[Status: Day 2]
The world woke John before the sun did.
A sharp wail tore him from sleep—the unmistakable cry of sirens. His eyes snapped open, his chest tight, and in an instant he was on his feet, stumbling toward the window. He pried open a narrow gap in the curtain and froze.
Flashing red and blue lights drowned the street below. Dozens of police cars stood in formation, boxing off entire intersections. Officers patrolled in pairs, rifles slung across their shoulders, voices cutting through the dawn air.
John's breath caught in his throat. They're after me… they're searching for me!
His legs gave way, and he collapsed back against the wall, clutching his knees to his chest. His pulse hammered. Sweat poured down his temples.
Why? Why are they here? Did someone see me? Did someone report me?
The knock came before he could breathe again.
BANG. BANG.
John's head jerked toward the door. He didn't move. Didn't even breathe.
Then came the voice, muffled through wood.
"Hello? Is someone there?"
His stomach dropped. If he stayed silent, they might walk away. Or they might grow suspicious. Break in. Fifty-fifty. A gamble with his life on the line.
Trembling, John forced himself to his feet. His voice cracked as he answered, "Uh… hello? Who's that?"
A calm, official tone came back. "Good day, sir. Could you please open the door so we could talk face-to-face?"
John's eyes darted down at himself—his assassin's gear still clung to him. His hood. His cloak. His blades. He couldn't be seen like this. Panic burned his throat.
"I… I can't," he blurted.
A pause. "Why, sir?"
John's mind scrambled. Then, before he could stop himself, the words spilled out. "B-because… I'm naked."
His cheeks flushed with heat. Embarrassment on top of fear. Who knew life would ever force him into such a ridiculous lie?
He steadied himself and pressed on, stammering. "I washed all my clothes… waiting for them to dry out. So… uh… you can keep talking."
Another pause. The man's voice returned, measured. "Is that so…? Well, sir, we wanted to inform you—if you hadn't seen the news—that a dangerous murderer is roaming the city. We're advising all citizens to remain cautious. That's why we've blocked the streets and increased patrols."
John swallowed hard. His nails dug into the wood of the door.
The officer added, "Just be careful. If you see him, don't engage. Report immediately. Understood?"
"Yes… thank you," John forced out.
"You're welcome. Apologies for disturbing your privacy." The footsteps retreated down the hall.
John let himself slide back down to the floor, relief rushing through his veins. "He's gone… thank goodness he didn't notice…"
But the sirens still screamed outside. The streets were deserted. Not a single civilian in sight. The whole city had gone on lockdown.
And then the officer's words struck him again. The news.
He grabbed the remote and flicked the television on, cycling through channels until he found it.
On-screen, a poised anchorwoman in a black blazer spoke with solemn precision.
"Yesterday, at 4 p.m., two Cyntera Corp workers were attacked by a mysterious man. One was tragically murdered, and the other narrowly escaped thanks to police intervention. The suspect is armed, dangerous, and remains at large."
John's jaw clenched. Lies. Mark attacked me first. He was no worker—he was a Templar.
But then came the footage. Grainy, bloody, undeniable: John himself, caught mid-strike, his blade sinking into Mark again and again. The image filled the screen, framed as proof of savagery.
The anchor's voice sharpened. "Captain Edward has launched Operation: Shakedown. Police are mobilized across the city to capture this killer. Citizens, if you see him, do not engage. Contact the authorities immediately."
The broadcast cut. The room went silent.
John stared at the dark screen. His reflection glared back, hood shadowing his exhausted eyes.
Operation: Shakedown… that's why the police are everywhere. If they keep searching every corner, there's no way I'll succeed in my mission.
His hands curled into fists. A thought slithered in. If I get rid of the one responsible for this operation… maybe it ends. Maybe they'll call it off. Maybe… cancel it altogether.
But then came the oath. His principle. His reason for fighting. I only kill Templars.
He pressed a hand against his chest, his voice low, firm, trembling.
"No… no, I can't. I came here to cleanse this city of Templars. If I kill the innocent… if I strike down those who don't even know the truth… then I'm the sinner."
He shut his eyes, breathing slow, steady.
