BAC U.S. Division, Executive Suite, Imperial Crest, Virginia

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, spilling golden light into the sterile interior. The Executive Suite stretched out before them like the throne room of a corporate empire. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the polished marble in the glow of the late afternoon sun. At the center of the lobby gleamed the BAC logo, a sleek fusion of a basketball and a laurel wreath engraved into the floor like a seal of power.

Ethan's team stepped out, each carrying the invisible weight of the ledger as if it were a live bomb strapped to their backs. The adrenaline of their infiltration still thrummed beneath their skin, but this battlefield was different. Gone were the shadowed cathedrals and hidden passageways. Here, the war was fought beneath chandeliers and boardroom lights.

At the head of the group, Lucas Graves clenched his jaw. His usual sharp, alert gaze was clouded by something deeper family.

He exhaled slowly, voice barely above a whisper. "We're really doing this…"

Ethan walked beside him, steady and deliberate. "She's the only one with the resources to handle something this big. If Romanov already knows about the ledger, we can't hide it. We have to control the narrative before she does."

They moved down the long hallway, passing through layers of security like a procession through concentric fortresses. Each guard's eyes flicked to Lucas not just recognizing him as a rising basketball star, but as Romanov Graves' son. His presence parted the defenses like an unspoken password.

When the final door opened, the air itself seemed to shift.

Inside the boardroom, Romanov Graves sat at the head of a long obsidian table. Her navy suit was razor-sharp, her hair pulled into a severe bun that emphasized the cold precision in her silver eyes. Diamond earrings caught the light like shards of ice. On her right hand, a WNBA championship ring glimmered a silent reminder of the queen she once was on the court.

Romanov Graves.

Former WNBA legend. Ruthless business strategist.

CEO of BAC.

And Lucas's mother.

Her gaze rose from the tablet before her, already displaying a high-resolution scan of the ledger. "Ethan Albarado. Lucas Graves. You've been busy."

Lucas stiffened at the sound of her voice. It was colder than the glass walls surrounding them.

"...You already know," he muttered.

Romanov leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin. "I know everything that happens under my roof and beyond it. You think stealing a century-old cult ledger goes unnoticed? The Pastor's network isn't the only one with eyes."

Ayumi and Charlotte exchanged uneasy glances. Louie fiddled nervously with the bands around his wrists, while Kai's eyes swept the corners of the room, alert for traps not physical ones, but verbal snares that could change everything.

Ethan stepped forward, locking eyes with her. "We didn't steal it for personal gain. That ledger contains names. Transfers. Secret funding channels. If this cult is tied to BAC—or anyone close—you need to see this before it's too late."

Something flickered behind her cool exterior. Interest. She extended her hand in a commanding gesture. "Show me."

Coonie moved up, laying the leather-bound ledger on the table as if presenting evidence before a judge. Romanov's hand hovered for a moment before she touched it, turning the pages with surgical precision. Her eyes scanned the coded entries like a hawk dissecting prey.

Then she froze.

Her voice dropped to a murmur. "...So that's how they're laundering the money."

The sound of the book snapping shut echoed like a gunshot in the room. She looked at Ethan now not as a CEO observing a subordinate, but as a strategist sizing up a dangerous variable.

"Do you have any idea what you've gotten yourself into?"

Ethan's jaw tightened. "I know enough. And I know we can't just sit back. This thing is connected to your world, Romanov. To our world."

Romanov rose slowly, every movement exuding control. She wasn't just a businesswoman now; she was a queen addressing those who had stepped into her court.

"This ledger… is a declaration of war. Against BAC. Against sports as we know it. And apparently, against my son's little team."

Lucas stepped forward, frustration tightening his voice. "This isn't just some game, Mom. People are getting hurt. Ethan and the team risked everything to bring this here."

For a heartbeat, something softened in Romanov's eyes. The mask slipped, revealing the mother beneath the iron facade. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

She turned back to Ethan. "You've forced my hand. If this gets out, there will be chaos investigations, sponsors pulling out, leagues collapsing. But if we move fast…" Her finger tapped the ledger. "We can use this."

She leaned forward, her presence sharp as a blade. "Leave this with me. I'll have my analysts crack the codes, trace the accounts, and give you something actionable. But Ethan—" Her voice lowered, silk over steel. "From this moment on, you're playing in a different league. One mistake, and this cult won't be the only enemy you have."

