?Chapter 1579:


    The thought barely registered before icy shock flooded her veins. In her hand, the phone screeched a frantic, broken tone—the line was dead.


    Deep in The Mask’s fortified undergroundmand center, every rm erupted at once.


    Chris stood rooted in front of the massive video wall, eyes locked on the primary feed streaming live from one of their helicopters. The image was mercilessly clear: at the tunnel’s far exit, a chain of ferocious explosions had ripped through the night. Fireballs bloomed in rapid session, bright enough to bleach the camera lens for split seconds.


    The mountain shook. Massive rocks sheared off and crashed down in a deafening slide, sealing the exit beneath a crushing tomb of stone and dust.


    A young operator at the adjacent console ripped off his headset, his voice tight with disbelief. “Sir… we’ve lost all signal from the pursuit team.”


    News of the catastrophic copse at Tunnel 103 on Wront’s northern fringe spread like wildfire. Within thirty minutes, the entire city was alive with frantic spection, notifications, and live-stream clips.


    Sirens wailed through the dark valley, slicing the quiet apart. Yellow police tape snapped taut across every ess road, sealing the site like a wound no one was allowed to touch. A cluster of news vans had already imed the perimeter, satellite dishes tilted skyward, floodlights turning night into merciless midday.


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    Cameras zoomed in on the smoking wreckage while a reporter’s amplified voice cut through the chaos, steady but edged with urgency. “This is live from the scene of the Tunnel 103 disaster on the northern outskirts of Wront. A massive structural copse has urred at the tunnel’s eastern exit. Given thete hour, casualty figures remain unconfirmed. Rescue teams are mobilizing as we speak. We strongly advise all residents to avoid the area and use alternate routes…”


    The camera panned slowly, capturing the devastation in unforgiving detail—jagged piles of shattered concrete, twisted rebar jutting like broken bones, the tunnel mouth now nothing more than a tomb of rubble and dust.


    Miles away, in a forgotten corner of Wront far from shing lights and shouting reporters, an abandoned auto-repair garage sat silent under a sagging roof. The air inside was heavy with motor oil, old rust, and the faint metallic bite of long-stale gasoline.


    In one dim corner, an ancient television flickered, its picture rolling with static every few seconds. The news anchor’s voice droned on about the tunnel copse, the words half-lost in electronic snow.


    Parked in the center bay stood the massive ck container truck, engine now cold, exhaust pipes ticking as they cooled.


    A low hydraulic whine broke the stillness. With a solid thud, the heavy rear ramp began to lower.


    Momentster, headlights red inside the truck’s belly. The police cruiser—the same one that had vanished into the tunnel earlier—reversed smoothly down the ramp and rolled to a stop on the cracked concrete floor. Both front doors swung open.


    The men who had been posing as officers stepped out, pulling off their uniform caps and tossing them onto the car’s hood with casual, weary disregard.


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