"I'll sneak in. Tie him up. Force him to call it off. But I cannot kill him. I won't."
His whisper faded into silence, but the sirens outside did not. The city remained a cage, and John its hunted prisoner.
John stood in the dim apartment, the faint hum of police sirens still pulsing outside. His mind raced. Where would Edward be? The first thought that came was the main police headquarters. But there were dozens of precincts scattered across the city, and Edward could just as easily be outside, overseeing the operation himself. Hunting him blindly across the entire city would take forever.
No — he needed another way.
The police themselves will tell me.
To avoid standing out, John peeled off his assassin uniform, revealing the plain black hoodie underneath. He carefully folded the grey robes, slipping them into his backpack. His swords, too, had to be disguised; he wrapped them in layers of newspaper and tape until they looked like little more than bundles of scrap.
Now dressed like a civilian, he paused at the door. His reflection in the brass doorknob stared back at him: just a young man in street clothes. Ordinary. Forgettable.
Am I better off without the uniform? he wondered as his hand tightened on the knob. The only thing they know me by is the robes. Without it, I disappear… But then I can't use my blades. And besides… it belonged to my father. I can't just throw it away.
His footsteps echoed down the stairwell, but his thoughts were shattered by a roar of voices from below.
The ground floor was chaos. A mob of residents crowded the entrance of the building, shouting at a cluster of police officers standing guard outside. Their cries were almost animalistic in their rage:
"Why would you do this!?"
"Open the blockades!"
"We hate the police for this!"
John froze at the edge of the stairwell, then smirked to himself. These people… they're my shield. If they keep protesting, the operation might collapse on its own.
He slipped into the crowd, letting the angry voices surround him. At the front, one officer held a pistol, his voice cracking with nerves as he tried to calm the mob.
"Please, citizens, remain calm! Operation Shakedown is to capture the murderer — it's for your own good!"
The protests only grew louder.
John leaned toward a protester beside him, whispering just loud enough to be heard. "Hey… why don't we beat him up?"
The man blinked. "Beat him up? I mean… I'm down, but isn't that, like… criminal?"
John's smirk widened. "Criminal? These people are keeping us locked in our own homes like prisoners. Don't you want them to pay? Don't you want to be free?"
The man hesitated, then nodded. "Yes! But… he has a gun!"
"Don't worry," John whispered. "If you block me with your bodies, he won't see me. I'll knock him down, and punish him for keeping us trapped here."
The man's eyes lit with anger. Others overheard. The mob pressed closer together, tighter and tighter, forming a wall of flesh between John and the officer.
That was all he needed.
John crouched low, slipping through the sea of legs until he spotted the officer's boots. With a sudden tug, he yanked the man's legs out from under him. The officer crashed down hard, the crowd screaming and scattering in panic.
John didn't waste a second. He slammed his fist into the officer's face, knocking him cold, then dragged him inside the stairwell, out of sight. Propping him against the steps, John pried the rifle from his limp hands.
He checked the weight of the gun, then crouched in front of the unconscious man. A hard pinch to the stomach. Nothing. A sharper pinch at the nose.
The officer groaned awake — only to find his own weapon aimed squarely between his eyes.
"Don't scream," John warned in a low voice, the barrel steady. "Or I'll shoot. Right here."
The officer's breath hitched. He swallowed hard, nodding rapidly.
"Good. Now—" John leaned closer. "Where is the one running this whole operation? Where's Captain Edward?"
The man's eyes darted, then dropped back to the gun. "He… he's at the southeastern police base."
John pressed the muzzle harder. "Number. Give me the number."
"Police base… #5."
John's expression softened into a small smile. "Thanks." Then his fist cracked across the man's jaw, knocking him out once more.
He tossed the rifle into a dark corner, leaving the officer sprawled on the cold stairwell. Without another glance, John slipped back outside, pulling a tablet from his pack and opening the city map.
Base #5… He traced the streets with his finger, memorizing the route. His chest tightened. Edward's there.
And without hesitation, he started walking.
John's footsteps echoed softly against the pavement as he moved through the narrow streets, his eyes glued to the glowing map on his tablet. But then a thought struck him cold. He froze mid-step.
