Time had passed, and John’s recent wounds were mostly healed. The burns had faded, the bruises dulled, and his ribs no longer ached with every breath. He could still feel the dull throb when he moved too quickly, but pain was nothing new. It was part of him.
Tonight, he sat in a small diner on the city’s west side, nursing a cup of coffee as he waited. The place was quiet, the kind of spot people went to when they didn’t want to be found. Dim lighting, faded red booths, and a radio playing something old and slow.
The bell above the door jingled. Detective Gomez.
John smirked as he saw him walk in—tall, lean, sharp in his pressed shirt and dark overcoat. But the most striking thing? His eyes. Vibrant blue, unnaturally bright. A side effect of his ability—night vision. It wasn’t much compared to the super-powered titans walking the streets, but it gave him an edge. It also made him easy to spot.
John leaned back in his seat as Gomez slid into the booth across from him. “You ever consider sunglasses, Gomez? You stick out like a neon sign in a place like this.”
Gomez smirked, setting down a folder between them. “You ever consider washing that damn coat? You stick out like a bad smell.”
John chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. “Fair enough. What’s this?” He tapped the folder.
Gomez sighed, running a hand through his short dark hair. “A problem.”
John flipped the folder open. Crime scene photos. Bodies. Sliced perfectly in half.
He frowned, studying the images. The cuts weren’t jagged. They were precise. Not like something an animal or brute strength would do. It was almost... surgical. Too clean.
“This is new,” John muttered.
“Yeah,” Gomez said, rubbing his temple. “And it’s been happening for months. Whoever’s doing this, they know what they’re doing. Crime scenes are pristine—no stray evidence, no witnesses, nothing. Just a corpse split right down the middle.”
John flipped to another picture, then another. Each one the same. He glanced up. “You think it’s a cop.”
Gomez nodded. “Or a detective. Maybe someone with connections. Someone who knows how to clean up. Every time I start piecing things together, the killings stop. For weeks, even months.”
John exhaled, closing the folder. “And now they’re back.”
“Yeah,” Gomez said. “And I need your help to find out who the hell is doing this before more bodies turn up.”
John leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. A killer hiding in plain sight. A cop hunting criminals but doing it too well.
“Alright,” he said, nodding. “Let’s hunt.”
Gomez nodded. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He reached into his coat and pulled out another file, sliding it across the table. “I’ve been trying to find patterns, connections. The victims—thugs, killers, scum, all of them. It’s why no one’s making a fuss about it. But look at this.”
John opened the file and scanned through the reports. Different locations. Different gangs. But something caught his attention.
“These spots,” John said, tapping on a map with marked locations, “this is all over the city. No clear pattern.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Gomez said. “But check the gaps. The time between the killings and where they pick up again. It always stops when law enforcement changes. Transfers. Promotions. When someone leaves the force or moves departments, the killings start up again in different areas.”
John frowned. “So, whoever this is, they’re either moving around or keeping tabs on how close the investigation gets.”
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“Exactly,” Gomez said. “And whenever I get too close, they go dark. No kills for weeks. Then suddenly, they’re back at it in a different neighborhood.”
John ran a hand down his face. “Means they’re definitely in the force.”
Gomez nodded. “Which is why I need you. I can only dig so deep before I get noticed. But you? You work outside the lines.”
John sighed. He hated dirty cops. Hated the ones who twisted their badge into something worse than the criminals they chased. This was going to be messy.
“What do we have on the latest victim?” John asked.
Gomez flipped to the last page. “Happened two nights ago. Southside. A drug dealer. Same clean split. No one saw anything, no witnesses, just a body left behind like a warning.”
John took another sip of his coffee, staring at the photos. If they didn’t move fast, there’d be another one.
“Give me a full list,” John said. “Every victim. And I want to know what they did.”
Gomez nodded, pulling out another folder. “Already ahead of you.” He slid it across the table.
John flipped through it, scanning each name, each crime. Then, something clicked.
“They all had records,” John muttered. “Petty theft, assaults, drug charges... but this.” He tapped one of the pages. “This is different.”
Gomez leaned in. “What is it?”
John exhaled. “Years ago, there was a robbery. Went bad. A whole family got wiped out.” He flipped through more pages. “These guys... they were all involved.”
Gomez’s expression darkened. “Every single one of them?”
John nodded. “Whoever’s doing this isn’t just cleaning up criminals. They’re settling a personal score.”
Gomez leaned back, rubbing his chin. “That means we need to find someone in the force with a connection to that case.”
“I’ll start at the station, see what I can dig up,” Gomez said, pushing back from the booth. “You?”
“I know one of them,” John said, standing. “Guy turned his life around. Works at a warehouse now. If he’s next on the list, I’d rather not find him in two halves.”
