Jace's vision flickered as Providence's voice resonated in his mind.
"You need to get to the train station. Now."
There was no explanation, no hesitation—just a directive. Still processing the chaos of the last few hours, Jace slipped on his new jacket, adjusted the collar, and stepped out into the dimly lit streets. The city never truly slept, but at this hour, only the desperate and the dangerous roamed.
He arrived at the station, his steps purposeful but calm. His eyes scanned the area, locking onto the ticket counter. As he approached, an attendant slid a small envelope across the counter without a word. Jace hesitated before taking it, his fingers brushing against the rough paper. He opened it.
[12:30 AM]
No destination. No details. Just a time. His instincts flared. Something was off, but he trusted Providence. He took a seat in the shadows, his senses on high alert.
Minutes passed. Then, movement.
Jace felt it before he saw it—the unnatural stillness, the shift in the air. He subtly adjusted his seating position, keeping his head down but his eyes moving. A group of men filtered into the station, their movements too rehearsed, too coordinated. They weren't just travelers. They were predators.
Providence whispered.
"Twelve targets. Coordinated attack. Engage."
Jace exhaled slowly. He counted their positions. His fingers itched, his mind already mapping out the fight before it began.
The first shot rang out.
Time slowed. Jace ducked low as a bullet whizzed past his ear. He rolled forward, closing the distance to the nearest gunman. A sharp strike to the throat. A twist of the wrist. Gun disarmed. One shot—clean. The man crumpled.
He pivoted. A second attacker raised his weapon. Jace sidestepped, his hand striking out with deadly precision. The man's body stiffened as Jace's stolen firearm fired. Another down.
Ten left.
A rush of movement. Three coming from the right. Jace dove behind a bench, taking aim. Three shots. Three bodies hit the ground before they could react.
Seven left.
The remaining assailants hesitated. Jace felt their fear—saw the shift in their stance. They were re-evaluating, but it was already too late for them.
He launched forward. A spinning kick sent one crashing into a column. Another reached for a knife—Jace caught his wrist, twisted, snapped it. He caught the falling blade, drove it into the next attacker's shoulder before firing twice into his chest.
Four left.
One tried to run. Jace raised his gun, exhaled. A single shot. The man collapsed mid-step.
Three left.
They fumbled, panic settling in. Jace advanced. He dodged a wild swing, slammed his knee into the attacker's ribs, then ended him with a brutal strike to the temple.
Two left.
A gun cocked behind him. Jace twisted, his arm snapping out. The attacker's shot went wide as Jace's fingers locked around his throat. A squeeze. A crack. The body slumped.
One left.
The final man dropped his gun, hands trembling.
"Please—"
Jace fired. No hesitation.
The station fell silent, the acrid scent of gunpowder thick in the air. He exhaled, body still coiled for a fight, but nothing moved except the flickering station lights.
Then, the distant rumble of a train.
Jace turned, watching as the locomotive slowed to a halt before him. Its doors slid open with a mechanical hiss.
Without a word, he stepped inside, leaving the carnage behind.
The train departed. The next phase had begun.