Veil of the forsaken.

"V.L.T.R."

NEW-YORK V.L.T.R CORP. ROOFTOPS.

The cyber city of New York sprawled beneath them, its shimmering lights casting a blood-red glow through the haze of pollution and neon reflections. The rooftop of the V.L.T.R Corps headquarters was a place of silence and power, towering above the chaos below. The skyline bristled with chrome spires, a testament to the unyielding ambition of the city—and of the three brothers who now stood at its peak.

Ronan's fingers danced over the keys of a sleek, black piano that gleamed like polished onyx. His playing was precise yet haunting, each note carrying a weight that cut through the cold night air. The melody wasn't chaotic—it was calculated, heavy with the promise of bloodshed. His voice joined the notes, low and melodic, as he sang his words with a dangerous edge.

"I sent the blade, oh yes, I did," he crooned, his lips curling into a dark smile. "To end the one they call Mugsi, to drown him in his sin. Matthew, my rival, you've played your part, but tonight... tonight the blood will begin."

Zenón leaned against the railing, his arms crossed as he watched his brother play. His face bore an expression of quiet intrigue, the faintest shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips. His voice was calm, almost amused. "You've always had a flair for the theatrical, Ronan. But tell me—was sending an assassin your way of writing a love letter to Matthew? Because it's certainly going to get his attention."

Ronan chuckled, his fingers striking a series of sharp, discordant notes that seemed to echo like gunshots into the night. "Oh, Zenón, you misunderstand me," he said, turning his head slightly to meet his brother's gaze. "This isn't about getting his attention. This is about sending a message. Mugsi falls, and Matthew will know he's next. I've spent too long letting him breathe."

Juro stood near the edge of the rooftop, his back to them, his gaze fixed on the sprawling city below. His shoulders were tense, his voice low and sharp when he finally spoke. "While you're busy spilling blood for your petty rivalries, have you thought about her? About what might happen if your games spill over to her doorstep?"

Ronan's hands stilled on the keys, the final note hanging ominously in the air. He turned his gaze to Juro, his smile fading into something colder, sharper. "Our sister can handle herself," he said, his voice carrying a hint of steel. "She's no innocent bystander. If she's caught in the crossfire, it'll be because she chose to stand in it."

Juro spun around, his face tight with anger. "You're so blind, Ronan. So obsessed with proving yourself to Matthew that you'd risk everything—risk her—for what? To prove you're stronger? Smarter? You'll burn everything we've built just to see him bleed."

Zenón stepped forward, placing a hand on Juro's shoulder with a warning squeeze. "Calm down, Juro. Ronan's not wrong. She's strong. Stronger than you give her credit for. But..." He glanced at Ronan, his smirk fading into something more serious. "You do have a habit of turning rivals into corpses. This plan of yours... you better hope it's clean. If Mugsi survives, I.D.D won't hesitate to retaliate. And when they do, it'll be blood for blood."

Ronan rose from the piano, the polished surface reflecting the city lights and the faint crimson glow of his eyes. He strode toward Zenón and Juro, his presence commanding. "Let them retaliate," he said softly, his voice laced with venom. "Let them bring their fury. I'll drown them in it. This city belongs to us, and no one—Matthew, I.D.D, or anyone else—will take it from me."

The three brothers stood in silence for a moment, the wind whipping around them like a restless ghost. Below, the city pulsed with life, oblivious to the blood that would soon stain its streets. In that moment, Ronan's ambition was as clear as the blade of the assassin he'd sent. Blood would be spilled, and whether it was Mugsi's, Matthew's, or their own, the war was already in motion.