The officer… when he wakes up… won't he tell them?
John's chest tightened. He saw my real face. My clothes. My voice. Everything.
A long pause hung in the air before he exhaled and muttered, "He won't." Then, quieter, almost a whisper to himself: "At least… that's what I hope."
He tucked the tablet closer and resumed walking.
The streets were thick with police, but none spared him a second glance. Every officer was pinned down by furious citizens pressing against the blockades, chanting the same refrain over and over again:
"Open the streets!"
"Cancel the operation!"
"Free the city!"
The noise was deafening, but to John, it was salvation. The protests shielded him in plain sight; while the mob howled, he was nothing more than another passerby, walking casually, tapping on a tablet. Invisible.
He slipped through intersections, turned left, then right, weaving past residential blocks until finally, the southeastern precinct rose ahead.
Police Base #5.
The compound sat in the open like a fortress, surrounded by high walls and patrolled by guards in constant motion. Even from a distance, John could hear their panic.
"How do we calm the citizens?" one shouted. "They're demanding we cancel Operation Shakedown!"
Another guard cursed under his breath, pacing along the gate.
John watched with a faint smile tugging at his lips. Good. The protests are doing half my work for me.
He ducked into a shadowy alley beside the compound, hidden from the watchtowers. The air was colder here, damp with the smell of trash and stone. Setting his backpack against the wall, he unzipped it and pulled free the grey assassin robes. One by one, he slipped into the familiar garments, the weight of the hood settling over his head like a second skin.
From the bottom of the pack, he unwrapped his blades from the layers of newspaper and twine. The steel gleamed dully in the alley's half-light. He slid the dagger into its sheath across his back, the sword into the leather strap at his thigh.
Straightening, he tightened his gloves and flexed his fingers. His heartbeat slowed, his focus narrowing until there was only one thought left:
The man is right inside. I've got this.
Operation Shakedown: a full blockade of the region where the hunt was underway.
The order had gone out across the southern districts of Son of York, the very region where John had last been cornered. And now, the same region was boiling with unrest.
Protests rose like wildfire through the streets. The northern districts remained calm, untouched, but in the south, citizens shouted themselves hoarse. Police were rattled—screaming, anxious, snapping at one another. Some begged to shut the operation down, to give the people back their streets.
But Captain Edward refused.
John studied the officers from a distance. Their distress was obvious; their focus fractured. Perfect. He slipped forward, choosing the path where no one stood watch, and soon reached the perimeter wall of the southeastern police base. Two meters high, but climbable.
With steady hands, John scaled it, swung over the top, and landed light on the other side. Empty. Fortunate. No guards here. But the walls offered no clear way inside. His gaze lifted to the building itself.
The roof.
Hook blade in hand, he dug into stone and brick, fingertips testing every groove and crevice of the old architecture. Higher, step by step, until finally he pulled himself onto the roof. A wide helipad stretched before him, a giant white H painted across the concrete. And there—a heavy steel door set into the rooftop, a way inside.
He reached for the handle. But before turning it, his ears caught the chaos below. He crept to the roof's edge and looked down.
A squad of officers with riot shields and batons sprinted away from the compound, rushing toward the protests that shook the southern streets. Their faces were pale, frantic. None of them was Edward.
Good.
John moved back to the door, turned the knob, and slipped inside. The staircase was narrow and dim, his footsteps echoing off stone. He descended level after level, hearing no voices within—only the distant roar of the crowd outside.
At the bottom, a door. He eased it open a crack.
The main hall stretched before him—papers scattered across desks, cups abandoned half-drunk, pens left rolling. Empty. Silent. A ghost of a workplace.
John stepped through, eyes narrowing. Where is Edward?
He closed his lids, opened them again—hawk vision flickering to life. At first, the hall and its adjoining corridors were void: black haze, lifeless emptiness. But John pressed harder, forcing his concentration outward. Not on objects, not on details—on the very walls themselves. His gaze strained until it felt like his eyes might burst.
Then—light.
A single, glowing presence at the far end of the western hallway. Gold, bright, the aura of something valuable. Someone important.
Edward.
