Chapter 121 - 119 The Price the Chains Paid

Chapter 121: Chapter 119 The Price the Chains Paid

The confirmation reached every channel at the same time.

—Order confirmed. Perimeter sealed. Operation underway.

No one responded with enthusiasm.

There were no shouts, no blows against the vehicles, nor words intended to harden a resolve that was already prepared. The units of the Crimson Empire received the order with the same sobriety with which they would have received a coordinate. Over the internal communicators, only restrained breathing, brief verifications, and the muffled sound of hands tightening straps could be heard.

The neighborhood surrounding Club Vesper began to close.

At the first intersection, a van with institutional lights appeared. It positioned itself diagonally across two lanes and left only a narrow passage, immediately occupied by men dressed as police officers. The uniforms, badges, and caps looked legitimate under the nighttime lighting.

None of them belonged to any real authority.

Two of them deployed mobile barriers across the asphalt. Another placed reflective cones and restriction tape between a post and the rear of the vehicle. The operation was fast, clean, and ordinary enough not to invite questions. From a distance, everything looked like the response to an urban emergency that concerned no one outside that area.

The same thing happened at the next entrance to the neighborhood.

An approaching car slowed down when it encountered the flashing signals. One of the false officers raised a gloved hand and approached the window. He spoke for only a few seconds. The driver did not argue. He backed up, took another road, and disappeared without knowing that he had just moved away from a perimeter where the law would have no authority for the next several hours.

The barriers continued to appear.

Cones. Barricades. Restriction tape. Vehicles positioned at calculated angles to prevent passage without looking like fortifications.

At every intersection, the men disguised as police officers maintained a calm appearance. Some held flashlights. Others examined false documents on small clipboards. Two remained near the vehicles with their hands free and their eyes alert for anyone who tried to force their way through the closure.

The neighborhood was isolated street by street.

The few illuminated windows in the nearby buildings revealed no curious onlookers. The House of Chains had chosen an area accustomed to silence, dark vehicles, and visitors who did not want to be remembered. That same discretion allowed the Crimson Empire to take control of the streets without raising an immediate alarm.

From the outside, Club Vesper continued breathing as before.

The amber and violet lights remained on behind the tinted windows. The music struck faintly against the walls and escaped as an almost imperceptible vibration into the street. The bodies of the two guards at the entrance were no longer visible from a distance. The shadow of the façade, the position of the door, and the absence of pedestrians kept them concealed within the same silence that had protected the place for years.

Above the streets, other units finished taking their positions.

They were not on the sidewalks.

They were on the rooftops.

Black figures lay behind concrete edges, ventilation structures, and low walls. Some men held precision rifles. Others used compact optics and watched inner courtyards, rear windows, terraces, and alleys that could not be seen from ground level.

Not all of them were shooters.

There were also observers responsible for recording movements and transmitting them over the internal channels. Their voices were low and precise.

—North rooftop secured.

—Western alley clear of movement.

—Two windows open in building six. No visible presence.

—Rooftop-to-rooftop route identified. Covered.

The elevated positions formed a network around the neighborhood. Anyone who tried to escape through a window, climb toward a terrace, or cross between buildings would be exposed to several angles at the same time. The shooters were not searching for silhouettes to fire upon. They waited for confirmed targets, visible weapons, or movements that matched the escape routes marked during the prior surveillance.

On the ground, the assault teams abandoned their vehicles.

The side doors of several black vans opened without a clatter. The men descended one by one and quickly spread out through the darkness of the buildings. They carried no exterior lights or gleaming insignia. Their uniforms absorbed the street lighting instead of reflecting it.

The clothing was entirely black.

They wore military trousers with camouflage so faint that it could only be distinguished when viewed up close, tight-fitting high-collared upper garments, and heavy ballistic vests with a sober profile, without ornamental plates or accessories placed to project strength. The shoulder, elbow, and knee protection remained integrated into the uniform, adjusted so they would not strike against one another or produce unnecessary sounds.

Each man had his head covered by a tactical hood fitted to the contour of his skull. Over their faces, they wore simple, enclosed black masks made of rigid material, with small openings for breathing. They had no crests, spikes, or ornaments. Only minimal lines intended to provide protection without obstructing vision. The night optics remained raised or positioned in front of their eyes, depending on each unit’s position.

The communicators were concealed beneath the covering over their ears. The boots showed no exposed metal. The gloves completely covered their hands.

On the back of each uniform appeared the only permitted symbol: a raised black circle and, within it, a closed fist. The emblem did not shine. It could only be distinguished when an angled light passed across the fabric and, for an instant, revealed the difference in texture.

