Bound By Shadows

Chapter 3: Beneath the mask

The dimly lit meeting room had a stark, intimidating atmosphere, bathed in muted shadows and cold fluorescent lights that flickered from time to time. The long black marble table in the centre was polished to perfection, reflecting the masked faces of the Smiling 60 members seated around it. The walls of the room were decorated with the signature broken-mouthed masks, a haunting reminder of the organisation's influence in the criminal underworld.

At the head of the table, Red lounged in his seat with an air of casual authority, arms crossed, one leg thrown over the other. His mask—distant with his blood—red crystal embedded in the left eye—rested on the table beside him, revealing his striking face, his black hair with white roots, messy yet deliberate, brushed against the back of his shoulders, while his red eyes scanned the room with a mixture of amusement and calculation. His presence alone dominated the space, but there was no room for mistaking the tension that rippled through the room, thick as the smoke from the cigars some members enjoyed.

Next to him sat Blue, her posture stiff, every movement controlled and deliberate. Unlike Red, she kept her mask on, the blue crystal gleaming coldly in the low light. Though her features were hidden, the rigid set of her shoulders and the silence that radiated from her spoken volumes. Anyone familiar with the two knew something was brewing between the siblings, a crack in their dynamic that seemed to widen with every passing moment. Her anger from their earlier confrontation hasn't subsided, but here in the meeting, she kept it reined in, her focus razor-sharp on the task at hand.

Around them were the other core members of S60, each representing a deadly facet of the organisation's operations. The Syndicate was becoming a more prominent threat, and the S60 had gathered to discuss the shifting power dynamics in the black market.

To Red's right sat Yellow, The loose cannon of the group. His mask, adorned with a bright yellow gem, the same colour as his baggy yellow hoodie, reflected his unpredictable nature. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, his legs kicked up onto the table in a gesture of defiance. His movements were languid, but there was an unmistakable engorge about him—a barely contained chaos that could erupt at any moment. Yellow was known for his explosive tendencies, both in personality and skill. He lived for the chaos, thrived in it, and though he respected Red's leadership, he never missed an opportunity to push boundaries. His mask hid the eager grin underneath as he listened to the conversation, already thinking of ways to turn the Syndicate's growing interest into a spectacle of violence.

Next to Yellow, Orange was the opposite in demeanour. His orange-tinged mask was immaculate, his posture ramrod straight, excluding a controlled calmness. Orange, the strategist, was the brains behind many of the group's operations, always thinking three steps ahead. He wore a suit that was tailored to perfection, every crease in place, his mask hid the calculating mind that constantly weighed risk against reward. Orange wasn't one to speak unless necessary, and when he did, his words were sharp and precise, cutting through the noise with surgical precision. He listened now, his eyes focused on Red, mentally mapping out the possible repercussions of every decision the group could make in the way of the Syndicate's moves.

Green, the enforcer, took up more space than anyone else in the room, his bulk and presence making the other members seem smaller in comparison. His green-crystal mask added an eerie glow to his hulking figure. He leaned forward, arms resting heavily on the table, his posture one of quiet menace. Green wasn't a man of many words, but his actions spoke volumes. When S60 needed muscle, they called on him. His role was simple: enforce the will of the group and crush any opposition. His silence during the meetings was well-known, but when he spoke, it was usually to give a final word of action—or destruction.

Finally, at the far end of the table sat Purple, small in stature but never underestimated. Her purple-crystal mask was elegant and sleek, much like the woman herself. As the group's infiltrator, Purple's skills lay in stealth and intelligence gathering, and her presence was often overlooked until it was too late. She was the whisper in the dark, the shadow in the night, and when she spoke, her words were soft but filled with the weight of what she knew. She was the one most responsible for keeping the group informed on the Syndicate's movements, and now, all eyes were on her as she began to share what she uncovered.