"NYPD Corporal John Dollo—a beloved local hero—was known throughout downtown Queens for his unrelenting bravery during the Mills Bank hostage crisis, where he neutralized multiple armed assailants while off duty and under fire."
The reporter spoke as a photograph filled the screen: a white man in his early thirties, smiling in full police gear.
He wore an Aegis composite vest—experimental body armor reinforced with advanced ceramic plating—along with matching head, arm, and shin protection. In his hands rested a compact tactical firearm, paired with breacher rounds, enhanced tear gas, and a Vale Consortium–issued V-Arc Mk I electrified baton.
"That same bravery led to his selection as the first operative in Special Constable Commander Alexander Vale's anti–organized crime initiative," the reporter continued.
"This morning marked the end of a month-long operation targeting local mafia fronts, following intelligence of a joint deal between the Rizzuto-Cane Syndicate and a Mexican cartel—seemingly an attempt to form a new alliance."
The image behind the reporter shifted to footage of the Bronx.
"Our sources say the meeting between the two groups was set to take place at the newly constructed Starlight Night Club. But this is where the story takes a gruesome turn."
She took a steadying breath.
"In the middle of the meeting, law enforcement rushed the building—detaining civilians partying on the first floor—while a second team entered from above, breaching the upper offices. What they found instead was a trap."
"The intelligence leak was bait," she said.
"One that led not only to the death of Corporal John Dollo, but also to dozens of fallen officers and fifty-six civilian casualties."
The screen changed to shaky cellphone footage.
A man recorded his friends dancing, laughter and music filling the frame—until shouting erupted. The camera jolted as he dropped his phone.
Officers stormed in, weapons raised, ordering everyone to their knees. He complied immediately, no longer checking whether his phone was still intact.
The footage continued recording.
Police swept across the first floor, guns trained on the crowd. Others rushed upstairs toward the lounge.
Then the sprinklers activated.
Clear liquid poured down over the kneeling civilians.
At first, it appeared to be a routine fire suppression system—but several members of the crowd seized the moment, tilting their heads back and opening their mouths.
The sprinkler water dissolved pills hidden beneath their tongues.
"As you can see," the reporter narrated, "multiple individuals consumed the liquid moments before the power was cut."
The footage plunged into darkness.
An officer's voice shouted, ordering everyone to stay down—to remain on their knees.
The lights flickered back on.
Music blared louder than before.
A blurred image filled the screen: a woman biting into a man's neck.
Chaos followed.
Lights strobed on and off as civilians screamed and scattered. Some were seized and dragged forward as human shields. Others backed away in terror as those who had drunk from the sprinklers surged forward—moving with unnatural strength.
They overwhelmed the trained officers.
Knives flashed, stabbing between armored plates. When blades failed, they tore weapons from fallen hands and fired into exposed weak points—shoulders, necks, the backs of knees.
Police raised their rifles.
"Stand down or we will shoot! I said stand down!"
Breacher rounds were fired.
Blood splattered as bullets tore through their targets.
The lights went out again.
When they returned, two more officers were down—killed by their own weapons.
"This is the clearest footage we have of the Starlight Night Club incident," the reporter said grimly. "Investigators believe the attack was a coordinated attempt to seize ownership of Vale Industries' newly developed test equipment, with the intent to sell advanced assault rifles and armor-piercing rounds on the black market."
"This operation resulted in severe injuries to multiple law enforcement personnel and the death of Corporal John Dollo, who led a strike team on the top floor while the events below unfolded."
"After the remaining officers were disarmed and incapacitated, the mafia affiliates exited the building and detonated an explosive device—collapsing the club's first and second floors and burying dozens alive."
The screen filled with aftermath footage: firefighters, police, and ambulances swarming the ruins, pulling survivors from beneath twisted concrete and steel.
"This is all we have confirmed in the past few hours," the reporter concluded. "But many questions remain. Why did the gang members drink the sprinkler water? How did they overpower trained officers with brute strength—and leave them for dead?"
