The warehouse was a relic of Bangkok’s industrial past, its corrugated metal walls rusted and pockmarked with age. Dim light filtered through the grimy windows, casting long shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The air was thick with the acrid tang of wooden pallets slowly rotting in the thick Bangkok humidity, cigarette smoke, stale beer, and the faint scent of expensive cologne that had just arrived on its hosts—a cocktail of desperation and decay. From the far corner, a ceiling fan groaned as it spun uselessly. Somewhere outside, a distant siren wailed and faded. Flickering neon signs from the streets bled through the cracks in the walls, washing the interior in bruised color and jittering reflection.

  The doors swung open, revealing Svetlana Orlova. Her entrance wasn't a walk; it was deliberate, predatory. The sharp click of her heels echoed off the walls, punctuated by the subtle crunch of glass and grit underfoot. A guard near the entrance stiffened, his fingers twitching slightly near the grip of his weapon. King Cobra's cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. Her presence shifted the atmosphere with something palpable and cold—an unspoken pressure that pressed in around the men like the room had shrunk by half.

  Svetlana's red hair seemed illuminated, catching faint glints of neon as she moved. Her pale blue eyes were not searching, but scanning—reading posture, pressure points, escape routes. She wore a crimson leather jumpsuit tailored not for fashion, but for control. And though her figure was impossible to ignore, it was the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingertips hovered just inches from a concealed weapon, that truly commanded the room.

  She walked toward the center of the warehouse, past crates marked in Cyrillic, past rust-stained drums, past a dim lamp that cast more menace than light. She passed a table. Empty, save for a chipped ashtray and a half-empty bottle of Mekhong whiskey. Above it, a single bulb flickered intermittently, casting broken shadows across her face—first light, then darkness, then light again. Her features remained impassive, but the stuttering illumination gave her the appearance of something barely held in check. Dangerous, yes. But calculating. Her boot brushed a spent shell casing.

  At the far end of the warehouse, seated like minor royalty around a stained poker table, Bangkok's four crime kings waited. Their postures were cocky, but their silence betrayed something else. King Cobra twitched, his reptilian eyes narrowing. King Kong adjusted his weight, the chair beneath him groaning. Kingpin smoked in rhythmic exhales, the ember of his cigar glowing like a warning light. And King Fisher flexed his scarred knuckles, the bones clicking in anticipation.

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  They had expected a buyer. Or maybe a messenger. They hadn’t expected her.

  Svetlana reached the table but didn’t sit. She stood, looming slightly over them, her frame poised and statuesque beneath the cheap industrial lights. She placed a sleek leather briefcase on the table, flipped the latches, and opened it to reveal stacked, bound bundles of American currency. Clean bills. Serious money.

  Their eyes shifted from her to the cash. Back to her.

  "I am looking for specialized assistance," she said. Her voice was low, smooth, with an edge of steel. Russian accent unsoftened, unapologetic. "A fireworks display. Something elegant yet catastrophic."

  She explained the plan.

  She spoke of the American Ambassador, of the gala, of chaos disguised as terror. She painted the details with measured strokes: explosions, diversions, political misdirection. And when she spoke of the bomb—how fragments would be traced back to striking factory workers—the room grew still.

  King Fisher was the first to speak. "So you want us to frame laborers for terrorism."

  King Cobra's knife tapped idly against the table, the rhythm broken. Kingpin's eyes darted to Svetlana, then to the cash. Fisher glanced at his companions before returning his gaze.

  "Not frame," Svetlana corrected. "Guide the narrative."

  Kingpin scoffed. "And what’s in it for us?"

  "Power," she said. "And position."

  She laid it out like a blueprint—how the crackdown would come swiftly, how protests would follow, how violence would birth opportunity. And from the wreckage, a new order. The kind of regime that answers only to capital.

  "You want a coup," King Fisher said.

  "I want a future," Svetlana replied.

  There were glances exchanged. The kind that happen in long moments of indecision. But Svetlana could see the cracks already forming in their doubts.

  And then it shifted. King Cobra's joke fell flat. King Kong muttered a refusal. Kingpin asked again about exits. And Svetlana, growing colder, sharper, offered them certainty laced with menace.

  The negotiations turned. The tone frayed. A few jokes were made about glitter. One of them laughed.

  She didn’t.

  When King Cobra made his move, it was fast. But she was faster. The knife went into his eye. King Fisher tried to follow but fell just as quickly—his kneecap shattered, his final sound cut short by a bullet.

  King Kong charged, as expected. She met him with wire and precision. He crumpled.

  Kingpin, panicked, reached for a weapon. She already had it. A single shot. A single decision.

  And then there was silence. Blood pooled slowly beneath the table, catching the faint flicker of neon through the cracked windows. A pistol still steamed faintly in her hand, the metal warm with recent violence. One of the ceiling fans groaned overhead, indifferent.

  Four bodies. Blood. Smoke curling from a dropped cigar.

  Svetlana adjusted her jumpsuit.

  She pulled out her phone. "Meet me at the tattoo parlor," she said.

  Then she stepped into the Bangkok night, neon catching her silhouette.