Chapter Text
The night air was thick with tension as Chance led his small but deadly team through the shadows of Eunoia’s estate. Since the other part of the crew were back at the base watching through the drones Dressed head-to-toe in black, they moved like ghosts—silent, precise. Only their eyes glinted under the moonlight when they passed beneath a streetlamp.
Guest 1337 took point behind Chance while Jane Doe scanned for patrols ahead. Two Time kept watch on their six side by side with Buildman who always made sure to wipe down every single surface after touchin’ it just so nothing could be traced back if things went south fast enough before Elliot covered rear guard just case someone tried sneakin' up unnoticed until now where we see them reaching final target:
the vault door
Buildman quickly picked apart electronic lock systems using tools no bigger than his pocket knife before giving signal once inside revealed stacked bills along walls floor ceiling everywhere else too... practically drowning place rich people would kill over having chance at gettin hold such power themselves someday maybe even right here tonight actually yeah why not?!
Chance smirked under mask as he surveyed treasure trove before whispering order loud clear enough everyone hear perfectly well despite distance between speakers:
"Grab everything. We leave no trace."
Jane immediately began stuffing duffel bags full cash while Elliot monitored security feeds ensuring cameras stayed offline via jamming device taped underneath desk corner far away windowsill making sure nobody could see what happening next steps planned out perfectly executed without fail…
But then?
A sudden noise.
Metal scraping against stone.
Someone—or something—was coming down hall toward vault entrance…
Chance's eyes scanned the room for signs of security cameras—and sure enough, he spotted a hidden camera in the corner.
Before anybody could even open their mouth to question it…
Guest 1337 stepped up with a punch that shattered the lens, leaving only pieces of broken plastic behind.
He shrugged like it was nothing as he said lowly: "No cameras. We're clear.”
The cold wind accidentally blew Chance’s hood back, revealing his face—right as another camera caught it.
Before anyone could react:
- Chance snatched the device mid-air, fingers tightening around its frame like he was ready to crush it bare-handed.
- But then Guest 1337 didn't even hesitate—his fist slammed into the camera with brutal force, reducing it to scrap metal before hitting the floor.
A beat of silence as they all stared at what just happened... until Elliot muttered under his breath: "Dramatic much?"
As Chance and the crew gathered up as much as they could manage, packing the cash into duffel bags…
They ran back the way they came, ducking through halls in a chaotic rush as they made a beeline for the windows they'd entered through.
Guest 1337 led the charge, eyes scanning for any sign of security guards. He'd already cracked several cameras with his fists—and it looked like he was ready to do it again if they were caught.
It happened in an instant—the moment they were halfway through the window… Elliot's foot slipped.
He hit the ground with a thud, groaning in pain as the window slammed shut, sealing them out with Elliot still inside.
No one even hesitated.
Chance slammed against the glass. "Elliot!" he barked, voice low. "You alright in there?!”
Elliot rolled onto his back, wincing at his now-throBBING knee as he managed to push himself up and stagger to his feet.
"Yeah, yeah. Just peachy," he groaned, rubbing his knee gingerly. "Could've used a little warning before the damn window slammed shut, though…”
Elliot stood for a beat, the throbbing in his knee already turning into a dull ache… then he took a deep breath, waving off his friend's concern.
"Seriously. Go. I'll be fine," he said, leaning against the wall behind him to take the pressure off his leg. "Just... get out of here and come back for me tomorrow. I've got this covered.”
The crew was hesitant to leave Elliot behind—it went against their whole no-man-left-behind code.
But Elliot was stubborn, just like always. "I said I've got this, alright? I'll see you guys tomorrow. Now go."
It was only when Guest 1337 grabbed Chance, practically dragging him away from the window that the others finally relented:
"Alright... we'll be back first thing tomorrow morning... don't do anything stupid.”
Meanwhile…
The night was thick with tension as Mafioso sat in Eunoia’s office, discussing the latest shipment routes when—BAM! The door slammed open.
Eunoia's right-hand man, panting like he'd run a marathon, shoved a crumpled letter into her hands. His voice was ragged with panic:
"SOMEONE STOLE FAMILY MONEY—AND WE CAN'T FIND WHO DID IT!"
The room went dead silent. Mafioso slowly stood up from his chair, eyes darkening like storm clouds over fire. He took the letter from Eunoia and scanned it once before crumpling it in his fist so hard the paper tore slightly at the edges.
His voice dropped to something low… dangerous. "Whoever did this?"