Nothing else identified them.

They wore no visible names or ranks.

At that distance, they looked like fragments of the same presence distributed throughout the neighborhood.

Most carried only the basic equipment: a tactical knife secured to the belt, one tear gas grenade, one stun grenade, and magazines or ammunition according to the assigned weapon. Some carried a second grenade; others, a compact flashlight or a small tool for forcing entryways.

Only certain men carried zip ties, plastic handcuffs, medical kits, or breaching equipment. Function determined the weight. No one carried useless objects or pieces intended to decorate the silhouette.

The units began to separate.

The central group advanced toward Club Vesper.

They were men equipped with compact shotguns for short distances. They held them close to their bodies, with the barrels lowered as they crossed the street. Part of the group headed toward the main entrance. Another section circled the building toward the service entrances and the parking lot. Among them were the members carrying breaching tools, gas grenades, and restraints for those who had to remain alive.

They did not walk in a single line.

They spread out, stopped, covered angles, and continued once the next section had been confirmed. The movement looked slow from a distance, but no pause was hesitation. Each man advanced when another was already prepared to cover him.

The lateral groups dispersed toward the support buildings.

They carried carbines and compact assault rifles, suitable for moving through rooms, stairways, and corridors longer than those inside the club. They divided into small cells and disappeared through doorways, courtyards, and secondary entrances.

The House of Chains did not occupy only the Vesper.

The club was the visible face and the access point to the core, but the nearby buildings served other functions. A narrow-fronted house served as lodging for guards. A three-story building contained surveillance rooms and communications equipment. Farther back stood a warehouse used to receive supplies and conceal vehicles. Two apartments connected by an inner courtyard stored documents, money, and objects taken from the captives.

All of them had been identified before the order.

The lateral teams occupied their entrances at the same time.

One stopped in front of an unmarked residential door. Another covered an exterior staircase. A third split between a garage entrance and a rear window protected by bars. The carbines remained raised, but their fingers stayed outside the triggers while they waited for the signal.

On a rooftop, an observer followed two men with his optics as they appeared at the rear of one of the buildings. They wore civilian clothing, but both carried handguns beneath their jackets. They looked into the alley, saw the empty street, and returned inside.

—Movement confirmed in support four —he reported—. Two possible armed members. They have gone back inside.

—Received —a voice replied over the central channel—. Lateral team three, maintain position.

There were no further words.

The outer closure was completed.

The false patrols now occupied every access route. The men disguised as police officers had blocked the main intersections and the smaller streets. Two additional vehicles positioned themselves near the routes through which real forces might arrive, prepared to delay them with false reports and diversions before they reached the neighborhood.

Above, the shooters confirmed the final sectors.

—Eastern exit covered.

—Inner courtyards covered.

—Underground access clear of movement.

—Perimeter complete.

The information reached the unit coordinating the assault.

The man in charge of the central group stood across the street, facing Club Vesper. His mask completely concealed his face. A compact shotgun rested against his chest. He wore no insignia that revealed his rank, but every voice waited for his.

He looked at the façade.

The broken doors remained half-open. A warm light escaped from inside and spread across the bloodstained floor. Beyond them, there was still music, liquor, smoke, and people who did not yet know that the entire neighborhood had ceased to belong to the city.

The man raised two fingers.

The central units moved closer to the entrances. The lateral groups placed their tools against doors and locks. On the rooftops, the shooters adjusted the stocks against their shoulders. The false police officers remained at the intersections, looking outward, as though nothing important were about to begin behind them.

One finger descended.

All teams checked their channels.

The second remained suspended for an instant.

Inside Club Vesper, the music changed rhythm.

In the neighborhood, no one moved ahead of time.

Then the hand closed.

The signal to assault had just been given.

The closed hand was enough.

The neighborhood erupted without producing a single warning shout.

At the façade of Club Vesper, three black figures extended their arms at the same time. The cylinders passed through the half-open doors, bounced across the polished floor, and rolled beneath the tables, between the sofas, and around the circular platforms. One struck the base of a pole. Another came to rest beside a row of glasses. The third disappeared beneath a private booth before it began releasing smoke.

The first clouds were thin.

Then they grew.

The gas spread along the floor and began rising between the bare legs of the dancers, the tables covered in liquor, and the bodies still trying to recover from the killing intent that had paralyzed the hall minutes earlier. The chemical smell displaced the marijuana smoke and the fermentation of alcohol. It entered through the nose, scraped the throat, and set the eyes ablaze with an immediate burn.

