Lopo was still alive—tough bastard.
Felix used his skill again, searching for Lopo's position. He followed the pull in his mind, circled around outside, and found the man hiding in the bedroom.
He paused, felt carefully, then pressed the muzzle against the wooden wall and pulled the trigger. The round punched through the timber. Lopo, crouched against the wall, was slammed down and never got up.
To the end he never understood how the man outside had known where he was, nor why someone with that kind of precision had come for him. He was just a small-time thug in a gang, nothing more.
Target Lopo eliminated. The night's purpose was done. But Felix had no intention of leaving it uneven—four had come, four would fall.
The last one, a wounded black male, had crawled into the storage room. He buried himself under piles of junk, a pistol clutched in his hand, enduring the pain in silence, hoping the hunter outside would pass him by. If not, he was ready to go down fighting.
Sweat poured off him. Too hot.
Hot?
He pushed a few scraps aside to peek out. No wonder—it was on fire.
Screaming, he bolted through the smoke and flames, desperate for air.
Two muffled shots cracked.
Felix put him down. He had promised order, and he kept his word.
At first Felix had thought about draining fuel from the SUV, but with no siphon and no idea how to pull it from the engine, he had given up. The house itself was easier: lighters, dried leaves, a sofa, stacked clutter, the frame of the place. All burnable.
He tossed his gloves, hat, and hoodie into the blaze, then turned and left. Gunfire carried far in the empty outskirts; neighbours would hear, and police would come. The only question was how long.
He found the motorcycle he had stashed in the grass, kicked it up, and rode. On open roads, the machine delivered raw exhilaration: speed sharper than a car's, wind tearing at his face, a touch of freedom. Dangerous too—steel around flesh was one thing; flesh wrapped around steel was another.
System prompt:
[Host has killed 4 persons. Progress: 12/10. Rewards acquired:
$10,000.Combat ability upgraded to Lv.1 (includes unarmed and armed combat; host must select one type of unarmed and one weapon to specialise; further types require additional upgrades).One personal request granted.]
Skill note: At times one must rely on body or blade. Level 1 equals roughly a year of professional training. Against an untrained opponent, odds are high. (Combat is not only skill, but will—someone trained but pulling punches can lose to a civilian willing to kill.)
Felix slowed the bike as traffic thickened, mind sifting through the options laid before him.
Unarmed forms: Muay Thai, Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.
He weighed them and chose Sanda—practical, straightforward, kicks and punches anyone could throw.
Weapons were more diverse: knives, swords, axes, every kind of polearm. But only a few could be carried in plain sight. Felix picked the short stick. It meant he could work a baton properly—straight or telescopic, the skill carried over.
The last choice was his own demand. He thought for a long time, then glanced at the road and knew what he needed: transport.
He was tired of stealing cars. Too many risks: owners calling in, patrols chasing, gas stations and noise. He wanted something fast, discreet, terrain-proof, easy to handle, quiet, energy-free, durable. If it could fly, better.
Ambitious, maybe impossible. The system stalled, long enough for him to think he'd broken it.
System prompt:
[Matching host request.
Acquired: Tianzi-Wei Balance Vehicle. Self-powered with crystal energy, no refueling required. Ordinary exterior. Neural link, absolute control. Extreme durability.
Modes: Balance scooter, max 40 km/h, road or rough track.
Flight mode: 80 km/h, low-altitude ceiling 30m.
Both modes silent. Auto-adhesion, user cannot fall. Bonded to host. Non-transferable, non-stealable.]
Felix blinked. Not the Goblin's glider, not the Batpod, not some wheel of fire. But the system's choice made sense. Flashier toys would draw eyes, cameras, uploads. He didn't need YouTube fame.
He set the colour to black, swapped the "V" on the casing for an "X." Looked better that way.
Nearer the city, he ditched the motorcycle on a patch of dirt. He flipped the fuel cap open, let it spill, dropped a lighter in. Flames whooshed high into the night.
He mounted the balance vehicle and shot away. Brain-controlled flight: effortless. Safe too—no searing exhaust, no sparks to set curtains alight. Smooth entry straight into his apartment window. No more climbing balconies. He grinned. Worth it.
Revenge for Carles taken, he showered, stretched out, and let sleep come.
The phone dragged him back.
"Yeah…"
"Felix, get here now! We've got a situation." Greene's voice was taut with urgency.
"I know. The protests, right?"
"Not that! An ambush! Six men down already!"
Felix sat bolt upright. "You joking? Six? What is this, Afghanistan?"
"I'd take Afghanistan over this! Just come!"
"I've got nothing. You took my gear this morning."
"I've got plenty of guns. Move!"
Felix threw on clothes, bolted downstairs, reached the lot—then remembered Rachel had taken his car.
Good thing he had a new ride.
He summoned the balance vehicle, stepped on, and sped into the night.
The scene was Monterey Park, a middling neighbourhood. Even from a distance, he saw the red-blue wash of dozens of cruisers. Police crouched behind doors and bumpers, eyes fixed on a concrete two-storey ahead.
On the safer perimeter, paramedics worked over wounded officers. Six bodies on the ground.
Felix coasted up on the balance board, earning stares.
"You came on that?" Greene waved him over.
"My girl's got my car. Don't knock it—this thing's fast."
Forty on a hoverboard wasn't slow. He remembered the nerves of hitting forty in a driving test, clutch foot shaking, afraid of mowing down pedestrians.
Greene scratched his neck, decided not to argue. "Listen. Here's the setup."
Felix slid the balance board into a cruiser's back seat. "Go on."
"Call came in earlier: home invasion, female resident injured. Austin responded. At the door, a shirtless black male waved him over. Looked unarmed. Austin relaxed. Too close—man pulled a gun, shot him.
We rushed backup. After warnings, one male came out carrying an infant and a backpack. We ordered him to set both down, hands high, walk backwards. He did. No problem.
Or so we thought. Turned out there were two men inside. Once the first was cuffed, our guys went for the child. That's when the real suspect opened fire. Four officers dropped on the spot.
Then he tried to ram through the garage. More shots. Another man hit."
Felix narrowed his eyes. "So what are we waiting for? Go in and take him."
"That's why I called you. We need someone to breach."
"Why me? Why not you?"
"I don't want to die—no, I mean I don't have the skill. You're our ace. This is your kind of job."
"What about SEB?"
"They showed up. He sprayed their truck, they pulled back."
Felix stared at him, then turned to study the house. Two-storey, solid concrete. A fortress for anyone ruthless enough. They could storm it, sure, but more bodies would fall. Six already was too many. Greene couldn't risk it. Couldn't order SWAT to bleed either. Better to wait, to grind down the suspect.
Finally, Felix sighed. "Give me a vest. And another gun."
Greene pointed. "Ready for you."
Felix picked it up. His own kit—same gear he'd been stripped of earlier. Full circle.
He strapped in, checked the mag, tucked a spare in his pocket. "Kill the power to the house."
Then he slipped into the dark, vest snug, flashlight and pistol in hand, moving in from the side.