Mori's target was a squealer—a lowlife who reveled in the suffering of others, trafficking in misery like a merchant of degeneracy. After navigating the twisted alleys and vibrant facades of the city, Mori felt that familiar rush coursing through him—a volatile mix of anticipation and loathing. It was time to set his plan into motion.

He approached the dingy door and knocked, the sound echoing ominously. As the peephole creaked open, Mori assumed the role of an associate of the Chechen, a formidable rival of Jackie Mao. Leaning casually against the doorframe, he directed a smile that held no warmth toward the unsuspecting man, a mask that concealed the sinister intent bubbling just beneath the surface of Mori’s persona. With an almost theatrical flair, Mori engaged the squealer in conversation, his demeanor effortlessly oscillating between charm and menace—a masterclass in the duality of his character. A true testament of his nature. The man squinted suspiciously, then remarked, “Hell, you look like one of Shakhid’s boys with that face and getup.” With a reluctant nod, he stepped aside, allowing Mori to slip inside, unaware of the storm that was about to erupt.

Without a second thought Mori’s mouth opened. “Do you enjoy hurting people?” he asked, his voice an accusatory chilling whisper that seemed to hang in the air like a guillotine. The question lingered, heavy with implication, and when the squealer responded with hesitation, Mori's patience immediately began to fray. In a swift, sadistic motion, he shattered the man’s fingers one by one, relishing the sickening crunch of bone breaking under his grip. The squealer’s cries morphed into a twisted symphony of agony, each note a reminder of the abyss to which Mori had descended. With a cruel smile, he taunted, “Don’t worry man! You still have three more fingers left—well, two if you don’t count this one.” The squealer, wide-eyed and trembling, stammered, “W-What?” And in an instant, Mori snapped the man’s thumb with a brutal twist. “Well if you even count the thumb as a finger. I know some people don't. Oh come on be don't glum now friend! You’ve still got a whole other hand!” Mori’s eyes glinted with dark curiosity as he leaned closer. “Speaking of which, what’s that?”

“Hold on! Dude, is this chitin?” Mori’s tone shifted, genuine awe rising. “Oh man, this is the tits! I can’t believe you got it! It’s the latest model too—what the hell? And from the looks of it, black market approved. Not a serial number in sight!” Mori said as he energetically grabbed the soldier's wrist and examined the sleek computer gauntlet with a mix of admiration and intrigue. “I guess you didn’t want to leave any prints or negatives, huh? That’s understandable. To be honest I get that”. Mori said so with a compassionate longing as he carelessly dropped his victims hand and placed his own gloved hand on his chest then staring up at the ceiling like an innocent cherub.

“Get the fuck off me, you psycho!” the squealer shouted, desperation creeping into his voice.

In a flash, Mori produced a switchblade, the blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. “Please, do lower your fucking voice,” he said with a calm chuckle. “I'll decide when we’re finished here.”

With each calculated twist of the knife, he forced the man to divulge critical information about an impending trafficking deal. Details poured out in frantic gasps, revealing connections and points of interest Mori didn’t even ask for that would surely delight Mao. Mori reveled in the power he wielded, the intoxicating mix of dread and desperation spinning a web of control around his captive. Each revelation was a step closer to helping Jackie, and getting Mori just what he wanted. As Mori began to extract the final pieces of intelligence, the ominous echo of heavy boots resonated through the hallway. PoM soldiers patrolled the area, their presence a stark reminder of the regime's meddling fingers. At that moment, cold calculation replaced sadistic pleasure. Mori swiftly silenced the squealer with a taser, the lowlife's body convulsing shortly then crumpling to the ground. He wasted no time, donning the squealer’s helmet and armor, transforming it into a makeshift disguise. The shadows embraced Mori as he rifled through the squealer’s belongings and wore the computer gauntlet, each movement deliberate and efficient, ensuring he would slip through the tightening grip of the regime’s grimy hands.