A woman on one of the platforms coughed and lost her grip on the pole. She fell to her knees, bringing both hands to her face. A man sitting beside her inhaled in surprise, overturned his drink, and stood without knowing where to run. Around them, the others began reacting with delay: first violent blinking, then retching, screams, and bodies shoving chairs in every direction.

The music kept playing.

The DJ leaned over the console, blinded by tears, and one of his hands altered the rhythm unintentionally. The heavy beat deformed into a harsh repetition while the smoke engulfed the dance floor. The ultraviolet lights continued sweeping across the hall and painted the clouds violet, red, and blue.

Then the central group entered.

The first rows crossed the doorway with the compact shotguns braced against their shoulders. They did not advance like a crowd. They spread out to both sides, covered the bar, the stairways, and the private booths, and left the center clear so the next line could enter behind them.

—On the ground!

The order cut through the music.

—Hands visible!

Some of those present obeyed by instinct. They threw themselves beneath the tables, covered their heads, or remained lying among shattered glass and spilled liquor. Others heard nothing beyond the burning in their eyes and the fear driving their bodies.

The guards understood.

One appeared behind the bar with a pistol in his hand. The moment he raised the barrel, a shotgun detonated from the entrance. The blast tore open his chest and hurled him against the bottles. Glass, blood, and liquor fell together over the illuminated shelves. His body slid to the floor while several containers continued breaking above him.

Two men came down from the second level.

The first managed to pull the weapon from beneath his jacket. The blast destroyed his shoulder and spun him against the railing. Before he fell, a second shot entered through his side and threw him onto the stairs. He rolled down several steps, leaving a dark streak behind him.

The other fired from above.

The bullet struck the vest of one of the assailants and made him step back half a pace. The man in black did not fall. His companion turned the shotgun and returned fire. The guard’s head snapped backward; a mass of blood and fragments splattered the darkened glass of the upper level. The body remained bent over the railing before tipping forward and falling onto an occupied table.

The hall finished breaking apart.

The clients ran.

They did not do so as an organized group, but like trapped animals that had discovered too many exits at the same time. Some shoved toward the main entrance. Others searched for the private doors on the second floor. A plump man tried to pass between two soldiers while covering his mouth with his shirt.

The butt of a shotgun struck his jaw.

The sound was dry. The man lost his balance and fell backward, unconscious before touching the floor. Another tried to jump over a sofa. A soldier caught him by the shoulder, spun him around, and drove the end of the weapon into his abdomen. When he bent over, a second blow to the temple left him lying beside the table.

A woman dressed in an expensive suit ran toward a side exit. Two men ordered her to stop. She did not. One intercepted her, swept her legs, and controlled her fall before securing her wrists with a zip tie. She screamed, coughed, and tried to kick him. The soldier only tightened the restraint and dragged her out of the line of fire.

Not everyone was struck.

The dancers who climbed down from the platforms and lay on the floor remained unharmed. Some cried with their faces against the floor. Others trembled naked, covering themselves as best they could while the gas forced coughs and saliva from them. The soldiers passed beside them without aiming at them. A member of the control team guided them toward a wall, forcing them to keep their hands visible.

—No one leaves until they have been identified!

That was the difference between surviving and becoming a target.

Anyone who obeyed was restrained.

Anyone who tried to cross the perimeter was brought down.

Anyone who raised a weapon died.

One client drew a small pistol from his ankle. Perhaps he intended to defend himself. Perhaps he belonged to the organization. He did not manage to aim. The nearest shotgun roared, and the blast destroyed his hand before entering his abdomen. He fell between two armchairs, clutching a wound he could no longer close.

On the second level, the private doors opened one after another. Men and women came out coughing, some naked, others trying to dress while they ran. The soldiers who had taken the stairway shoved them against the wall and forced them to kneel. A guard hidden behind a curtain fired through the fabric. The return fire pierced the curtain, the door, and his body. When the cloth fell, the man appeared pinned against the wall by his own weight, his torso turned into a dark opening.

The music finally stopped.

One of the assailants disconnected the console with a blow. The silence that remained was filled by coughing, sobbing, isolated detonations, and the sound of boots passing over glass.

Outside the club, the rest of the neighborhood fell at the same time.

At the house used as guard lodging, a breaching charge tore the lock away. Before the door finished striking the wall, a stun grenade entered through the open space.

The white explosion filled the corridor.

The men who had been sleeping or playing around a table were deafened during the first second. Some brought their hands to their ears. Others reached for their weapons out of habit, unable to focus their sight.

The carbines of the Crimson Empire began firing.

The bursts were short.