A pause.
Then—he smiled coldly as he turned toward her:
"...They're already dead."
The chaos erupted instantly. Mafioso’s goons burst in, shouting:
"WE GOT FOOTAGE!"
A scramble followed—men running to shut down every exit, lock the doors tight as security screens flickered on across the room. Someone yanked a USB drive from their pocket and slammed it onto Eunoia’s desk like a grenade about to detonate. On screen: grainy night-vision footage of someone sneaking into their vault. But what froze everyone was who they saw—
Mafioso's smirk faded slightly at the reveal. That face—he recognized this man. He'd seen it on the list of targets with the highest debts, a former rich high-profile businessman who had pissed off the wrong people. And now that face was right there on the damn security footage—right before the camera went dark.
"Well… that answers that question." Mafioso growled.
The footage cut.
Someone punched the camera.And just like that, they were back to square one. The room got eerily silent.All eyes were on Mafioso, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. Someone broke the quiet as the first goon asked: "Boss...?”
The folder slammed onto Eunoia's desk, scattering the photos of the man across the surface in a chaotic rush.
The man's name was Chance.
The largest debt on their entire list.
200 million dollars.
A picture of Chance stared up at all of them, a smirk plastered across his face like he'd done this a hundred times before.
Mafioso stood up, jaw set as he looked at Eunoia and said:
"Me and my men will find Chance and make him pay for what he's done."
She nodded once, expression serious. That was the agreement—Mafioso and his crew would track down Chance and bring him in, by whatever means necessary.
"Go," she said, voice low. "Don't come back until you find this bastard.”
The goons were rough as they dragged Elliot toward Mafioso, practically hauling him over the ground... until he was eventually dropped in front of the man himself, chest heaving, bruises already forming on his pale skin.
Mafioso's glare was like a cold knife, eyes roaming over his captured victim with barely restrained anger.
Elliot didn't so much as flinch under Mafioso's glare, meeting his stare head-on like a defiant challenge.
Mafioso's jaw clenched, the corners of his mouth curving down in a frustrated frown. "You're a long way from home, aren't you, kid?" he asked gruffly.
The next morning, back at the Troupe’s hideout, the mood was thick with tension.
Chance stood in the center of their war room—hands braced on a table littered with blueprints and weapons—and his rage was so palpable it made even Guest 1337 hesitate before stepping forward. Elliot had been captured… because they left him behind. And Chance wasn’t just pissed—he looked like he wanted to burn Mafioso's entire operation to ashes for daring to touch one of theirs.
"We had a rule," Chance growled, his voice low and full of barely-restrained fury. "We never leave anyone behind. We never…"
He slammed a fist onto the table, papers scattering with the force of the blow. "And what did we do? We left Elliot, alone in that goddamn stronghold. Does anyone want to explain to me why?”
The room went dead silent.
No one dared to answer—because they knew Chance was right. They'd broken their own rule, and now Elliot was in the hands of a man who would make him suffer for it. Guest 1337 stepped forward first, jaw tight as he met his leader’s furious gaze: "We couldn’t get back in." His voice was quiet but firm. "The window sealed shut behind us… we had no way to break back inside without getting caught ourselves."
Chance didn't respond immediately—his fingers curled into fists at his sides like he wanted nothing more than to punch through concrete right then and there.Then finally… He exhaled sharply through gritted teeth before looking up with an expression that could have melted steel:
"...Get me on comms with Mafioso. Now.”
Guest 1337 moved fast, stepping directly in front of Chance before he could even reach for the comms.
"Chance—no." His voice was firm, a rare edge of command cutting through his usual calm. "If you call him right now? You’re giving Mafioso exactly what he wants—a reaction. He’s waiting for this. And if you pick up that phone?"
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only Chance could hear: "...You might not get Elliot back at all."
Chance's glare was ice-cold, his expression unreadable as he stared down Guest 1337—who, for once, didn’t back off. The silence stretched between them like a live wire about to snap. Then…
"Move." Chance’s voice was low—not angry anymore, just deadly calm in the way that made even hardened criminals hesitate before testing him further.
Guest 1337 didn’t move. His jaw was clenched, but he still held Chance’s stare like he was trying to make a point
"Chance," he said carefully. "You're letting your emotions control your actions. If you call Mafioso without a plan... You're just giving him leverage over Elliot and all of us. You know that.”
Chance’s expression flickered—just for a split second—before hardening again.
