17:51. In the surveillance center, the chief observer noticed something was off.
"Hey, something's up!" The surveillance system covered every inch of Buckingham Palace, with expertly placed cameras leaving no blind spots in the lavish maze of halls. In just one minute, those weird, restless figures were caught red-handed by the observer.
No need to think— the chief observer instantly realized something was wrong. Not even a second of hesitation; his hand shot out like lightning toward the alarm button. But even at top speed, he wasn’t fast enough. Before his finger touched the button, click— a cold gun barrel pressed against the side of his head.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it wasn’t a stranger— it was the deputy observer, the one he worked with every day.
"FUCK..."
Click. No explosive gunshot, just the soft sound of the firing pin. The ring of screens in the observation room was instantly splattered with gruesome streaks of blood.
The deputy observer, face cold and calm, casually pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the blood droplets from his face. Looking back, another equally cold-faced person was doing the same. Out of the five people in the observation team, two turned out to be moles. The moles acted silently, without hesitation or remorse, killing the other three without a second thought.
They’d been given an important mission— taking control of the observation room was just step one. So far, everything was going according to plan.
No need for words, no need to talk— the two knew exactly what to do next. One sat down at the monitor, switched channels, and focused on their current target, while the other went to the door and started punching in the exit code.
Beep. The door opened.
"Okay, okay! I’ll spill everything!" The observer gulped, eyes darting as he tried to talk his way out while inching toward the alarm button—the one the chief observer missed. If he could just hit it, MI5 agents would swarm in. With any luck, he could pin all the bodies on Jonathan and maybe, just maybe, slip out of this mess for now. Workplace survival tip #1: When in doubt, blame upper management.
"Good. First things first—are you here for me?"
"Y-yeah... We really came to kill you." The observer crept forward, inch by inch. "We’ve got a whole setup—people, plans, firepower. Bet you’d love the details."
"Nah, you already gave me what I wanted. Thanks—and goodbye." Crack! Jonathan twisted his arms with a move straight out of the Titan Spirit Method, Fourth Level—his hands spun like a millstone. The observer’s head did a full rotation. The light in his eyes flickered out. The alarm button, untouched by the chief, stayed untouched.
"Hey, Big Boss—confirmed, we’ve got assassins on our tail. Whoever cracked one of Britain’s toughest security systems isn’t your average wannabe." Jonathan tossed the body aside, tapped his mic, and smirked. "No way a bunch of Baghdad slum amateurs pulled this off. You’d need years—maybe decades—of groundwork to get this deep. Corporate sabotage, eat your heart out."
"Called it. Assassins, just like I predicted." Jill’s voice came through the mic, cool but with a hint of glee. "You got this solo, Jason Bond, or want a rookie’s walkthrough?"
"No need. Just watch the magic." Jonathan popped the top button off his shirt, flicked it onto the console—where it stuck, glowing faintly. He switched channels, called IT: "Hack time. Go wild."
Beep—streams of data flashed across the monitor. Behind the scenes, the Eternal Night Holdings Group’s hacking team went full beast mode on Buckingham Palace’s surveillance. Security protocols? Toast. Jonathan punched in the password from the mic and started hijacking hundreds of palace cameras.
Screens flickered as Jonathan coolly surveyed the chaos. Killers everywhere—Buckingham Palace was now one giant animal trap. But sometimes the trap snaps on the hunter’s own leg; and who’s the beast, who’s the hunter? Jury’s out.
End of chapter. (Next page for more mischief!)
"Alright, alright! I'll tell you everything I know!" The observer swallowed hard, his eyes darting around as he tried to talk his way out while inching toward the alarm button—the very one the chief observer had failed to press. If he could just trigger it, MI5 agents would come pouring in. With any luck, he could pin all the casualties on Jonathan and maybe, just maybe, wriggle out of this mess—at least for now.
"Good. Then answer my first question—are you here for me?"
"Y-yes... We really were sent to kill you." The observer crept forward inch by inch. "We’ve got a whole setup—people, plans, firepower. I bet you’d love to hear all about it."
"No need. You’ve already told me everything I wanted to know. Thanks, and goodbye." Crack! Jonathan twisted his arms; with a move straight out of the Titan Spirit Method: Fourth Level, his hands spun like a millstone. The observer’s head did a full rotation. The light in his eyes blinked out. The alarm button, left untouched by the chief, remained untouched by him as well.
