The killer stepped fully into the open.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Grease stains on his sleeves.
Not masked.
Not dramatic.
Just a man.
"You came," he said.
"Yes."
The two hostages were behind him, tied upright against metal frames.
One barely conscious.
The other trying to focus.
"You dismissed them," the killer said.
"Not all."
A faint smile.
"You kept one."
Pocho didn't react.
"You're learning restraint," the killer continued.
"Release them," Pocho said.
"No."
The killer took two slow steps forward.
Pocho didn't draw his weapon.
Not yet.
"You look different," the killer said. "Less emotional."
Pocho's jaw tightened.
"You attacked my wife."
"Yes."
"And you're still standing."
The killer's eyes sharpened slightly.
"I didn't want her dead," he said calmly. "That wasn't the point."
"What was?"
"To move you."
Without warning, the killer lunged.
Fast.
Faster than Pocho expected.
He grabbed Pocho by the collar and slammed him into a metal beam.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
Before he could fully recover, a fist connected with his ribs.
Hard.
Pocho staggered back but stayed upright.
The killer moved again.
Another hit.
This one to the jaw.
Pocho hit the ground.
The hostages flinched.
The killer stood over him.
"You thought I was just patient," he said. "You forgot I'm stronger."
Pocho rolled to the side just as a boot came down.
He pushed himself up.
Not fast.
Not reckless.
Measured.
The killer swung again.
Pocho blocked partially but felt the force through his forearm.
Pain shot up his arm.
The killer grabbed him again, this time lifting him halfway and throwing him against a stack of metal sheets.
They clanged loudly.
Harris would hear that.
The killer paused briefly.
"You brought backup," he said quietly.
"Yes."
The killer's expression didn't change.
"I expected that."
He stepped forward again.
Pocho drew his weapon this time.
Not aiming at the killer.
At his leg.
He fired once.
The shot hit.
The killer dropped to one knee but didn't scream.
Didn't panic.
Just breathed harder.
"You hesitate," the killer said.
"I don't," Pocho replied.
"You aimed low."
"I needed you alive."
A small laugh escaped the killer.
"Still pretending it's about justice."
Pocho stepped closer.
Gun steady.
"Release them."
The killer looked at him carefully.
"You've changed," he said.
Pocho didn't respond.
"You don't yell anymore."
"No."
"You don't lose control."
"No."
"But you're still here."
"Yes."
The killer leaned back against the metal frame behind him.
Blood soaking through his pant leg.
"You think you won," he said.
"I haven't finished."
The killer looked at him for a long moment.
Then said quietly:
"You finally look like me."
That didn't provoke a reaction.
Pocho walked past him.
Cut the first hostage loose.
Then the second.
Harris rushed in at that moment, weapon raised.
"Clear!" Harris shouted.
Other units followed.
The killer didn't fight.
Didn't run.
He simply sat there, bleeding, watching Pocho.
"You aimed to wound," Harris said quietly.
"Yes."
"He almost killed you."
"Yes."
Pocho stepped back in front of the killer.
The man's breathing was slower now.
Controlled.
"You're not angry," the killer observed.
"No."
"Disappointing."
Pocho crouched slightly so they were eye level.
"You wanted a witness," Pocho said.
"Yes."
"You wanted me unstable."
"Yes."
"And?"
The killer smiled faintly.
"I got that."
Silence.
"Not tonight," Pocho replied.
For the first time, the killer's expression shifted slightly.
Not fear.
But recognition.
Pocho stood.
"Take him," he said.
Officers moved in.
As they cuffed him, the killer spoke one last time.
Softly.
Only for Pocho.
"I didn't lose," he said.
Pocho looked down at him.
The killer continued:
"I finished."
Pocho didn't respond.
But those words stayed.
Because the man wasn't angry.
He wasn't defeated.
He looked… complete.
And that unsettled Pocho more than the fight.