In the darkest part of the city, where even stray cats avoided to hunt, the alley seemed to breathe—damp and restless. Rain pattered against the pavement, and the air carried the smell of wet asphalt, rot, and something worse—something stale, like blood long since washed away but never truly gone.
Detective Eric Nolan felt it in his bones. The rain whispered against the pavement, carrying the scent of decay. The alley wasn't just empty—it was waiting. A place where shadows stretched too long, where even stray cats kept their distance.
His coat dripped with rain as he stepped into the dim glow of the streetlight. Across from him, Michael Connors stood still, tense, fingers twitching near his gun.
Nolan swallowed. He knew that look. The hesitation. The questions behind Connors' eyes. The fear. But it didn't matter anymore.
"You have it," Nolan said, his voice too quiet, too steady.
Connors didn't answer. He didn't need to. Nolan already knew the truth—there was nothing to have. It was all a lie, a trap, a manipulation neither of them fully understood. But the moment had already slipped beyond words. The city, the rain, the silence—it had decided for them.
He lunged.
No warning. No time to think.
His fist connected with Connors' shoulder, sending a jolt through his arm. Connors barely had time to roll with it before Nolan swung again, this time aiming for the head. A near miss—he felt the air shift as Connors ducked just in time.
Then came the counterattack.
A headbutt—sharp, sudden. Pain exploded through Nolan's skull, hot and dizzying. Blood dripped from his nose, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
An elbow to Connors' ribs. A satisfying crack. The man staggered, gasping.
They crashed to the ground, rain slick beneath them. Fists, knees, raw desperation. They weren't just fighting each other. They were fighting fate, fighting whatever unseen hand had pushed them to this point.
Then—the gun.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
It skittered across the alley, swallowed by shadows. Gone.
Nolan moved first.
His hands wrapped around Connors' throat, tightening, squeezing. He felt the man thrash beneath him, struggling for air. Felt his pulse hammering, slowing. It was almost over.
Then—
Pain. Sudden, searing. A sharp edge tearing into his side. The breath left his lungs in a choked gasp.
He faltered. Just for a second.
Connors shoved him off, rolling away, gasping, free.
Nolan staggered, hands pressing to his side. Warmth spread through his coat. Blood. His blood. It poured down, mixing with the rain, staining the pavement.
His legs wavered. He sank to his knees.
He looked at Connors—really looked at him. And for the first time, he wasn't angry. He wasn't afraid. He was… confused. Like he had missed something. Like some terrible realization had just dawned on him.
He tried to speak. Tried to ask why.
But no words came.
His body slumped against the wall. The last thing he saw was the rain washing his blood away, erasing him bit by bit, until there was nothing left.
---
Michael Connors wiped the blood from his hands.
He moved quickly, methodically—erasing every trace. Wiping surfaces. Kicking debris over the fight's remnants. And left something with the body of Nolan before leaving.
After he left, a lone marble struck the wet pavement with a soft, hollow clatter.
The sound broke the stillness—small, sharp, and wrong.
It rolled, weaving through rain-slick cracks, tracing a lazy, uncertain path—before finally settling in a shallow puddle.
The water rippled outward.
A tiny disturbance.
A reminder that something had happened here—something the rain could never wash away.
---
Jason knew things were bad the moment he walked into the office and saw Sarah pacing.
Not just pacing—caged-animal pacing. And the usually "pleasant when caffeinated" team lead was currently swearing in ways that could break glass.
It got worse.
Their manager was already there.
Jason barely had time to drop his bag before Sarah turned on him.
"I want this virus dead. I don't care if you have to sacrifice a goat to the firewall gods—fix it."
Jason exchanged a glance with Arnon.
This wasn't over.
"It adapted," Arnon muttered, eyes locked on his monitor. "It's not acting like it did before."
Jason slid into his chair, fingers flying over his keyboard. Logs scrolled in front of him. Something was wrong.
"We boxed it in," Jason murmured. "We should've suffocated it. But…"
"...it's not playing by the same rules anymore, and I still need to pee," Arnon finished.
Jason exhaled. "Then we change the rules."
They moved as one, their rhythm razor-sharp.
Sophia traced forensic logs. Each time the virus shifted, she flagged it.
Diego locked down outgoing traffic, cutting off its escape routes.
Robert scrambled to fix corrupted user accounts while fielding frantic employees.
Jason and Arnon worked in sync, finishing each other's sentences before they were spoken.
Jason's heart pounded. They weren't hunting it anymore.
It was hunting them.
The virus wasn't just moving through systems—it was choosing.
An AI? No. This was something else.
Something aware.
He exhaled. "We need to force it into a cage."
Diego rerouted network pathways, guiding the virus into a dead end.
Sophia prepped an isolated server—no exit, no way out.
Jason and Arnon deployed a countermeasure, baiting the virus into thinking it had an opening—only to trap it inside.
They watched the logs.
Numbers flickered. Changed. Shifted.
The virus hesitated.
Jason felt it.
For a moment, it...
Then—
The logs went still.
No new breaches. No movement.
The virus was resolved.
The hunt was over.
But Jason wasn't convinced.
Because for one brief second, before the logs went silent…
Arnon exhaled. "It's done."
Sarah leaned against the desk, exhausted. "Finally.”