Late morning inside the bank lobby, chaos had taken over.
Customers and employees were huddled on the floor while several armed robbers barked orders and waved their guns around. Fear showed clearly on most faces.
Most—but not all.
Noah Vale crouched among the hostages with his hands resting behind his head, calmly observing the room.
He quickly noticed something interesting.
Aside from himself, there was another man nearby who didn't look nearly as frightened as everyone else. The man's right hand kept drifting toward his waistband—a reflexive movement that suggested he was used to carrying a weapon.
Another underworld customer, Noah guessed.
Probably here for the same reason I am.
He kept his head down and quietly hoped the robbers would finish quickly.
Just grab the money and leave already.
Ironically, Noah wasn't worried about losing the cash in his briefcase.
If these idiots actually managed to steal money from this bank, it wouldn't just be theft—it would be an insult to the Mutant Brotherhood.
And the Brotherhood did not tolerate insults.
If the robbers escaped today, Noah had no doubt the Brotherhood would hunt them down by nightfall. When that happened, the stolen money would inevitably find its way back to the bank.
Reputation was everything in the underworld.
Even criminals had rules.
Noah simply wanted the robbers to hurry up and get it over with.
The faster they left, the faster the real consequences would arrive.
"Move!" one of the robbers shouted, pointing his submachine gun at the bank employees. "Bring out the cash from the counters! No alarms, no tricks!"
The terrified tellers scrambled to comply.
But the moment the robber finished speaking—
Gunfire erupted.
Several sharp cracks echoed through the lobby.
A security guard who had tried to quietly draw his weapon collapsed after taking multiple bullets.
At the same time, one of the robbers clutched his side and screamed in pain.
"Scott!" another robber shouted, rushing over.
The wounded man staggered backward, blood soaking through his shirt.
Instead of continuing the robbery, several of the criminals immediately gathered around him.
"What happened?" one asked urgently.
"Aris," the man guarding the hostages called out, "forget about him for now. Go force the manager to open the vault. We're running out of time!"
But the robber named Aris ignored him.
"I'm not leaving him!" Aris said, supporting the injured Scott. "We're taking him to a hospital."
Scott winced and waved him off.
"Don't worry about me," he gasped. "The wound isn't fatal. The money matters more—finish the job."
Noah stared at the scene in disbelief.
…What am I watching?
Are they robbing a bank or filming a soap opera?
After several painfully awkward moments of arguing, the robbers finally resumed their plan.
One group forced the bank manager to open the vault.
The others began emptying the cash drawers.
Watching them work, Noah could practically feel his blood pressure rising.
The robber at the counter reached straight into the drawer and grabbed the entire stack of cash in one motion.
No precautions.
No hesitation.
No idea what he was doing.
Experienced robbery crews always knew to slide a sheet of paper under the stack before removing it.
Why?
Because many banks installed silent alarm triggers beneath the cash.
Removing the money directly would activate them instantly.
Which meant—
The police had almost certainly already been notified.
And judging by the timing…
They were probably already on their way.
The robbers, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware.
The vault door opened.
Inside were stacks of cash, gold bars, documents, and countless valuables.
The robbers' eyes lit up.
What they didn't realize was that many of those valuables belonged to criminal organizations storing their assets here.
Looting this vault didn't just mean robbing the bank.
It meant robbing half of New York's underworld.
The last group foolish enough to try that had vanished so thoroughly that investigators never even recovered a single identifiable body part.
Three minutes later—
Just as the robbers were stuffing money into sacks—
Police sirens screamed outside.
Seven or eight patrol cars skidded to a halt, surrounding the building.
"Boss!" one robber shouted nervously. "The cops are here!"
The leader cursed.
"What the hell? Weren't they supposed to be tied up with that press conference today?"
From his place among the hostages, Noah rolled his eyes.
So that's their brilliant plan.
Apparently these geniuses thought the entire police department would be busy attending a press event.
Did they seriously believe that when the boss held a meeting, the entire workforce went home for the day?
New York City covered over a thousand square kilometers and operated seventy-seven precincts with more than thirty thousand officers.
Yet these guys had apparently done zero research.
They weren't just amateurs.
Aside from being physically strong and reasonably accurate shooters, they seemed to be operating entirely on muscle instead of brainpower.
Noah sighed and settled more comfortably against the wall.
At this point he had fully accepted the situation.
If he wanted to end the robbery himself, it would take only seconds.
But doing that would draw far too much attention.
So for now, he simply watched the show.
Outside the bank, a police officer's amplified voice echoed through a megaphone.
"Everyone inside the building—drop your weapons and come out with your hands up! The bank is surrounded!"
Inside, the robbers' faces darkened.
"Boss… what do we do?" one asked nervously.
The leader thought for a moment.
"Negotiate," he said.
"We demand a van. They bring it here, and we leave with hostages."
His eyes swept across the hostages crouched on the floor.
Then he pointed.
"You—get over here."
Noah blinked.
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
The robber gestured with his gun.
"You're coming with us. When we go outside, you'll stand at the front and deliver our demands. We'll be right behind you."
He tapped the weapon meaningfully.
"Try anything funny and you're dead."
Noah shrugged and stood up.
"Alright."
Being a hostage didn't bother him much.
Meanwhile, across the city in Times Square, reporters had gathered for the police department's press conference.
Camera crews filled the plaza.
Microphones pointed toward the stage where Police Commissioner George Stacy stood answering questions.
Many of the reporters were clearly fishing for controversy.
But George had prepared carefully the night before and handled their questions with practiced calm.
Then suddenly—
The deputy commissioner hurried onto the stage and leaned close to whisper something in his ear.
George's expression changed immediately.
"What?" he blurted before catching himself.
"The Lansher Bank was robbed too?"
The moment those words left his mouth, the reporters' eyes lit up.
Cameras flashed rapidly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Dozens of photos captured the stunned expressions of both the commissioner and his deputy.
Tomorrow's headlines were practically writing themselves.