The air in the Munich National Theatre transformed into a storm of pulverized plaster and shredded velvet. Alessandro dived behind a fluted marble pillar, the stone chipping away in jagged shards as the Crows opened fire from the upper tiers. The "Fire" he had ignited was no longer a metaphorical threat; it was a lethal, localized apocalypse. He could hear the screams of the elite—the financiers and shadow-players who funded the world’s wars—now scrambling for the exits like rats in a flooding hold.
"Elena, I’m pinned," Alessandro hissed into his comms, his voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through his veins. He checked his Beretta’s magazine—six rounds left. "Status on the Exchange?"
"The Director is extracting," Elena’s voice crackled through the static of the theater’s local
