Chapter 9: White Dragon Group
Jayden stood up like something in his spine had snapped straight—just one second sitting in normalcy, and the next he was staring down a goddamn apocalypse kit sprawled across his bed like it belonged there.
The air had that low hum. Not loud, not dramatic—just soft, unsettling, like the world had leaned in to whisper something it knew would change him. And then bam—content, outta thin fuckin' air. No fade-in, no glowing lights, no fanfare. Just... presence.
Like the memory of some lost war chest had forced itself back into reality because he existed now.
His bed—his crusty, still-needs-washing, probably-has-a-loose-spring-somewhere bed—was now stacked like a tactical fever dream.
Weapons he couldn't even name. Papers that smelled like old danger and worse choices. Briefcases that looked like they survived a plane crash and a divorce.
And the clothes? Oh, they looked normal. Basic even. Something your dad might wear to a meeting. But one tug of the collar and you'd realize this shit could probably stop a sniper round and make coffee at the same time. Everything screamed black budget. Screamed classified. Screamed: we kill people and make it look like a heart attack in a locked room.
There were black folders—some sealed, some blood-marked, some whispering "Open me and you'll never sleep the same again." USBs glowing like they were snatched from Area 51. A matte-black tablet that powered on with a red blink and a sound so low it hit his teeth instead of his ears.
Burners, passports, gloves—like ten seasons of a spy thriller collapsed into one overwhelming pile. All of it so real. So lethal.
It was like the CIA and the Illuminati had a breakup and left all their shared custody shit in his room. His room, which still had ramen crumbs on the floor and a charger that only worked if he bent it in a stupid angle.
And then he saw it.
The ring.