[h1][center][color=Red][u]MARVELS[/u][/color][/center][/h1]
[h2][center][color=Red]Streets of New York[/color][/center][/h2][hr]

Brooklyn’s night hums with its usual sounds—distant sirens, the rhythmic clatter of an elevated train, the occasional shout from someone lingering outside a bar. The air is thick with the scent of rain that never came, a damp promise not delivered. Streetlights cast their amber glow over the sidewalks, illuminating the scattered figures of late-night pedestrians. A light breeze moves through the streets, ruffling discarded newspapers. A scent, faint at first, weaves into the air—smoke.

A dull glow flickers to life in the upper floors of an old apartment building. At first, it could be mistaken for a television screen behind drawn curtains, but in seconds, the light swells, pressing against the glass like something alive. Long fingers of flame stretch across the windowpane. A sharp crack followed by a cascade of glinting shards cuts through the borough’s ambient noise. Heat rolls out onto the street, thick and oppressive. Flames burst forth soon after, curling hungrily upward. 

The fire spreads quickly like liquid gold, leaping from window to window with unnatural urgency. A third-story window flies open, and a face streaked with soot stumbles into view—a woman. Her coughs become swallowed by the now roaring blaze behind her. Further inside, shadows move—more people, trapped. The fire escape should be their way out, but the metal is warped, dark with heat, and already useless. 

On the street below, onlookers hesitate, caught between self-preservation and the instinct to help. A few pull out their phones—voices sharp and grave speak hurriedly into the devices; others point their lenses at the growing danger. A couple take tentative steps forward, then think better of it. The distant wails of sirens near, but the flames do not wait. They claw further into the open air, raking across the neighboring buildings.

The woman at the window grips the frame, her breath in shallow gasps.

The smoke thickens. 

The building groans. 

The flames climb higher.

[hr]

The financial district moves with a rhythm of its own, even in the late hours. The streets of Lower Manhattan buzz with restless energy—cabs honking impatiently as they weave through traffic, pedestrians shuffling between blinking crosswalk signals, and storefront lights flickering as late-night businesses prepare to close. Amid it all, an armored transport truck rumbles along its usual route, slow and steady, an unremarkable sight in an unsleeping city.

Then, something fractures the rhythm. 

A sharp, percussive crack splits the air—then another. The truck’s front tires detonate in rapid succession, sending the vehicle into a violent lurch before grinding to a halt. The night seems to pause for half a second, a vacuum of silence before the city exhales again, this time in chaos. Pedestrians turn toward the commotion, confusion flashing across their faces before instinct kicks in. Some freeze. Others run.

From the shadows, six figures move in. They emerge with precision, clad in dark tactical gear, their movements crisp and rehearsed. Two immediately raise their weapons and unleash a barrage of automatic fire at the truck’s cab, forcing the guards to stay locked inside. The bullets spark against reinforced plating, the deafening clatter echoing off glass storefronts. Each shot is deliberate—weapons discharge in controlled bursts, hammering the driver’s side and passenger doors.

Another pair moves to the rear of the truck. One reaches into a side pouch and produces a compact device, no larger than a book. Slapping it against the heavy steel doors, the device comes to life instantly. A low hum fills the air. The metal surrounding the device darkens, distorts, and then glows. The reinforced plating groans in protest as heat spreads like an infection. These armed figures do not stop to admire their work—one remains fixed on the device while the other turns, scanning their surroundings, weapon raised, breath measured.

The last two members of the crew split off, moving to secure the perimeter. Their rifles sweep over the street, discouraging interference without a single word. Across the avenue, bystanders scramble for cover, ducking behind parked cars and diving into doorways. The gunmen are aware of them, but they don’t react. There’s no panic, no wasted movement. Every second is accounted for, and every action is a part of a larger plan.

The city is loud, but these men work in silence. The gunfire has ceased, their presence alone enough to hold the scene hostage. The device on the vault door hisses, the last layers beginning to break down. Sirens wail in the distance now, but they are far—too far. By the time they arrive, this crew will be nothing more than a ghost in the night—their job done, their escape already in motion.