The hooded woman stepped into the casino owner's private room, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her with a thud that echoed like a gavel. Two burly guards in tailored suits, their black shades glinting under dim lights, flanked the entrance, their specialized rifles humming with latent energy. Wires snaked from their earpieces, buzzing with silent communications. The room was a fortress, ringed by men of the same ilk—armed, silent, and watchful at every angle. No cameras hung on the walls; this was the sanctum where the casino's owner conducted his darkest dealings, a place whispered about but never seen by most employees. A bloodstained door at the room's far end bore a chilling inscription: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter." Men had entered that door and vanished, their fates sealed in body bags or worse. For the hooded woman, this was a point of no turning back.
"Big Boss, the girl's here," one guard muttered into a mic clipped to his collar, his voice low and mechanical.
"They're practically a mafia," the hooded woman murmured to herself, her pulse quickening as she scanned the room's oppressive atmosphere.
"Take a seat, princess," another guard barked, gesturing with his rifle toward a chair facing an empty seat across a polished table—undoubtedly the Boss's throne. His tone was cold, but his eyes lingered on her with a flicker of curiosity.
"Alright, pretty boy," she shot back, her voice laced with playful arrogance, "but don't keep me waiting too long." She sauntered to the chair, dropping a heavy bag by her feet with a soft thud, crossing her legs with deliberate nonchalance. Her hoodie cast shadows over her face, but her confidence radiated, unshaken by the guards' glares.
Ten minutes crawled by, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the guards' weapons. Then, the Big Boss entered, his presence a storm of menace. The guards tightened their circle, fingers twitching on triggers, their eyes locked on the woman. They pulled back the Boss's chair with practiced precision, sliding it forward as he sat. The casino owner was infamous in Vegas's underbelly, a man wanted for countless crimes yet untouchable, his network of casinos fortified like citadels. He only appeared for deals too significant for his lieutenants, and those who met him either struck gold or met their end. A jagged scar ran from his mouth to beneath his ear, and a signature cigar glowed between his lips, its acrid smoke curling like a warning. His blood-red eyes, rumored to reflect the lives he'd taken, pierced the room, cowing lesser souls in seconds.
"Nice of you to keep me waiting," the woman said, her tone dripping with arrogance, a slight grin playing on her lips as she met his gaze unflinchingly, her resolve a steel blade.
The Big Boss's eyes narrowed, disgust flickering across his scarred face. "You've got a big mouth for a woman," he said calmly, removing his cigar and blowing a cloud of smoke at her face, nudging her hood back to reveal her features. "And talk to me where I can see you."
The smoke cleared, unveiling her identity: Celine, known to V.I.P.E.R. but feared in these circles as "The Pretty Snake." Her sharp eyes gleamed with defiance. "You shouldn't blow smoke in someone's face," she said, exhaling a breath she'd held to avoid the fumes. "It could blind them."
The Boss grinned, shuffling a deck of cards with practiced ease. "Why hold your breath? Don't smoke?" he taunted, his voice low and probing.
"I smoke plenty," Celine countered, leaning forward. "More than you'd believe. I know all about you and that cigar's tricks." Her words carried a knowing edge, a challenge that hung in the air.
The Boss handed the cards to a guard, his grin widening. "Oh, do you? Just how much do you know about me?"
"Everything, down to your peculiar habits," Celine said, her voice steady. "Now, enough chatter. Let's get to business—we're short on time." She leaned back, folding her arms and recrossing her legs, her posture relaxed but alert.
"No taste for small talk?" the Boss said, signaling a guard with a flick of his finger. The guard placed a sleek briefcase on the table. "Here's what you wanted. Show me your goods and tell me what I need to know."
"Open it," Celine demanded, her tone unyielding. "I need to see it."
The Boss's annoyance flashed, but he nodded. The guard unlatched the case, revealing thirty-two glowing blue stones, their eerie light pulsing faintly. "Now, where's my prize?" the Boss asked, his eyes locked on Celine.
Celine reached for her bag, unzipping it to reveal several pouches of yellow powder. "Here it is," she said, her voice cool. "Fifty pounds of Golden Vigor, straight from V.I.P.E.R.'s vaults."
The Boss's eyes gleamed. "Golden Vigor," he mused, leaning back. "Banned across Earth and seventeen planets. A performance enhancer crafted by rogue scientists obsessed with Soul Energy. Grants inhuman strength for life, but slashes your years and risks cardiac overload or brain damage." He signaled his men to slide the briefcase toward Celine and take the powder. "I'm impressed you got this. Though, with V.I.P.E.R.'s stockpiles, I shouldn't be."
Celine claimed the briefcase, her fingers brushing the stones' cold surfaces. "Pleasure doing business," she said, pulling her hoodie up. "Let's not meet again. Peace out." She slipped out, vanishing into Vegas's neon-lit streets, the darkness swallowing her silhouette.
"Only a madman would touch that stuff," the Boss muttered, rising from his chair. "Lucky for us, we've got plenty of madmen eager to devour it." He snickered, his guards falling into step as he exited, their weapons glinting. "The Pretty Snake," he mused, his voice low. "What are you planning with those Sol Stones? I hope we meet again, very soon."
Two weeks later, in the Assassin's Code's hidden safehouse, a flicker of lamplight cast long shadows across the scarred walls. Archer sat on a creaking cot, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and dread. The Boss had finally arrived, his presence a quiet weight in the cramped room. Archer's mind churned with questions about his lost memories, his role as the third member, and the mission Hina had hinted at. The air was thick with the promise of answers, but also the fear of truths he might not be ready to face. As the Boss's shadowed figure leaned forward, Archer braced himself, his voice trembling. "Who am I, really?" he asked, the question hanging like a blade poised to fall.