Urban System in America
Chapter 221 - 220: Conspiracy

Chapter 221: Chapter 220: Conspiracy

And then he suddenly remembered a video he’d seen months ago—a clip that had gone viral before vanishing without a trace. A model, hysterical and tear-streaked, had filmed herself claiming to have barely escaped from an elite party just like this one.

She spoke in broken gasps about witnessing unspeakable things: cannibalism, child sacrifices, masked figures drinking blood from chalices, people crawling on all fours wearing leashes, and others drugged into mindless submission.

Her voice cracked as she recounted how she’d fled through a maze of corridors, convinced she wouldn’t make it out alive. She begged the viewers to believe her, to spread her story. And then—silence. The video disappeared. Her account was deleted. No news coverage followed. It was as if it never existed.

And a few days later, she also completely disappeared. No one saw her again. No sightings. No updates. It was as if she had been swallowed by the very shadows she tried to expose. The ending was obvious—too obvious. Who knew what had really happened to her?

At the time, he had dismissed it. It looked too theatrical, too chaotic. He chalked it up to a mental breakdown or a publicity stunt. Just another social media flame-out.

But now?

But now, he wasn’t so sure.

Because what he’d just seen? That wasn’t fiction.

That was real.

He kept running—backwards, sideways, down hallways he didn’t recognize, crashing through the haze of his own panic. His legs moved on autopilot, arms pumping, heart pounding like it wanted out of his chest. He didn’t care where he was going. All he knew was he needed to get away.

Every room, every corridor looked the same in that low, surreal glow. Abstract art. Gold-plated frames. Plush carpets that muffled his steps but couldn’t quiet the dread in his head.

And then suddenly he heard a distant voice.

His legs slowed before his brain caught up. It wasn’t shouting. Just calm, hushed words. He caught himself against the wall, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his coat and held his breath, angling his ear toward the sound.

There. Just ahead.

He crept forward, cautiously now, feet soft against the floor. The light shifted. A man in black security gear stood near the edge of a hallway alcove, speaking into a walkie-talkie, the glowing screen casting faint blue light onto his gloved hands.

Rex ducked into the shadows, inching closer, pressing himself flat against the cool marble wall. The man’s voice came in fragments.

"—Zone Four... not scheduled...

Rex froze.

Was he the one they were talking about?

He held still, barely daring to breathe, his ears straining for every word.

That’s when the conversation took a darker turn—one so sharp and sinister it stopped Rex’s breath mid-panic, freezing him in place.

The guard’s tone was low, conspiratorial. "Yeah, the girl’s here. That new one—just started making waves. He’s had his eye on her for weeks. Tried everything, too—gifts, promises, even offered her millions. But she wouldn’t budge. Not even when he started hinting at consequences. Still held her ground. You know how it is—she’s got the spotlight on her now. Can’t just rough her up like some nobody."

A short pause.

"But the gentleman doesn’t give up. Agent took the bait. Got her here. She thinks she’s just networking." The man scoffed. "Problem is, she’s sharp. Keeps her drink in her hand, doesn’t eat unless it’s sealed or opened in front of her. She’s been glancing around the room every ten seconds like she knows something’s off."

Another pause. Then a sigh.

"So now we wait. She’ll let her guard down eventually. Maybe get tired, maybe slip up. Timing’s everything. Once she does, we move. Spike the drink. Zone Four. End of story."

The man continued, as he chuckled darkly, his voice laced with a sick kind of excitement. "Her name? Monica Watson. The new diva, right? Hah, what, you got a crush on her too? Relax. Everyone does. She’s got that look—the one they all crave. But that don’t matter here. Not really. After the gentleman’s done with her, she’ll be out cold for hours. Just like the others."

He leaned closer to the wall, the static from the walkie-talkie crackling between words. "And that’s when we get our turn. You’ll see. She won’t even know. Won’t remember a thing. And even if she does—who’s gonna believe her? Her own agent sold her out. That’s the beauty of it." voice thick with contempt and certainty.

The way he said it—so casual, so certain—made Rex’s skin crawl and his blood ran cold.

The man continued, casually—almost with a yawn. "Once it’s done, record the whole thing—just like last time. That way, if she kicks up dust, we got leverage. Then butter her up with some roles. That’s how it always works. Seen it too many times. You’re new, but you’ll see. All those cold, perfect faces on the billboards? Sooner or later, they all kneel."

Rex’s hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. His breath came in slow, shallow gasps as he leaned back into the shadows, mind racing. Monica Watson. He knew that name. Everyone did. She was the breakout darling of the year, gracing magazine covers, starring in back-to-back films, praised for her authenticity. And now she was being hunted like prey in a trap disguised as a celebration.

Their laughter drifted down the corridor—low, smug, the kind of sound that didn’t need to be loud to be terrifying. It wasn’t the laugh of surprise or shock. It was the kind that came from routine. Like this was just another Tuesday night.

His jaw tightened. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. Every part of him screamed to charge in and deck him right there. But he didn’t. Not yet. Because as much as he wanted to act, he knew this wasn’t the moment. He needed proof. He needed a plan. Otherwise, he’d be just another name quietly scrubbed from existence.

He slowly, carefully pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. No signal. Of course. Probably jammed. But maybe... he opened the voice recorder and hit record, angling the microphone toward the corridor.

The guards were still talking, still laying out their plan like it was logistics for an afterparty. "Relax, man," he said with a chuckle. "They don’t care. You think anyone up there gives a shit what happens down here? As long as the gentlemen are happy, as long as the headlines stay pretty, no one’s looking."

But it wasn’t just what he’d overheard. It was everything—everything he’d seen in that cursed lounge. The soulless eyes. The vacant bodies. All of it came rushing back in a tidal wave of fury. The horror he’d suppressed to keep running finally boiled over, crashing through his system like a surge of electricity. His body tensed, chest heaving, fists trembling not with fear—but with something far more dangerous. He didn’t know what he was going to do next, but he knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t leaving this damn mansion without doing something.

And Monica Watson wasn’t going to become just another missing name in a sea of silence.

(End of Chapter)