John advanced, boots crunching through the cluttered corridor. Doors lined the walls, all shut. At last he reached the source—the final door. A yellow silhouette shimmered beyond it. He leaned close, peering through the keyhole.
Captain Edward stood inside, back to the door, shoulders squared before a digital map of the city. A phone pressed to his ear. His voice was tight with anger, yet forced calm.
A man on the other end thundered back, his tone heavy with authority:
"What is going on, Captain Edward? Why launch Operation Shakedown without my clearance?"
Edward snapped, "Without reason? I had every reason! A murderer butchered a Cyntera Corp worker, threatened another, and nearly killed one of my men. He escaped punishment. I will not stand for it!"
"I've heard of this assassin," the voice growled. "But Operation Shakedown was authorized only for large-scale terrorist threats. You have achieved nothing—no captures, no victories! Cancel it now, before the civilians rise into a full city revolt!"
Silence followed. A long silence.
Edward's hand trembled against the desk. His teeth ground together. Finally, he whispered through clenched rage:
"No."
"What?"
"I said no!" he barked. "Yes, I made a mistake letting that assassin slip away—but to end this now, without results? That would be two failures in two days! I will not let my name drown in disgrace. Commander Roger will think me a worthless fool!" His voice cracked with pride and fury. "And you—who even are you? Hiding behind phones, faceless, nameless, nothing but a shadow Roger ordered me to obey. I will not bow to a man I've never seen. I will finish this operation. I will catch him. And then I will end it—on my terms! Until then, do not dare call me again!"
He slammed the phone down. His chest heaved with ragged breaths as he glared at the glowing city map. Tiny blue dots pulsed across its surface, clustered thick in the southern districts. Every one, a police officer.
"Come on," Edward muttered. "The operation must work. He must be found…"
John eased the door open, stepping silently inside. From a radio mic on Edward's desk, panicked voices spilled over each other:
"Captain Edward, please—cancel the operation!"
"The citizens are out of control!"
"We can't hold the blockades!"
Edward ignored them. His eyes burned with fury, his hands gripping the map's edges as if sheer will could force the city to obey. "Please," he whispered. "Hold on a little longer… just find him…"
But the man he sought was already there.
John closed the distance in an instant. He struck, one hand locking around Edward's throat, the other slamming him down against the floor. Edward gasped, eyes bulging with shock.
John leaned close, his voice a rasp against Edward's ear.
"Captain Edward… you prideful bastard. You've made the lives of hundreds a hell—all because of me."
Edward thrashed once, then went slack as John's grip pressed tighter. Darkness claimed him before he could utter a word.
John let him fall limp, then rifled his coat. A pair of handcuffs glinted in his pocket. Perfect.
Click. Snap.
Edward's wrists were forced behind his back, the cuffs locking tight. John propped his unconscious body against the wall, watching him slump helplessly to the side.
For now, the captain was no longer a threat.
Hours passed and it was already midnight.
Edward's eyes snapped open, fury blazing as he stared at the hooded figure across from him.
"You!" he roared, voice hoarse with rage. "You! What are you doing here? The whole southern division is tearing the city apart to find you, and you—here?!"
He thrashed in his cuffs, metal rattling, his hands trembling with fury. "Once I get out of these handcuffs, I'll kill you myself!"
John sat calmly in the chair opposite him, hands folded, voice even.
"Really? Weren't you supposed to catch me? That's what you screamed the other day."
Edward's face twisted. "That was a mistake! I should've ordered you executed on the spot!"
"And the order? The mission that demanded my capture?"
"Damn the order!" Edward spat. "That nameless bastard Roger made me obey is nothing but a fraud! I should've never listened to him!"
John tilted his head slightly, sharp eyes under the hood. "What do you mean—'nameless man'?"
"I don't know who he is. But Commander Roger forced me, and every man in the department, to obey his words before leaving the city. Said he'd return in a day, but it's been three. Still nothing."
"And this Roger… who is he really?"
Edward's voice softened, almost reverent despite the anger burning in him. "He's the highest-ranking officer in this city. Was respected more than anyone. Four, maybe five years ago, he was just a commander. Obsessed with strength. Physical strength. But nothing ever satisfied him. Then… he started speaking with this mysterious man. Constantly. It changed him. He connected Syntera's network to our police force, expanded our reach. People whispered the man was from Syntera, but no one knew for sure."