The broadcast shifted to images of confiscated rifles, body armor, and magazines.
Then three black pills appeared on screen, each marked separately: V+, V-, C-. Beside them lay small plastic bags filled with hazy liquid mixed with herbs.
The camera panned away from the reporter, splitting into a three-way video call.
A male co-host appeared on screen.
"Good morning, viewers. I know this isn't how any of us wanted to start our day…"
Qiren drove on, listening as the man spoke and introduced a narcotics specialist.
The screen shifted to a second video feed.
An elderly Asian man appeared—thin-framed, gray-haired, his posture rigid despite his age. He wore a plain suit with no insignia, his expression calm in a way that suggested he had seen far worse than what he was about to describe.
"This incident aligns with the activity of a highly specialized black-market group," he said evenly. "A syndicate dealing in illegal performance-enhancing drugs—what they market as experimental steroids."
He folded his hands together.
"They openly claim to sell to anyone willing to become their guinea pigs. Their process involves pumping subjects full of untested compounds and stimulants while closely monitoring and tracking the body's reactions in real time."
The reporter's face appeared beside his on the split screen.
"That sounds… horrifying," she said quietly. "To think there's a group like this operating freely."
The man nodded once.
"For better or worse, most of their experiments end in failure."
He continued without pause.
"Law enforcement has recovered numerous test subjects discarded in random gutters, alleyways, and abandoned buildings. Initially, these cases puzzled investigators—each body showed signs of extreme drug exposure, multiple disease variants, and catastrophic organ failure…"
He glanced down briefly.
"…alongside the familiar side effects of steroid abuse."
The surrounding screens filled with blurred images.
Bodies lay sprawled across surgical tables in derelict buildings—muscles grotesquely swollen, bulging unnaturally like tumors beneath stretched skin. Broken bed restraints hung loose, snapped apart as if the victims had nearly torn free.
They would have succeeded—
if not for the single bullet hole in each skull.
The images shifted again.
Different locations. Same results.
Side trays cluttered with syringes and IV bags filled with cloudy, herb-infused fluids. Vials littered the floor, labeled in stark colors:
Blue — X+
White — V++
Red — C-F
"Despite this," the man said, his voice unshaken, "the reach of the VVC Perfectionist Drug Syndicate continues to expand."
He drew a slow breath.
"This group is elusive. It originated in India, where its early operations followed a consistent pattern. They would first kidnap a known rival of a target gang."
The two reporters listened in silence.
"Only after securing the victim would they approach the intended gang leader," he continued. "There, they would present their steroid policy—the risks and the potential rewards."
"Most leaders refused to risk their own men. Death rates were high. The product was unstable."
A faint, grim smile touched his lips.
"That is when the syndicate would offer a demonstration."
The screen flickered to schematics and floor plans of warehouses and basements.
"The kidnapped rival would be used as the test subject. Temporary operating stations were set up—sometimes in abandoned warehouses, sometimes directly inside gang territory."
"They gambled with the victim's life."
"If the experiment succeeded, the subject would display a dramatic increase in strength and endurance—just long enough for the gang leader to witness the result."
"And then," he added flatly, "the subject would be disposed of."
The reporter swallowed.
"And if the experiment failed?"
"They cut their losses," the man replied. "A dead subject reflected poorly—but success spoke louder than caution."
He leaned closer to the camera.
"When experiments succeeded, gangs wanted more. Customized drugs. Long-term monitoring."
"This led to cooperation. Resources. Test facilities."
His gaze hardened.
"And that is how their operations spread—from small abandoned buildings to international networks, through deals with local gang bosses, one city at a time."
The screen slowly faded back to the newsroom.
"And now," he concluded, "we are seeing the results."
"Some perfected strains of the VVC were field-tested on Rizzuto-Cane Syndicate members, who in turn launched their counterattack against Commander Alexander Vale's anti–organized crime initiative."