He knew what they were saying. He always knew. These weren’t just his crew, his allies… they were the people who’d follow him into hell and back without hesitation, even if it meant burning with him at the end of it all.
But right now? Right now he didn't want their loyalty—he wanted Elliot back. Alive and unharmed.
And if that meant going toe-to-toe with Mafioso himself?
"...Then let me make one call."
His voice was quiet but final—as if daring anyone to stop him again as he reached for comms anyway.
(Guest 1337 hesitated… before stepping aside.)
Because sometimes? Even your most trusted men know when you've already made up your mind—and arguing further isn't worth losing more than you already have...
(The phone rang once... twice... Then finally:)
"You got something to say?"
Mafioso's voice crackled through speakerphone like static-laced fire itself…
Chance’s voice cut through the line like a blade—no greeting, no preamble. Just three words:
"Give. Elliot. Back."
His tone was flat, stripped of all emotion except for one thing—fury. The kind that made even hardened killers hesitate before crossing him. But Mafioso didn’t recognize the voice, and from his end? This reckless demand just sounded like some rookie with a death wish trying to play hardball...
So he smirked, leaning back in his chair as he answered lazily: "Who the hell is this?"
Inside the base, Guest 1337 tensed at the sound of that smug voice coming through the comms. Chance had a habit of saying exactly what was on his mind—especially when he was pissed off.
Now, as Mafioso's voice came through—cold, mocking, and completely clueless—you could almost hear the entire room holding their breath in anticipation, waiting to see if Chance was about to go completely off-script…
Mafioso's eyes narrowed, his smirk slipping a millimeter as a flicker of confusion crossed his face...
"Chance?"
He leaned forward slightly in his chair, studying the phone like the voice wasn't real. Then—almost against his will—the hint of a laugh escaped him. "You've gotta be shitting me.”
It took everything in Chance not to growl something back—to keep his voice and expression blank as he responded flatly:
"No. I'm not."
The silence that followed was thick with tension, a silent challenge that seemed to last for minutes... until finally, Mafioso leaned back again, the sharp edge of his smirk returning.
"And why the hell should I give Elliot back?" he asked gruffly. "I've got him now—what's to stop me from keeping him?”
Chance's tone was low—icy in the way only he could manage—as he pinched the bridge of his nose and bit out, low:
"Fine."
"We'll give back your money. Every last penny."
It was a statement, not a question. And it took everything in him not to just throw his hands up in frustrated anger as he added:
"But first, let. Elliot. Go."
Another beat of silence followed, the line silent with tension for so long that you could have heard a pin drop...
Then, finally, Mafioso laughed. A cold, humorless sound that made Chance's hands clench into fists as he clenched his jaw.
"You think it's that simple, kid?" he asked roughly, still smirking. "You think you can just pay me off and get your man back?”
The call ended abruptly—Chance hanging up with a sharp click before Mafioso could even finish his sentence.
The room stayed dead silent for a moment, the weight of what just happened pressing down on them like an avalanche about to collapse. Then Guest 1337 let out a slow breath and asked quietly: "...So we're doing this?"
___
Elliot was wrapped in rope from head-to-toe, almost so tight he could barely move as he slumped against the cold floor of a dimly-lit storeroom. His skin was still bruised from where Mafioso's goons had beaten him, each wound turning darker as blood stained the ropes that bound him.
It took all Elliot had not to give in, not to let the pain and fear and anger show on his face.
...But he couldn't keep up the facade for too long. Mafioso turned slowly, his polished boots clicking against the concrete floor as he approached Elliot. He looked down at him—at the bruises, at how tightly bound he was—and then smirked.
"You think your little boss is gonna come save you?" Mafioso asked mockingly. "Because let me tell you something: Chance isn’t walking out of this alive.”
Mafioso's smirk faltered—just for a second—as the realization sank in.
If Chance had a crew... that meant this wasn’t just some lone wolf with a death wish. This was an entire mafia backing him up. And if they were stupid enough to follow their leader into war over one man?
That meant they weren't going to stop until Elliot was free.
Elliot's bloodied face twisted into a snarl as he spat right at Mafioso’s polished shoes—his voice ragged but dripping with venom.
"You're already dead, you bastard," he choked out between gritted teeth, barely able to move from the ropes binding him. "Chance and his crew don’t just fight for themselves—they burn empires down for their people."
A pause—then Elliot grinned despite the pain splitting his ribs like knives: "...And guess what? You just made yourself target number one."