One man took three hits to the chest before rising from the chair. Another reached for a shotgun resting beside the wall and lost half his face when the first line entered. The third tried to hide behind a sofa. The projectiles passed through the backrest and tore open his back; he remained kneeling for several moments, with his arms trapped beneath his body, before falling onto his side.

The assailants advanced without stopping to check who was still breathing.

One room.

One corner.

Another door.

On the upper floor, two members of the House of Chains fired from the end of a hallway. The bullets tore plaster from the walls and struck one of the vests. The wounded man moved aside. His companion threw another stun grenade beneath an open door. The flash erased the corridor for an instant. When the defenders tried to recover their sight, the carbines were already in front of them.

Both bodies fell almost together.

In the surveillance building, the monitors displayed every point of the attack for several seconds: the club’s façade covered in smoke, men in black crossing a garage, false police officers closing the streets, and motionless figures on the rooftops.

One of the operators tried to activate an alarm.

The window behind him opened with a small hole.

The precision round entered through the back of his neck and exited beneath his eye. His face struck the keyboard, leaving a thick stain across the keys. The second operator moved away from the monitors and ran toward a rear door with a pistol in his hand.

He did not make it.

The lateral team burst in from the hallway. Two shots passed through him before he could turn around. He fell onto the cables and dragged a screen down with him, which shattered against the floor while displaying the image of Club Vesper one last time.

In the support warehouse, four men tried to carry boxes out through a rear door. One carried a rifle. The others carried fuel containers and documents. When they saw the black silhouettes in the alley, they dropped everything and tried to retreat.

—Armed targets confirmed —an observer reported from a rooftop.

The man with the rifle raised the barrel.

The first precision bullet entered through his chest and threw him back into the building. The others ran. One fell dead before crossing the doorway. The remaining two reached the interior and collided with the team that had already entered through the front.

There was no warning.

The bursts folded them over the boxes they had tried to save. Fuel spilled across the floor, mixing with the blood, while documents escaped from an open folder and spread beneath the boots.

In the apartments connected by the courtyard, the resistance lasted longer.

The members of the House of Chains knew the rooms and had pushed furniture against the entrances. They fired from the windows, behind the doors, and through the thin walls. The Empire responded with smoke, stun grenades, and concentrated fire.

A door gave way.

The first defender took the shots in the throat and sternum. Blood struck the wall behind him. The second tried to crawl toward a room filled with files. A bullet shattered his knee; two more entered through his back before he reached the desk.

An armed woman appeared from the bathroom and pulled the trigger of a pistol. The shot grazed the mask of one of the assailants. He turned and fired twice into the center of her body. She struck the frame, remained suspended for an instant, and then fell into the room.

In the courtyard, a man jumped from a balcony.

He landed badly, but managed to stand. He ran toward a low wall, convinced that the darkness could conceal him. From the eastern rooftop, an observer followed his movement.

—Armed fugitive. Courtyard seven.

The man carried a pistol in his right hand.

The shooter corrected the angle and fired.

The bullet entered through his back and exited through his chest. The fugitive struck the wall with both hands, left a red stain on the concrete, and fell without managing to climb.

No route remained open.

Inside Club Vesper, the central group already controlled the main floor.

The visible guards were dead. The clients and workers remained lying down, kneeling, or unconscious. Some tried to explain who they were between fits of coughing. No one listened to them yet. The control teams moved along the rows, removing weapons, phones, and documents, and marking those who had to be interrogated.

A man in a suit pointed toward one of the doors and shouted that he was a friend of management.

Two soldiers lifted him from the floor and restrained his hands behind his back.

That statement did not protect him.

It turned him into someone who could not be lost among the others.

The man in charge of the central group crossed the hall, observing the bodies of the guards, the secured private booths, and the captured stairways. The gas still floated beneath the ceiling, but it no longer prevented them from seeing the corridor that led toward the restricted areas.

He brought two fingers to his communicator.

—Façade secured. Main resistance eliminated. Civilians and possible collaborators under control.

The responses came from the nearby buildings.

—Support one secured.

—Surveillance neutralized.

—Warehouse under control.

—Apartments being cleared. No confirmed escapes.

The man in charge looked toward the dark door at the back of the club.

Beyond it began the stairways that descended toward the display cases, the storage corridors, and the core of the House of Chains.

He raised the shotgun.

Around him, part of the unit replaced magazines, adjusted their masks, and formed up in front of the entrance. The control teams remained upstairs with the detainees. The others took positions on both sides of the door.

The man in charge opened the channel once more.

—Public floor under control. Beginning descent.

The door opened.

And the central group began descending toward the place where the façade ceased to exist.

The noise of the hall remained above.