Ethan didn't flinch. "Then I'll just have to make sure I don't make any."

A faint smirk curved her lips, the same reckless spark Lucas sometimes showed before a risky play. "Good answer."

As they turned to leave, Charlotte whispered to Ayumi, her voice trembling with excitement and fear. "It's starting, isn't it?"

Ayumi's pen scratched rapidly in her notebook. "Yeah. This isn't just a basketball story anymore. This is bigger."

Outside the suite, Ethan's thoughts raced. They had gained a powerful ally but also stepped into a game with stakes far beyond the court. Romanov Graves was not someone to underestimate. She played for empires.

And somewhere, far away, Cloud was moving too.

The ledger was no longer just in their hands.

It had entered the world stage.

And the pieces were beginning to move.

...…

Location: Unknown — "The Network"

The night after the ledger theft, the world above was restless. Rumors scattered like dust in the wind—truth and lies tangled together in chaotic whispers. But far below, in places where even echoes dared not linger, a different kind of war began.

In a dim control room, lit only by the glow of a dozen holographic panels, Cloud sat alone.

His platinum-blonde hair caught the cold light, the lower half of his face hidden behind a matte-black mask. The room wasn't large, but every surface exuded precision. Security feeds, intercepted communications, satellite traces, financial movements names and faces aligned on the floating screens like pieces on a chessboard awaiting his next move.

He watched the chaos unfold with eyes like sharpened glass. A soft breath escaped him, more like a verdict than a whisper.

"You wanted to play with fire… now burn."

His gloved fingers slid across the panel, each motion queuing silent directives. And then, like a sleeping giant stirring, the network moved.

A mid-level cult treasurer, who'd tried to flee down a deserted highway, simply vanished. His car was found idling on the roadside, doors open, engine still warm. No footprints. No signal.

A courier attempting to sell fragments of the ledger to an independent media outlet was intercepted mid-flight. His private jet turned around without explanation, his ticket canceled, his digital identity erased as if he'd never existed.

Two corrupt officials linchpins in the cult's drug operations stepped down from their posts within hours. The press called it "personal emergencies." No one could verify what those emergencies were.

The ledger was meant to expose them. Instead, Cloud rewrote the story.

Every incriminating trail was either buried six feet deep or folded into a narrative that redirected power back to him. Through carefully timed leaks, the world began to hear whispers of a "contained scandal," of a "basketball development initiative" quietly funded by mysterious benefactors. His fingerprints were nowhere. His influence was everywhere.

One of the floating panels displayed Romanov Graves' private network. Her image flickered briefly eyes sharp, lips tight, already mobilizing her corporate war machine. Cloud tilted his head, watching her in silence.

(She's moving fast. Good. That means she understands the game.)

He leaned back in his chair, letting the controlled chaos unfold like a symphony. His network didn't just clean up messes. It built thrones out of ruins.

Miles away, Ethan sat at a table with Lucas, Ayumi, and the rest of the team. The worn ledger lay open between them, illuminated by the overhead light. Its pages looked untouched, its contents sacred. But what none of them knew was that half of its secrets were already gone scrubbed, rewritten, and reshaped before the book even landed in their hands.

Ethan traced his finger across one of the columns, brow furrowed. Strange… there are gaps. This feels too organized.

But he pushed the thought aside. There were bigger threats to face at least, that's what he believed. He had no idea that far beyond their small circle, someone was already protecting him. Not out of loyalty. Not out of justice. But out of blood.

…

Elsewhere — Rooftop

Cloud stood beneath the moonlight, high above the sleeping city. The mask caught the pale glow, turning him into a silver ghost against the night. Wind curled around him, tugging at his long coat as if the darkness itself acknowledged him.

He tilted his head slightly, as though sensing something far away. His voice slipped through the night like a secret meant for no one.

"Don't get dragged into this mess, Ethan… I'll handle it."

Then he stepped off the ledge not falling, but disappearing into the shadows as if the night had simply reclaimed what belonged to it.

The world believed the ledger would bring chaos.

Cloud turned it into a weapon.

A silent storm was already reshaping the battlefield.

And no one else had even realized that the war had begun.

To be continue

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