A shadow crossed Edward's face. "I was the last one who still respected him. If he yearned for ultimate strength… I yearned for ultimate perfection. And now? He's gone. He left the city on some mission from that nameless man. Until he returns, I'm forced to serve in his absence."
John studied him in silence. Then, the radio at Edward's belt crackled to life.
"Captain Edward… the blockades are gone. The citizens forced us back. We… we had no choice. I'm sorry."
Edward froze, then snapped back, his face burning crimson. His hands shook violently against the cuffs.
"There's no point, Edward," John said quietly. "That's why I came here, why I bound you. To stop this operation."
"I would've never cancelled it!" Edward spat, chest heaving. "Those bastards disobeyed me and ended it without my consent. There's nothing left for me to control."
John leaned forward. "Then answer me this—if I walk out right now, will you relaunch it? Will you hunt me again?"
Edward's eyes flared with pride. "Yes! I won't stop until I catch you!"
John's calm shattered. His eyes widened, his voice broke into a roar. "Why?!"
Edward faltered, lips trembling, words stammering out. "Because… because… because—" He stopped. His next words came in a broken whisper. "Because if I don't… the reputation I've built my whole life will crumble."
"Reputation?" John's voice dropped to a low growl. "That's it? No will to save this city? No conviction? Just… reputation?" His expression hardened. "That's not justice, Edward. That's just pride. And pride will be the death of you."
He stood.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall. John turned his head sharply toward the door.
In that split second, Edward moved. The cuffs clattered to the ground. His eyes burned with desperate triumph.
"Ha! Spare key," he hissed. "You weren't paying attention. Now you die!"
He lunged, slamming John to the ground, pistol drawn. His finger curled around the trigger—
—but John's instincts snapped awake. His hand clamped around Edward's wrist, the other locking against his throat.
"Edward, stop!" John shouted, straining against the man's desperate strength. "It's over!"
Edward thrashed violently, almost breaking free. John's grip tightened reflexively—too tight. A sharp click rang out.
The hidden blade snapped forward.
Edward's eyes went wide. He gasped, choking, as the steel buried itself deep into his throat. Blood sprayed across John's hand. He gurgled, clawing weakly at the wound, scarlet spilling down his uniform.
John froze, breathless. His gaze dropped to the blade protruding from Edward's neck, then back to Edward's eyes—wide, terrified, already dimming.
"No…" John whispered. His grip faltered, the blade retracting as Edward collapsed into his lap. "No, no, no—please, God, no!"
He pressed his hands to the wound, blood pouring hot and thick between his fingers. "Stay with me! I didn't mean it, Edward—I swear I didn't mean it!" His voice cracked, ragged with desperation. "I just wanted to talk. I didn't want this. Please… please…"
But Edward's body went limp. His last breath rattled out.
John's hands trembled, slick with blood. His eyes blurred with tears as he stared at the crimson-stained blade. It came out… when I tightened my grip…
The footsteps drew nearer. The police were almost at the door.
John staggered to his feet, heart racing. His gaze darted frantically around the room, then locked onto a narrow window. Without hesitation, he hurled himself through it. Glass shattered, cutting his arms, but the night air hit his face and he stumbled into the yard.
For a long moment, he could only stand there, shaking. His breaths came in shallow gasps. His eyes were wide, empty, his voice a broken whisper.
"I didn't want to kill him… He didn't have to die… I thought—I thought I could change his mind."
He pressed his bloodied hands to his face, then slowly forced himself over the wall.
On the other side, the city roared with joy. The citizens filled the streets, chanting, laughing, celebrating their victory. Shakedown is over. The people had won.
But John walked among them hollow and silent, their cheers echoing in his ears like mockery. His hood shadowed his pale, broken face. He stumbled to his apartment, collapsed on the bed, and curled into himself.
"I didn't want to…" His voice cracked into a sob. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry…"
Tears soaked his pillow as the city outside celebrated freedom. But John—John was broken. His will alone could no longer carry him.
Only a miracle could.