With every section of the stairway, the music, the screams, and the orders lost strength until they became a distant vibration trapped within the ceiling. The central group descended with their shotguns held close to their bodies and their masks still sealed over their faces. The tactical lights remained off. The corridor had enough illumination, and no one needed to announce their presence ahead of time.

The first man they found was still beside the restricted door.

He was the guard who had allowed Sebastián and the administrator to pass. He remained seated against the wall, with his legs spread and his back slumped. The weapon was still in its holster. One of his hands trembled over his thigh; the other rested against the floor, as though he still needed to make sure that something solid existed beneath him.

When he saw the black silhouettes descending, he raised his face.

He did not try to draw.

His eyes moved from one shotgun to another and then remained still, lost in a death that only he could still see. The unit commander stopped in front of him.

—Hands on your head.

The guard obeyed slowly.

Two soldiers disarmed him, turned him around, and secured his wrists with a zip tie. No one shot him. Not because his fear mattered, but because he no longer represented resistance and might still possess useful information.

—Keep him under guard.

A pair remained with him. The rest continued.

The smell changed before the display cases appeared.

Cheap disinfectant. Damp metal. Stagnant water. Bodies confined for too long.

The exhibition corridor appeared beneath the white lights in its full length. On both sides, adult men and women, elderly men and women, remained behind reinforced glass. Some sat up when they heard the boots. Others retreated to the inner walls. Several hands rose to cover naked bodies that no longer had anything with which to conceal themselves.

The black weapons offered them no relief.

For many, one organization had simply replaced another.

The group commander raised his fist and divided the unit. Half kept their barrels aimed toward the end of the corridor. The others approached the first display cases.

They did not aim at the center of the glass.

Each cell was secured by metal frames, reinforced hinges, and electronic locks embedded in the sides. A soldier placed the muzzle of the shotgun against the first anchoring point.

The blast echoed through the enclosed space.

The metal split open. The glass trembled without shattering. A second shot destroyed the lower lock and bent part of the frame. Two men inserted a tool into the opening and pulled until they separated the panel from its fastenings.

The woman confined inside shrank against the back.

—Do not come out yet —one of them ordered—. Stay seated.

She did not respond.

She only covered her chest with her arms and continued watching them as though the voice were another kind of trap.

The shotguns began sounding along the corridor.

It was not a firefight. It was a methodical sequence of destroyed locks, deformed hinges, and torn-off frames. Each blast opened a precise point. Then the tools went in, and the doors gave way one by one.

Some captives crawled outside as soon as they found the passage clear. The soldiers stopped them before they reached the center of the corridor.

—Remain beside the cells.

—The medical team is on its way.

—Do not run.

An elderly woman tried to stand, but her legs could not support her. She fell to her knees. One of the men let the shotgun hang from its strap and caught her before she struck the floor. He returned her to the inside of the cell, where she could remain seated without blocking the advance.

An adult man reacted differently. When the glass opened, he retreated and raised the metal food container as though it were a weapon. The soldier in front of him lowered the barrel.

—We are not here for you.

The captive did not seem to believe him.

He did not release the container until the men continued toward the next cell without going inside to retrieve him.

The commander activated his communicator.

—Captive corridor located. Multiple adults and elderly individuals. We need medics, blankets, and transportation. I repeat: medics, blankets, and transportation on the lower level.

—Received —they replied from above—. Evacuation team descending.

One section remained in the corridor.

They checked breathing, examined visible wounds, and marked the cells whose occupants could not move on their own. They did not attempt to conduct complete evaluations. The priority was to keep them alive until trained personnel arrived.

The others continued advancing.

Behind them, the first medics appeared on the stairs carrying bags, thermal blankets, and folding stretchers. The confined people continued watching them with the same distrust. Freedom no longer had a recognizable form after so many days of looking at weapons from the other side of the glass.

The combat team left the display cases open and continued toward the back.

The steel door appeared several minutes later.

Even before reaching it, they saw the blood.

The nearly two-meter-tall guard lay on his side in front of the entrance, his body rigid and his torso pierced through. The opening ran from the lower sternum to the back. Dried remains of entrails and fragments of ribs remained stuck to his clothing, the floor, and the armored door behind him.

The ballistic steel was deformed around an irregular hole.

The edges had been torn outward. Part of the locking system hung among severed cables and twisted metal. The door remained crooked on one hinge, separated from the frame by a force that had used neither explosives nor breaching tools.

One of the soldiers looked at the perforation.

Then he looked at the corpse.

He did not need to ask who had passed through there.