"Hey, Big Boss, confirmed—someone’s out to assassinate us here. Whoever infiltrated one of Britain’s most secure systems is no small fry." Jonathan tossed the observer’s body aside, flicked on his mic, and smirked. "No way a bunch of Baghdad slum amateurs could pull this off. You’d need years—maybe decades—of groundwork to get this deep."
"Knew it. Assassins, just as I expected." came Jill’s calm-but-secretly-thrilled voice through the mic. "You got this solo, Jason Bond? Or do you need a newbie’s guide?"
"No need. Just watch and learn." Jonathan plucked the top button off his shirt, tossed it onto the main console, and it stuck—glowing faintly with electromagnetic light. He switched channels and called IT support: "Start the hack."
Beep—streams of data flashed across the monitor. Behind the scenes, the Eternal Night Holdings Group’s hacking team launched a full-on assault on Buckingham Palace’s surveillance system. In no time, the basic security protocols were bypassed. Jonathan entered the password as prompted by the mic and began commandeering hundreds of palace cameras.
Screens flickered in rapid succession as Jonathan coolly surveyed the whole scene. Killers prowled everywhere; Buckingham Palace was now one big animal trap. But sometimes, the trap snaps shut on the hunter’s own leg—and who’s the beast and who’s the hunter is anyone’s guess.
End of chapter. (For more, click next page!)
"Crowd’s thick—guess I need backup. Huh?" Jonathan’s eyes locked on a screen, and he grinned. "MI5 agents, gotta hand it to them—sharp as ever. Looks like I’ve found my muscle."
At 5:54 p.m., MI5 agents sensed trouble and started a coordinated sweep. The sharp-dressed woman who’d frisked Jonathan at the entrance—black suit, businesslike, and way more than meets the eye—was actually the team lead. She sniffed out danger, signaled her agents to lock and load, and led them stealthily from their posts.
They had to size up the situation and risks, fast. If things got hairy, they’d shut down the ceremony and whisk the Queen out—no hesitation.
Elite, no question—but the bad guys weren’t just sneaking past palace guards.
At 5:56 p.m., four MI5 agents got iced, their bodies dumped in random corners. MI5 went Code Red; the team leader sprang into action, quickly finding three more agents out cold in the restroom.
All three were from the same squad—wiped out without a peep. Enough to give anyone the creeps.
The team leader traced wild magical sigils in the air with her left hand, casting a quick spell. It worked—the three agents groaned and woke up. She asked, tense, "Who hit you?"
"No... no clue..." The three agents rubbed their heads, struggling to remember. "Whoever it was, they were slick—clean, fast, precise. We blacked out, didn’t feel a thing. And they knew our patrol routes cold. No way they’d have found us otherwise!"
"Patrol routes?" The team leader frowned, then her face shifted. "Move! Control room, now!"
At 5:57 p.m., the team leader and four agents—five total—raced to the control room. Before they got close, the metallic tang of blood hit their noses. They burst in—full-blown carnage.
"Boss, there’s a note!"
The team leader strode over, squinted at the console. Sure enough, a few lines were scribbled there. Her face changed instantly, and she barked, "Everyone—main hall, now!"
"But boss, leaving a note here is super sketchy."
"I know it’s sketchy, but we’re out of time. Priorities! Someone’s gunning for Her Majesty—and there’s more than one. Move!"
At 5:58 p.m., seven assassins in all sorts of disguises reached their spots. Some took the high ground, some blended into the crowd, some posed as band members. The air bristled with killer intent. Customized guns slipped from bags—the closest was a fake trombonist, his instrument a good pound heavier than the real thing.
One bullet loaded—and that’s all he needed.
When fake becomes real and real gets faker—the palace band, directed by the master of ceremonies, switched tunes. The music called for big, bold notes, so the trombonists raised their instruments high, aiming at the main hall in a proud, ceremonial pose.
At 5:58 p.m., the master of ceremonies boomed: "Everyone, prepare to welcome Her Majesty the Queen!"
The conductor raised his arms, guests craned their necks, honorees sat up straighter, and the media fired up their cameras, panning through the VIP crowd. It was a mad dash to film every big shot—and nail the perfect focus for the main event.
The cameraman swept the crowd:
From business tycoons to socialites,
From socialites to rising politicians,
From rising politicians to the white-haired lady, lounging in her chair, sunglasses on, munching an apple, looking like she’s just here for the drama,
Then from the apple-munching diva to the angel investor behind her,
And from the angel investor to the next big celebrity.
Wait—hold up, something’s off...
The cameraman blinked, totally baffled, sure he’d just filmed someone who didn’t fit the scene—someone who really shouldn’t be here.