Mafioso's eyes flashed murderously as he lifted his fist, knuckles itching to break every bone in Elliot's face. He'd never had someone spit at him, never had anyone insult him like that—much less someone who was already beaten and bound for the kill. He'd been patient so far, but it took every ounce of patience to keep from breaking that kid's jaw once and for all.
Elliot’s voice was weak but feral, his eyes blazing even as blood dripped from his split lip.
"You think we're just gonna let you win?" he spat, grinning through the pain. "We don't lose people—especially not to some washed-up mobster who can't handle a little backtalk."
He coughed violently before locking onto Mafioso with pure defiance: "Chance isn’t coming for me… He’s coming for you. And when he does? You’ll wish you'd killed me faster."
Mafioso’s voice was low, dangerously curious as he leaned in slightly—his earlier rage simmering into something colder.
"What is this crew like?" he asked, eyes locked onto Elliot’s battered but defiant face. "How many? What can they do?"
A beat of silence before his smirk returned—sharp and knowing: "...And why the hell would they follow a man like Chance to war over one guy?"
Elliot’s grin was bloody but unbroken, his voice barely more than a growl as he met Mafioso’s stare head-on.
"Because we’d burn the world down for him," Elliot spat, every word dripping with conviction. "And you? You're just another obstacle in our way."
A pause—then his smirk twisted into something darker: "...So unless you wanna find out how fast this crew really moves when someone threatens their leader?" He tilted his chin up defiantly. "Untie me now."
Mafioso was silent for a long moment, his smirk faltering for a beat as he studied the defiant glint in Elliot's eye, the way his whole body was coiled like a spring ready to snap…
Then, slowly, he lowered his fist.
"Fine," he said gruffly. "I'll free you."
But the threat in his voice was undeniable as he continued, eyes locked onto Elliot's battered face: "...On one condition."
Mafioso's goons looked up at their boss nervously, eyes wide.
"Boss," one of them said quietly. "Chance is here… but he's alone."
Mafioso raised an eyebrow, straightening as he turned to face the goon.
"Alone?" he asked roughly. "What the hell do you mean 'alone'?”
Outside the Mafia
Elliot rushed forward the moment the ropes fell away, stumbling across the room and into Chance's arms.
He clung tight, fingers digging into the other man's jacket as he buried his face in his shoulder. It took a second for him to even speak, voice ragged and broken as he managed to choke out: "You… came for me."
Chance was standing alone—just him and a single duffle bag filled with all of the money they'd stolen. Mafioso took the bag easily, glancing inside with a smug look on his face.
"The rest of your gang too scared to show up?" he asked roughly, smirking as he took out stacks and started counting. "Just you, huh?”
Mafioso’s smirk faltered for the first time—his eyes narrowing as he took in Chance’s new demeanor.
This wasn’t the same reckless, awkward kid from before. This was someone different. Someone with a sharper edge, colder eyes… and longer hair that almost looked like it had been grown out on purpose—like he'd been planning this moment for months.
And now? He stood there without an ounce of hesitation or apology left in him.
Mafioso's grip tightened around the money bag slightly as realization settled over him:
"...You came here to die."
Chance's voice was flat, stripped of all emotion except for one thing: resolve.
"The deal was simple," he said, eyes locked onto Mafioso’s. "I give back the money… and you let Elliot go."
Behind him, Elliot—still battered and barely able to stand—tried to push forward despite his injuries, his hand gripping Chance’s shoulder like an anchor. He didn't say anything... but the look in his eyes said it all: We're not done yet.
Mafioso studied Chance with a new kind of intensity, like a puzzle he should've been able to solve long ago.
This wasn't the same kid he'd dealt with before. This was a new kind of monster. One who was willing to burn down everything to protect what mattered.
He studied Chance's face for a long minute—then smirked.
"So you really are the leader of this ‘crew’," he said slowly. "You really think you can stand in my way?”
Chance slung Elliot's arm over his shoulder, half-carrying him to a waiting helicopter on the rooftop, the wind howling as they moved.
Elliot was in bad shape—every step seeming to cause him pain as he limped forward—but he pushed through it as Chance helped him into the back of the helicopter.
Mafioso was on the roof now too—his smile colder than ever as he called out: "You're not actually thinking of leaving, are you?!”
Elliot slumped into a seat in the helicopter, breathing ragged even as the wind howled outside.
Guest 1337 hurried over to help him get comfortable as Jane Doe took a position by the side door, sniper rifle ready in her hands, aiming squarely at Mafioso on the roof.