In the chamber on the other side, nine flattened projectiles remained scattered across the floor. Some were partially covered by dried blood. The commander crouched, picked one up between two fingers, and examined its compressed shape before letting it fall again.

—Continue.

No one commented on the discovery.

Rows of crates and containers occupied the industrial chamber. Several side doors had been left open. There was no visible resistance. The group crossed between the shelves, covering every angle, until another succession of corridors led them toward the area with white walls.

The screams began before they saw the entrance.

They were not the screams of the captives.

Three men remained in front of the room where Sebastián and Wendy were. They were the same men who had escorted them there. They still carried rifles. When they heard the boots, they turned in alarm.

—Weapons on the ground! —the commander ordered.

The black-haired man remained motionless for a fraction of a second. His eyes found the masks, the shotguns, and the dark emblem on their backs. He knew who they were. He also knew that behind him was the man who had caught their bullets with one hand.

The rifle began to lower.

One of his companions reacted too late.

He moved the weapon toward his shoulder.

The shotgun responded first.

The blast entered both knees. The bones gave way, and the legs bent in directions incompatible with the body. He fell screaming, the rifle slipping from his hands and blood spreading beneath his trousers.

The third tried to retreat while raising the barrel.

Another shot struck his forearm.

The limb split open from the wrist to near the elbow. Flesh, bone, and metal from the weapon struck the wall. The man collapsed against the frame, clutching what remained of his arm while the scream tore through his throat.

The black-haired man finished releasing the rifle.

He let it fall and raised both hands.

For a second, it seemed that he would be the only one to remain whole.

Then the man with the shattered knees tried to reach the weapon from the floor.

A third blast passed through the lower part of one leg and left it attached by remnants of muscle and fabric. The scream became a high-pitched sound, almost without air. His hands abandoned the rifle and searched uselessly to stop the blood.

—Stay still —the commander said—. The next movement will be the last.

The black-haired man did not lower his hands.

The other two could no longer move.

One section advanced, moved the weapons aside, and applied tourniquets to the most severe wounds. The guards did not receive care out of compassion. They would be kept alive because they knew the routes, the names, and the structure of the organization that had just been condemned.

The screams continued behind them.

The commander crossed the threshold accompanied by several soldiers.

The white room opened before them.

The columns, the polished floor, and the furs no longer seemed to belong to a luxurious space. The king-sized bed was destroyed in the center. The mattress had split open, and part of the base lay broken across the floor. Buried among foam, splintered wood, fabrics, and metal pieces was Víctor, with his head and the upper part of his torso sunken into the wreckage.

He was still alive.

A weak groan emerged from the hollow every time he tried to breathe. One of his legs moved irregularly. Blood covered his forehead, his twisted jaw, and part of his purple hair.

Wendy stood to one side, still holding the communication device.

The two albino women remained together on the floor. The mutilated one continued covering the unconscious woman with the only arm she had left, although exhaustion was overcoming her body. Her pink eye followed the soldiers as they entered. She did not yet see rescue in them. She saw more weapons, more masks, and more men arriving in a room where nothing good had ever happened.

Sebastián remained in front of the destroyed bed.

He was still wearing the dark pajamas.

His right hand remained stained with someone else’s blood. His face showed no surprise at the detonations in the corridor or the screams of the three escorts. He looked at the unit as though their arrival had occurred exactly when it should have.

The soldiers stopped.

The contrast made the room seem strange. They had descended covered in ballistic protection, carrying shotguns, grenades, and knives. They had secured a club, several buildings, and a corridor of captives. In front of them, a teenager dressed for sleep had already subdued the organization’s leader by himself and waited without any visible change in his breathing.

The commander lowered the shotgun slightly.

—Emperor.

Sebastián held his gaze.

—The public floor is secured —the man reported—. The support buildings have been taken. The main resistance was eliminated, and the captives are being freed. The medical team is already in the corridor.

Wendy briefly looked at the device, confirming that the reports matched.

Sebastián looked at the two albino women.

Behind the soldiers, the mutilated guards continued screaming. Beneath the remains of the bed, Víctor groaned again.

The troops had descended to conquer the heart of the House of Chains.

When they arrived, Sebastián had already subdued it.

The screams from the corridor had not yet faded when Sebastián gave the next order.

He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.

With two fingers, he pointed toward the destroyed bed, where Víctor remained buried among furs, foam, wood, and twisted metal. One of his legs contracted irregularly. Every attempt to breathe produced a wet groan from within the wreckage.

—Get that thing out of here —Sebastián said—. Keep it alive.

The unit commander inclined his head slightly.

—Understood, Emperor.