---
The warehouse district smelled like oil, metal, and sweat. John stepped through the yard, weaving between stacked crates and moving forklifts. The man he was looking for—**Rick Nolan**—was working the loading dock, hauling boxes into a truck.
“Nolan,” John called out.
Rick turned, wiping his hands on his overalls. His eyes widened with recognition. “Shit… I know you. You’re that guy—Damaged.”
John stepped closer. “We need to talk. It’s about the robbery. The one that went bad.”
Rick’s face hardened. “That was years ago. I paid my debt.”
“Someone doesn’t think so.” John glanced around. “People involved in that job are dying. Sliced in half.”
Rick swallowed, suddenly looking uneasy. “I got out of that life, man. I don’t—”
His phone buzzed in John’s pocket. **Gomez.**
“I know who it is,” Gomez said over the line. “John, listen to me. It’s—”
A wet **slice** cut through the air. Rick’s body went rigid—then **split clean in two.**
John felt a sudden, sharp pain across his stomach, a thin line of burning heat. His scars saved him—the thousands of cuts he had endured over the years kept the wound shallow—but it still hurt.
Rick’s body collapsed in halves, blood pooling between the crates.
Standing behind him was a man. A cop.
His right arm was cybernetically enhanced—a glowing, katana-like blade extending from his wrist, still slick with blood.
John clenched his fists, blood dripping from his wound. The killer had finally revealed himself.
“One down,” the man said coldly, staring at John. “One more to go.”
His eyes were wild—whether from grief or the thrill of the kill, John couldn’t tell.
John clenched his fists. “I get why you’re doing this. But Rick? He turned his life around. This wasn’t justice.”
The killer smirked. “Justice? No. It’s about balance.” Another blade extended from his other arm.
He lunged.
John barely dodged, the second blade slicing through the air where his throat had been a second earlier. He countered with a hard punch to the ribs, but the killer was fast—trained. A blur of steel forced John back, each cut adding up, biting into his skin. His scars dulled the worst of them, but the pain was real.
John managed to grab the killer’s arm mid-swing, twisting with all his strength. A sickening crack. One of the cybernetic blades snapped.
The killer grunted in pain but retaliated instantly, slicing deep into John’s calf. Somewhere untested.
Agony shot up his leg. John dropped to one knee, teeth clenched.
The killer stood over him, blade gleaming. “Next time,” he said, “you won’t walk away.”
And then, he was gone.
John gritted his teeth, pressing a hand to his bleeding leg. He grabbed his phone. “Gomez,” he rasped. “He got away.”
Silence. Then Gomez cursed. “Where are you?”
John exhaled. “Bleeding
out in dirty warehouse."
“Hold tight. I’m coming.”
Gomez got to John in record time. The warehouse was a mess—Rick Nolan’s body still warm, his blood pooling beneath the cracked concrete floor. John was sitting on the ground, back against a crate, his leg bleeding heavily from the deep cut to his calf.
“Shit,” Gomez muttered, kneeling beside him. He pulled out his radio. “This is Detective Gomez, I need officers and crime scene response at the East Dock warehouse district. We’ve got a body—suspect fled the scene.”
John grunted as Gomez slung one of his arms over his shoulder and pulled him to his feet. “You’re heavier than you look.”
John smirked through the pain. “I carry my burdens well.”
The trip back to his apartment was slow, John barely able to put weight on his leg. By the time Gomez got him inside, he was sweating from the effort.
Gomez grabbed a chair and let John sink into it before heading to the kitchen to find some ice. “You’re lucky,” he muttered. “That cut could’ve been worse.”
John exhaled, wincing as he pulled his boot off, exposing the wound. “Still feels like hell.”
Gomez sat across from him, placing the ice pack on the table. “I found out who he is. The cop.”
John glanced up, waiting.
“His name’s Detective Ryan Calloway,” Gomez continued. “Been on the force over fifteen years. Had a record of excessive force, questionable calls, but nothing that ever stuck. Kept getting transferred, always just before IA could pin anything on him.”
John sighed. “And the family?”
Gomez nodded grimly. “It was his sister, her husband, and his niece. They were killed in that robbery. He clearly never got over it, I get that."
John ran a hand down his face. “I saw it in his eyes, Gomez. He’s gone. Talking won’t do anything. He’s completely lost it.”
Gomez leaned forward. “Then we stop him before he kills his last target.”
John let out a breath, staring down at his leg. He clenched his jaw. “I can’t go after him right now. Not like this.”
“You won’t have to,” Gomez said. “I’ll find the last guy and get him into protective custody.”
John nodded slowly.
“Good. Do that. I need a damn minute.”
Gomez stood. “Rest up. I’ll call you when I have something.”
John didn’t reply, just leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His whole body ached, but at least he was still breathing.
For now.