That night, Peter turned on the TV, and the entire country was in an uproar. News anchors frantically discussed the leaked classified files, government officials scrambled to control the narrative, and public outrage was growing.
Peter smirked. Perfect.
Suddenly, he sensed movement outside. Through the dim light filtering through the window, he spotted several figures sneaking toward the motel.
"They found me faster than I expected."
Without hesitation, Peter left the TV on, making it seem like he was still inside. He quickly grabbed his laptop, stuffed it into his backpack, and slipped out through the back door.
Minutes later, the agents burst into the room—only to find it empty. The glowing TV screen flickered in the dimly lit room, playing the breaking news.
They had been tricked.
From behind them, a series of muffled gunshots rang out—precise and controlled. The agents dropped, clutching their legs in pain. Before they could react, Peter moved swiftly, tying them up one by one.
Now bound and defenseless, the agents looked up at him, anger and disbelief in their eyes.
Peter stood before them, his expression dark, his smirk unsettling.
"How many times do I have to say it?" he muttered, tilting his head slightly.
Then, with a twisted smile, he whispered, "You bastards never learn."
Peter raised his phone, activated the camera, and snapped clear photos of the agents' faces as they lay bound and wounded on the floor. He made sure their identities were visible before sending the images to FTO with a short message:
"Don't think I didn't notice your little spies. You're starting to bore me."
Once the message was sent, he switched to another communication channel. This time, he was calling someone far more dangerous—Zunafets.
At the SIN headquarters, Zunafets sat in the control room, reviewing multiple intelligence reports when his phone buzzed. Seeing Peter's name on the screen, he picked up with a neutral expression.
"What have you done now?" he asked without preamble.
Peter smirked. "FTO's agents found me. They tried to sneak in."
Zunafets let out a deep sigh. "And I assume they won't be returning in good shape?"
"Exactly," Peter replied casually. "They're a real pain."
"And you love playing with fire," Zunafets responded coldly. "Be careful, Peter. FTO isn't just some small-time enemy."
"Oh, I know. I just wanted them to realize that I'm not small-time either."
Ending the call, Peter switched to another secure line. This time, he contacted Optimus and Odlan.
Elsewhere, Optimus and Odlan were relaxing in their hidden garage when Optimus' phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and immediately answered.
"Yo, bro! Long time no talk!" Optimus greeted.
"We have a problem," Peter said seriously.
Odlan, sitting nearby, immediately focused. "What happened?"
"FTO sent agents to track me down. I managed to trap them, but this is just the beginning. I need you both ready."
Optimus whistled. "So, are we gonna have some fun?"
"More than that," Peter replied. "This could turn into a long fight."
Odlan looked at Optimus and nodded. "We're with you."
Peter smirked slightly. "Good. Because this war is just getting started."
Peter sat down casually in front of the captured agents, unwrapping a sandwich and taking a slow bite. He chewed deliberately, watching them with an amused expression as they struggled against their restraints.
One of the agents glared at him, his face contorted with pain and frustration.
Peter smirked and pointed at him with his sandwich. "So… what's the president's plan?" he asked, his tone almost playful.
The agent clenched his jaw and stayed silent.
Peter sighed dramatically. "Come on, don't make this difficult. I just took care of your team without breaking a sweat, and you still want to act tough?" He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Or maybe… you don't actually know anything?"
The agent's eye twitched, but he still refused to speak.
Peter tilted his head, his smirk widening. "That's fine. I have all night. And trust me, I have very creative ways of making people talk."
The room fell into tense silence, broken only by the sound of Peter finishing his meal.
Peter suddenly stopped eating and fixed a sharp, piercing gaze on the agents. In an instant, his casual smirk vanished, replaced by a cold and dangerous expression.
With a swift motion, he threw his food container to the ground, the loud crash echoing through the room.
"Enough games!" he snapped, his voice sharp and threatening. He stepped forward and kicked one of the chairs, making the agent sitting on it nearly topple over. "I'll ask one more time. What is the president's plan?"
One of the agents swallowed hard, his body trembling slightly. He glanced at his colleague, who looked just as tense, then back at Peter.
Seeing their hesitation, Peter let out a slow breath before crouching in front of them, staring straight into the eyes of the most frightened one. He patted the agent's shoulder lightly—too lightly, as if it was only a prelude to something much worse.
"You know… I can make this a lot more unpleasant," he murmured in a low, almost whisper-like tone. "But I can also make it quick and easy. The choice is yours."
The agent blinked a few times, sweat forming on his forehead. Finally, he exhaled shakily and spoke in a hushed voice.
"They… they're planning a secret meeting. The president wants to meet with the leader of FTO… to negotiate something."
Peter narrowed his eyes. "Negotiate what?"
The agent swallowed again. "They're making a deal. FTO will be allowed to operate freely in certain areas… in exchange for eliminating a particular threat."
Peter leaned in slightly. "A particular threat?"
The agent nodded reluctantly. "They're… looking for you."
Peter smirked, then let out a small chuckle. "Of course they are."
He stood up and stared down at the agents with sharp eyes. Now, he had something much bigger to play with.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Celya sat by the window of her apartment, staring at her phone with a worried expression. The news was everywhere—chaos in the government, secret deals, and the name Teerces circulating like wildfire.
She knew exactly who that was.
Peter.
She let out a frustrated sigh, gripping her phone tightly. Idiot. You're always getting yourself into trouble.
She had tried calling him earlier, but as expected, no answer. He was either too busy or deliberately ignoring her.
Celya leaned back against the couch, closing her eyes for a moment. The truth was, she wasn't just worried about him—she cared about him more than she wanted to admit.
She had known Peter for years, seen him at his best and his worst. He was reckless, unpredictable, and frustratingly stubborn. But he was also brilliant, determined, and had a way of making her heart race every time he smirked at her.
She bit her lip, debating whether to try calling him again. Damn it, Peter.
She just wished he would let her in—before it was too late.
Peter led the agents outside, their hands still bound. Calmly, he opened the car door and shoved them inside one by one.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he placed his backpack beside him—it carried his clothes and, most importantly, his laptop.
The engine roared to life, and Peter drove off. The streets were quiet, lit only by the occasional streetlamp.
No one spoke inside the car. The agents sat stiffly, their expressions tense. They knew they were at the mercy of someone entirely unpredictable.
After driving for a while, Peter finally turned onto a deserted road on the outskirts of the city. He pulled the car over to the side, then glanced at them with a small smirk.
"From here on out, you're on your own," he said casually.
Without another word, he stepped out, grabbed his backpack, and walked away without looking back.
A few minutes later, he pulled out his phone and ordered a taxi.
When the taxi arrived, he slipped inside, resting his head against the window as he thought about his next move.
The game had only just begun.
Inside the taxi, Peter casually rested his arm on the window while checking his backpack. As he rummaged through his belongings, his fingers brushed against something small and metallic.
His eyes narrowed. A tracker.
A smirk played on his lips. Amateurs.
Without hesitation, he palmed the device and glanced outside. The taxi was passing through a quiet residential area. Perfect.
Spotting a random house with its porch lights on, Peter rolled down the window slightly. With a smooth flick of his wrist, he tossed the tracker onto the front doorstep.
He leaned back, satisfied. By the time the agents traced the signal, they'd be knocking on some stranger's door while Peter was long gone.
He glanced at the driver, who seemed oblivious to what had just happened.
"Take me to the city center," Peter said, his voice calm but firm.
The driver nodded, and the taxi sped forward. Peter exhaled, his mind already planning his next move.