Four soldiers approached the bed. They did not ask how they should treat the prisoner or search for a careful way to free him. They removed the furs, pushed aside the broken boards, and used tactical knives to cut through the pieces of fabric trapping his torso.

Víctor regained enough consciousness to understand that they were moving him.

His twisted jaw tried to form words. Only a distorted sound came out. When one of the soldiers pulled him by the shoulders, the pieces of the frame scraped against the wounds on his face and tore a full scream from him. No one stopped.

They pulled him from the hollow in the bed as one would extract a stuck object.

His body fell onto its side on the white floor. He tried to curl up, but a boot immobilized his back while another man secured his wrists with thick zip ties. They then secured his ankles as well and checked that he was still breathing.

That was the only thing that mattered.

They would not relieve his pain. They would not clean the blood from his mouth or correct the position of his jaw. They would only prevent him from dying before revealing everything he knew.

Sebastián directed his gaze toward the two albino women.

The mutilated woman remained bent over the unconscious one. The arrival of more armed men had hardened her only eye again. Her remaining arm was still crossed over the burned body, although exhaustion made every muscle still trying to protect her tremble.

—Take the two of them as well —Sebastián ordered—. They will receive treatment. The unconscious one has priority.

The mutilated woman tensed when two soldiers advanced.

Sebastián looked at her.

—Do not resist.

There was no comfort in his voice. Nor was there an unnecessary threat. Only a direct instruction, delivered as something that had already been decided.

The woman first looked at the black masks. Then she looked at her companion, the blood among her white hair and the faint movement of her chest. Finally, she slowly withdrew her arm.

Two soldiers knelt beside the unconscious woman. One placed a forearm beneath her shoulders and supported her head so that it would not fall backward. The other passed his arms beneath her legs. They were not doctors, and their movements did not possess professional delicacy, but they did have the functional care of those who had been ordered to deliver her alive and without worsening her condition.

They lifted her at the same time.

The mutilated albino tried to stand to follow them. Her knee failed her. Another soldier caught her by the side before she struck the floor. She pulled away from his hand by instinct, but could not remain standing on her own.

—I am going with her —she said.

Her voice was weak, roughened by pain.

—Yes —Sebastián replied.

The man supporting her placed one of his arms around her back and helped her stand. He did not carry her like a prisoner or drag her. He kept her upright while she advanced in short steps, refusing to lose sight of the unconscious woman.

As she passed near Sebastián, the albino raised her only eye.

There was fear in it. There was also exhaustion, disbelief, and a gratitude that seemed to shame her for existing in the middle of that room. She had witnessed how the young man ordered a massacre with the same voice with which he had arranged for them to be treated.

—Thank you —she murmured.

Sebastián did not respond.

Not because he rejected the gratitude, but because he did not need it.

The woman continued toward the exit, supported by the soldier. Behind her, the other two carried the unconscious woman. Víctor was lifted afterward by two men, one holding him by the arms and the other by the legs. When his wounds scraped against the floor, he screamed again. No one changed their grip.

Before they left the room, Sebastián spoke again.

—The captives will be identified.

The group commander turned his attention toward him.

—Find out where they were taken from, who they are, and whether they have families. When they are able to travel, return them to their places of origin.

Wendy watched him from one side.

Sebastián was not looking toward the door through which the women were leaving. Nor was there any softness in his face. He was resolving an unfinished matter in the same way he would have ordered a warehouse emptied or confiscated merchandise transported.

—After that —he continued—, the Empire will have no further contact with them.

There would be no collective adoptions.

There would be no promises of permanent protection.

They would not be turned into followers because they had been rescued or forced to repay with loyalty what was being returned to them. Sebastián was not seeking to occupy a place within their lives. He wanted to get them out of there, return them as far as possible, and close the door behind them.

The commander nodded.

—Every identity will be verified.

Sebastián then looked toward the corridor, where the mutilated escorts continued groaning among tourniquets and blood.

—As for the others, identify every member of the House of Chains.

The room seemed to harden around the words.

—The captives, the coerced personnel, and those without confirmed involvement are excluded from the order.

That precision was not born from indiscriminate mercy. It was born from the same logic that governed every one of his decisions: he had no reason to kill anyone who did not belong to the structure he had condemned.

Then, his gaze grew colder.

—Every confirmed member will be eliminated. It does not matter whether they surrendered.

The commander showed no surprise.

—Prisoners for interrogation?

—Keep only those who still possess necessary information: routes, buyers, accounts, facilities, leaders, and external collaborators.

Víctor let out a groan from the corridor.

Sebastián continued:

—Once they have provided everything useful, eliminate them as well. Leave no loose ends capable of rebuilding the organization.