"We all good here?" she called out, voice a calm command that cut through the chaos like a knife. "Everyone secure?”
Chance climbed into the helicopter, settling into the nearest open seat as the door slammed shut behind him. He didn't look away from Mafioso on the roof—watching him with a steely glare, as if daring him to try anything.
"Get us out of here," he said flatly, voice low but firm. "Now.”
Guest 1337 nodded, flipping switches as the helicopter rose into the air, blades cutting through the wind as it lifted off the rooftop.
From below, Mafioso yelled a few choice insults—most of them too insulting to print.
But Chance ignored him, eyes cold as the city lights lit up outside, illuminating the helicopter's interior like a movie scene.
"That could've gone better," Elliot muttered, wincing as he leaned forward to grip his ribs.
Chance's voice was low, almost tired, as he rubbed his temples.
"The others were worried," he admitted quietly—just loud enough for Elliot to hear over the helicopter’s roar. "They didn’t want me coming here alone."
A pause before adding: "...But I had to see you alive first. Then we can deal with Mafioso later.”
__
Mafioso was pissed.
He stormed through the halls of his base, his goons scattering as he passed, every step punctuated by the thud of his boots against the concrete floor.
He'd been outplayed—outsmarted by a bunch of thieves, humiliated in front of his own people.
When he finally got back to his office, he dropped himself into his chair, rubbing his temples as he let out a frustrated hiss: "Bastard.”
Mafioso was already furious—now, that fury only grew as he stared down at the money bag… which was now back in the vault.
He opened the bag, digging through stacks and stacks of cash... only to realize it was all fake.
Every. Single. Bill.
Mafioso stared down at the fake money, the vein in his forehead throbbing wildly as his face darkened.
"Those sonsofb—" he muttered. "These are fakes.”
__
Back at the Troupe’s base, Elliot was sprawled across a medical cot, bandaged up and still groaning in pain—though he refused to admit it.
Jane Doe stood over him with an armful of fresh supplies, shaking her head as she muttered: "You look like hell."
Meanwhile, Guest 1337 leaned against the wall nearby while Chance paced like a caged animal… both clearly not ready to let this go.
Guest 1337’s arms were crossed, his expression dark as he watched Chance pace like a caged predator.
"We need a plan," he said lowly—not just to Elliot or Jane Doe, but to everyone in the room. "Because this isn’t over."
His eyes flicked toward Chance for half a second before adding: "...And Mafioso won't forget this. Not after what we pulled today.”
Chance's voice was cold with determination, eyes locked onto Elliot's still-injured form.
"We need him in better condition first," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "Then we'll figure out our next move."
Elliot groaned a bit under the bandages, shooting the other man a weak glare. "Great," he muttered. "I get to rest while you all make plans.”
Noob was sitting in the corner of the room, fidgeting with his hands as he glanced between Chance and Elliot—his usual nervous energy on overdrive now. He’d been quiet this whole time… but finally couldn’t take it anymore: "So uh… we’re really doing this? Going after Mafioso?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying just how scared he actually was.
Chance stopped pacing for a moment, eyeing Noob with a steely gaze before saying:
"Our mission is far from done in this city," he said firmly, eyes flicking over everyone in the room. "We can't stop here. We have too many things to finish."
Noob looked down, still fidgeting with his hands, while Jane Doe raised an eyebrow. Elliot, of course, just groaned—but even he knew Chance was right. There was more to this city than just defeating Mafioso.
The phone rang, breaking the silence as Builderman picked it up and handed the phone to Chance.
"It's for you," he said simply, the room falling silent as the Troupe's leader accepted it and held the phone to his ear.
"Yeah?" he bit out, his voice like steel.
Chance’s jaw tightened as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. His grip on the phone turned white-knuckled—everyone in the room could see it, even if they couldn’t hear what was being said.
Then—abruptly—he hung up, his expression unreadable as he tossed Builderman back his phone like a hot potato.
"Mafioso just sent us a message." Chance's voice was ice-cold now—a tone that made even Guest 1337 tense up slightly beside him before asking: "...What kind?"
Chance’s voice was low, his eyes scanning the room—lingering on each of them like he was memorizing
their faces.
"It's only for me," he repeated, firm and final. Then, before anyone could argue: "Elliot needs rest. The others still have missions to finish." His jaw set stubbornly as he added under his breath: "...And I won't let Mafioso take another one of us."