The old man received the news while standing near the window.

For a moment, he thought Idris had misunderstood the report. Then Sella entered with a second call already open on her phone, and Brant came in behind her with blood on his sleeve that was not his.

"Again," the old man said.

Idris lowered his head. "Canal facility. Three of ours hit a police net. One was shot, two were taken alive. The south team also pulled out. Police were waiting there too."

The old man’s face tightened.

"How?"

"Police," Sella said. "Frontier Force too. This was not George’s private security. The state moved."

That answer made the room colder.

The old man turned fully toward them. "Frontier Force?"

"Yes," Sella said. "They called it an anti-smuggling check, but they were waiting in the right place."

Brant cursed under his breath. "So they can move Frontier units too?"

No one answered quickly.

Idris added, "The two alive ones had bad papers. If police dig too long, they may reach our local lines."

"Will they talk?" the old man asked.

"Maybe not much," Idris said. "But locked men become files."

That was almost worse. A dead man ended at the road. A detained man became paperwork, and paperwork could climb if the wrong official became interested.

The old man walked back to the table and placed both hands on it. This was no longer the same kind of street pressure. A local businessman fighting back with hired guards was one thing. A police response was another. A Frontier Force presence changed the risk entirely.

Street fights could be denied. Burned yards could be blamed on rivals. But state files had a way of growing legs.

His higher orders returned to him at once.

Do not clash with state force unless clearance comes from above.

Those instructions had been clear because World Zone’s work in this country was not standing alone. There was another underworld organization tied to them for now, one that was trying to enter politics and build influence through ministers, parties, and offices instead of open street control. That alliance was useful, but fragile. If World Zone created a direct fight with police or Frontier units too early, the political side would suffer first.

And if that side suffered, the higher people would not forgive him for pride.

"Call them back," the old man said.

Brant looked up. "All of them?"

"Everyone on active work."

"If we pull out now, they will call it a win."

The old man looked at him with tired eyes.

"Let them," he said. "One day of pride is cheaper than a fight with the state. Orders are clear. Frontier Force appears, we step back."

Sella did not argue, but her expression showed she hated it.

Idris asked, "What about George?"

"Watch him. No more hits unless I say."

"And Tobin?"

"Later."

That one word carried more frustration than anger.

The old man sat down slowly. He had spent years inside an organization that made smaller groups lower their heads with one name. Now, inside one small province, an unknown side had pushed him into retreat by using a businessman, police movement, and Frontier Force pressure without showing its own face.

It was humiliating.

He told himself it was not defeat.

The timing was bad. That was all. If the political channel had already been stronger, if the higher people had allowed direct pressure, if Maren’s death had not forced them to move too quickly, the result would have been different.

Still, when he looked at the file on George, the thought did not comfort him much.

"Recall them," he said again.

This time no one questioned him.

Across the city, Rovan watched the change from behind a desk that no longer felt like his own.

Reports moved faster than gossip when police pride was involved. A shooting near a Malani facility. Two detained foreign-linked men. A Frontier Force checkpoint that had appeared too quickly to be random. By night, Rovan had enough to understand the shape.

George had reacted.

World Zone had been forced to stop.

Rovan did not feel safe. He was too deep inside too many lies for safety. But for the first time in days, the pressure was not pointed directly at his chest.

He checked three places before writing anything. A duty note from the canal road. A call from one constable who had seen the detained men brought in. A whisper from the same broker who had earlier warned him that outsiders were asking questions. None of those lines gave him the full picture, but all of them pointed in the same direction.

World Zone was pulling its hands back.

He opened his own email account.

He wrote everything cleanly. Police and Frontier movement. Men caught near Malani property. One attacker shot. World Zone teams pulling back. George’s influence likely active. He did not write Bruno’s name, Tobin’s name, or anything he did not know.

Then he sent the mail to himself.

Far away, Adam recreated Rovan’s copied phone and opened the new mail.

He read it once without moving.

Then he read it again.

Pieces began settling in his mind. Bruno’s earlier messages had shown that World Zone was cutting the bridge. Tobin’s side had reported that the pressure around Rust Gate had slowed after Gonda moved. Gonda had chosen publicly enough to be useful for now. Rovan’s mail now showed that George had pushed back hard enough to make World Zone stop active moves.

It was not a full victory.

Adam knew that.

World Zone had not been destroyed. The old man had not disappeared. George was not an ally, and Rovan was not loyal. Bruno and Tobin were still damaged. Aster Core still needed chips. His father was still near John’s world.

But the damage had started.

For the first time since the pressure had landed on every side at once, one enemy line had been pushed backward.

Adam let out a slow breath and placed the copied phone on the table.

"Now," he said quietly, "I need to think ahead."