Wendy kept the device beside her body. The men of the unit listened without altering their positions. To them, a trafficker’s surrender did not erase the cells, the display cases, or the bodies reduced to inventory. The order did not turn every human being in the neighborhood into a target. It turned proven membership in the House of Chains into a sentence.

Sebastián observed the blood spread across the white floor.

—The corpses that retain usable organs, tissues, or parts will be sent to the casino’s black market.

One of the soldiers inclined his head slightly, confirming that he had understood.

—Do not waste anything of value.

He did not order them to be mutilated alive for pleasure.

He did not ask for suffering, spectacle, or prolonged punishment. Death was the end assigned to the organization; whatever remained afterward would be treated as a resource. The same logic with which the House of Chains had placed a price on the bodies of others would now fall upon their own, without indignation and without ceremony.

—That is all —Sebastián concluded—. Proceed.

—Understood, Emperor.

The commander turned toward the exit.

The troops began withdrawing from the room in order. The men carrying Víctor moved first toward the corridor. His groans gradually faded among the columns and white walls. Behind them went the two albino women, the unconscious one carried between firm arms and the mutilated one walking with assistance, never moving away from her.

Other soldiers left to continue the purge.

The orders were distributed over the communicators before they had finished crossing the threshold.

—Identity verification on all detainees.

—Uninvolved personnel, separated for evacuation.

—Confirmed members, temporary retention only if they possess information.

—Recovery teams, prepare for subsequent processing.

The voices disappeared down the corridor.

Soon afterward, distant detonations followed. They were not uncontrolled bursts. They were isolated, dry sounds, separated by intervals during which names, roles, and affiliations were confirmed. Somewhere in the complex, a man begged. Somewhere else, someone tried to offer money. The responses did not reach the room.

The three mutilated escorts were removed as well. Their screams continued as they were dragged away for interrogation. They would remain alive for as long as necessary to speak. Nothing else had been promised to them.

The room gradually emptied until it was stripped of movement.

The destroyed bed remained in the center, but it no longer contained Víctor. Stained foam, broken wood, and wrinkled furs remained around the hole. On the white floor persisted the blood of the unconscious albino woman, the soldiers’ footprints, and the marks left by the leader’s body as he was dragged away.

Finally, only Sebastián and Wendy remained.

The silence that settled in was not complete. The operation continued behind the walls. Footsteps, orders transmitted in low voices, and occasional detonations could be heard, marking the end of those who had formed part of the House of Chains.

Sebastián observed the room without visible emotion.

He did not seem satisfied.

Nor disturbed.

He had made a decision, and now that decision was unfolding throughout the neighborhood with the discipline of machinery. The captives would be returned. The uninvolved would be separated. The members of the organization would disappear. All of it occurred under the same will, without one part needing to contradict the other.

Wendy put the device away inside her clothing.

She remained in place for several seconds, studying Sebastián’s back. She had worked for the Empire long enough to understand the usefulness of violence, the necessity of purges, and the cost of leaving survivors capable of reorganizing. The extermination order was not what awakened her doubt.

It was the exception.

Sebastián had crossed the complex without stopping before dozens of captives. He had condemned an entire organization without changing his tone. He had ordered that the bodies of his enemies be used as merchandise.

And yet, he had crouched in front of a mutilated woman.

He had asked her what she wanted.

He had waited for her answer.

Wendy approached carefully. Not because she feared that Sebastián would attack her, but because she understood that some questions had to be asked without invading the space of someone who had the authority not to answer them.

She stopped a few steps away.

—Emperor —she said respectfully—, may I ask you a question?

Sebastián did not turn around yet.

Wendy looked at the blood remaining on his right hand.

—Why did you decide to leave those two women alive?

__________________________________________

END OF Chapter 119

Author’s Note

First, I want to apologize for the delay in publishing this Chapter. I had planned to release it much earlier, but I have been quite busy this week, and because of everything that happened during these days, I was only able to finish and publish it now.

I also want to be completely honest with you: I do not know for certain how many people continue reading each Chapter because my intermediary does not give me any information about it. The only thing I can see is that the views increase, but I am not sure that means someone is continuing to read the story either.

That is why, if someone made it this far, has read the Chapters, and is still following this story, I want to thank you with all my heart. It means a lot to me to know that someone dedicates part of their time to reading what I write.

I hope you continue accompanying me in the upcoming Chapters. And if you would like to support me, you can leave a comment with your opinion about the story or simply let me know that you are still here. That would also help me know that there really is someone on the other side reading.

Thank you very much for continuing with me and, once again, I am sorry for the delay.