arrived, the thieves froze.

Pablo's voice broke the silence. "Save your energy," he said calmly. "You might need it to talk." His tone was cool but firm, sending a message that this was not a fight they could win.

The leader of the thieves, a tall man with a shaved head and a scar running down his cheek, spat on the ground in defiance. He stepped forward, gripping the bars. "Why don't you come closer?" he sneered. "I'll punch your face in."

Pablo chuckled, not taking the bait. He shook his head slightly and said, "I wish you were smart enough to try. But I'm not here to fight you. I'm here to make sure you talk." His calm confidence made it clear that he was in control, not the thieves.

The room fell silent again as the tension grew, but it was clear to everyone in that cell who held the power.

The leader of the thieves chuckled darkly, leaning against the bars. "You'll have to bite me to make me talk," he sneered, trying to sound fearless.

Pablo's eyes narrowed, his tone steady and cold. "Oh, biting you would be easy," he replied. "But I'm afraid you wouldn't survive my fangs. Alenzio Marcus; the notorious godfather of Willowbrook, is still recovering from the wounds I gave him two years ago."

The mention of Alenzio Marcus made the thieves freeze. They'd all heard of Marcus, the godfather of Willowbrook, who had disappeared without a trace two years ago. Most believed he'd gone into hiding, but now they knew he was here, trapped in a cell in Nosa Costra Prison, just down the hallway.

Ignoring the shock on their faces, Pablo continued, "And Alenzio? He's looking forward to meeting each of you. Says he needs someone to lick his wounds."

The leader of the thieves tried to laugh, but the sound was strained. He was trying to mask his fear. "You're lying," he challenged, forcing his voice to sound bold. "Everyone knows Alenzio is the one running the country, that the president's just a puppet!"

Pablo gave a small, cold smile. "Let's not waste my time. I've got only three minutes to get you ready to see your president, Alenzio Marcus, in his own little cell down the hall." He leaned in slightly. "But first, you have sixty seconds to say the name of the person who sent you for 'The Avante.' Why did he hire you? And who else is he working with? So, who's ready to start talking?"

One of the thieves pushed forward, and with a sudden movement, spat directly in Pablo's face.

Pablo just wiped his cheek, smiling calmly. "Thank you for volunteering," he said. "Grab him," he ordered his soldiers, nodding to the thief. "He'll be the first to start talking."

Without hesitation, the soldiers opened the cell door and reached for the thief, locking their hands firmly around his arms. Their grip was unbreakable, and he struggled, but it was no use; he couldn't even move his body. With steady steps, the soldiers led the thief out of the cell, their pace quick but controlled, as Pablo closed the cell behind them.

They walked him down the dark, cold hallway, leading him to a more isolated room, far away from the cells where the other thieves were held. The silence grew thicker as they approached the apartment, and the thief's defiance started to slip, his eyes darting around nervously as the soldiers brought him closer to his fate.

They then finally led the thief into a small, cold room with blinding bright lights overhead. The room looked like a hospital operating room; clean white walls, gleaming metal trays with various sharp tools, and a sturdy chair bolted to the floor in the center, ready for its occupant.

Without wasting a moment, the soldiers forced the thief into the chair and strapped his arms and legs down tightly with thick, leather belts. The thief struggled against their firm grip, but his efforts were useless. He wasn't sure whether he should start shouting or stay quiet, feeling his pulse race faster with each click of the buckles tightening around him.

Once he was securely strapped in, Pablo and his soldiers put on white gloves and white mouth masks with quiet, practiced movements. The thief watched, feeling a pit of dread growing in his stomach. He knew that whatever they had planned wouldn't be pleasant.

Just then, Doctor Wallace entered the room. He was an older man with thinning gray hair and a pair of small, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Dressed in a crisp white lab coat and carrying a tray with syringes and small glass bottles, he looked more like a scientist than a doctor. But his eyes held a sharp, unsettling intensity.

"Let's get to work," Doctor Wallace said with a cold smile, setting the tray on a table with a metallic clink.

Pablo glanced at the thief, who was now staring at the doctor with wide, fearful eyes. "We're ready when you are, Doctor," he replied, his voice calm.

The thief's hands clenched into fists, feeling his last shred of courage slip away as he realized this wasn't a simple interrogation; it was going to be much, much worse.