5: Massacre

7:25 AM. CONTACT.

As the bustling Austen Boulevard hums with the energy of the morning rush, Zero somehow blends seamlessly into the crowd of pedestrians. He scans the crowd with razor-sharp focus, searching for his target amidst the sea of faces.

Amidst the stream of commuters and passersby, a figure catches Zero's attention—a man with a distinctive red hat. There is something about its vibrant hue that stands out against the monotonous backdrop of the crowd, marking its wearer as the target of Zero's mission.

Zero readies his blade. His hand hovers lightly on the blade's hilt, concealed beneath the folds of his coat. His senses are heightened, and every nerve is alert to the slightest hint of danger as he prepares to strike. As the man with the red hat draws nearer, Zero's instincts quicken, honed by years of training and experience. There is no room for hesitation or doubt.

In the blink of an eye, he springs into action. His movements are swift and silent as he closes the distance between himself and his target. The street fades away. The sounds of the city melt into the background as he focuses all his attention on the red man.

With a single, fluid motion, Zero unsheathes his blade. The polished steel glints in the morning light as it arcs through the air. The blade instantly finds its mark, striking with deadly accuracy and delivering a lethal blow. The red hat flies upward due to the impact. Onlookers gasp and point, curious by the distinct crimson adornment flowing through the air. Everyone is ignorant of the sudden violence erupting before them. But for Zero, there is no time for hesitation—only the cold, unyielding pursuit of his mission, whatever the cost.

As the target completely collapses, a wave of shock ripples through the crowd, followed by a woman's scream. But Zero pays no mind. It was a weird feeling as his blade met the man’s temples, Zero contemplates. It felt like hitting something inhuman—something that was not flesh. But before Zero can register the full extent of his actions, he senses a sudden shift in the atmosphere—a subtle ripple of movement that sends a chill down his neck. Zero whirls around at breakneck speed, scanning the crowd for signs of danger. And then he sees it—a glint of metal, a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.

It was a decoy.

In an instant, chaos erupts as a squad of heavily armed operatives emerges from the crowd, aiming their weapons at Zero. They surround him in a circular formation, cutting off any chance of escape.

Caught off guard but undeterred, Zero squares his shoulders, clutching his katana in an offensive stance as he prepares to face his attackers head-on. His mind races with possibilities, weighing his options and calculating his next move.

But even as he braces himself for the inevitable confrontation, a sense of calm washes over him—a quiet resolve that steadies his nerves and sharpens his focus. In the face of overwhelming odds, Zero remains steadfast. His eyes are locked on the targets.

Zero lunges forward with a fluid grace as the assailants close in on him from all sides. His movements are a symphony of precision and speed; each strike incapacitates his foes for life—if they live.

As the first attacker slashes, Zero sidesteps with uncanny agility, slicing through the air with a force that emanates sparks. The assailant staggers back, clutching at a gaping wound, as Zero's blade finds its mark on the opponent’s heart. Without missing a beat, Zero whirls around to face his next opponent, remaining sharp and alert as he anticipates their move. With a swift motion, he disarms the second assailant with a well-placed strike; the weapon clatters to the ground as its owner recoils in shock.

In seconds, Zero is surrounded again. The assailants slowly close in with weapons drawn and murder in their eyes. But Zero remains unfazed, attuning his focus as he greets their onslaught with a defensive stance. He rapidly parries blow after blow. His katana is a blur of motion, deflecting each attack with precise timing. As for his unfortunate foes, they are enveloped in a tornado of death—a lethal storm that leaves them whirling in confusion and disarray.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

One by one, the assailants fall before Zero's onslaught, littering the ground in a grim testament to his blade work. With each strike, he moves ruthlessly, efficiently, and unyielding. The Boulevard is filled with the stench of violence and incomprehensible shouting. It does not matter who is shouting. Civilians or the attackers.

As the last of his assailants crumples to the ground, Zero stands alone amidst the carnage. His breath beats in a steady rhythm as he surveys the scene. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood, harmonizing with an eerie silence, broken only by Zero's heartbeat echoing in the stillness.

In the aftermath of the confrontation, Zero remains vigilant, alert to any signs of further danger. But for now, the threat has been neutralized, and he stands as the lone victor amidst the chaos of battle.

***

7:26 AM. SECOND CONTACT.

The sloshing sound of coffee flowing and dripping in cups happens to wake Jack up. Other agents are all up, stretching, exercising, and putting on their uniform coats. The crew has been working late at night to handle some cases around the city, and Jack is no stranger to these types of work. He hates it, not because he does not get to hang out at his usual bar. No, no. Criminals are fond of doing their business nightly. Jack has to be up if anything disrupts the city's sleep. No, what he hates about it is the police. The city's police, since time immemorial, has been naught but a cesspool of incompetent fools and crooked higher-ups shooting for their promotions. These kinds of clean-up duties, now handled by agents, were the police's work, and they could not even care less. He hates the inaction. Perhaps, if the police were actually working, special agents could have focused on more important missions. Jack groans at the thought.

“Agent Jack. Serial Number: 24595801. Requesting for outside visits. Will be back in 30 minutes,” Jack says to the machine. It churns out a small piece of paper—a signup form, as written at the top.

“Tch, cancel form,” Jack crosses his arms in an x-shape. The machine does not respond. The screen flickers, waiting for Jack to fill out the form. “Cancel. Cancel. Cancel the form! Oh my god, I don’t wanna fill out a form, you stupid piece of junk!” Jack hits the side of the signup machine. Its mechanical gears groan in dismay.

“You know what? Forget it,” Jack starts walking to the door. “Hey, Jack! You gotta fill the form!” Says a curly-mustached man. A long line of sleepy agents is behind him.

“I’m just goin’ out for a smoke. Tell ‘em I’ll be back when they fix the voice recognition on that stupid thing,” Jack scans the front and back of his card. The four-layered gate opens in a quick succession like a flower in bloom.

“But—” The mustache agent feels a hand on his shoulder. “Let the man have a smoke, Lenny. Last night was shitty for all of us,” the agent behind Lenny pats his back, then stretches his arms out to yawn. “Hooooaaaah, man, I’m beat—oh, Jack!”

“Yeah?” Jack clicks the elevator’s up button and turns around.

“Drinks on me if you get me some Bontaine’s,” he winks and does a thumbs-up.

“Alright,” Jack replies as the elevator slowly closes on him.

The whirling and scraping sound of the elevator can tick Jack at times, but now he finds the sound comforting. Moments like these do not come around often anymore. Jack feels his ears going deaf from the pressure, so he swallows multiple times.

The elevator opens. Jack looks up to see a grand clock decorating the center of the lobby. Its hand strikes seven. The Director may not take his tardiness too well this time, considering she found him in a nearly unrecognizable state last week, covered in trash and blood, slogging to the emergency ward with a wooden plank for support. And for the remainder of that week, he had to listen to her ranting by his bedside about indiscretion and unnecessary combat in public. He did not mind it too much, though. Besides the nurses, only the Director visits him.

Jack sprints to the nearest vending machine. He clicks for his usual brand. 50 dollars, eh, price went up… Jack sighs. He confirms his order and puts in his card. Then, he remembers to get another one for his colleague, too.

“ ‘Kay… Let’s see… Bontaine’s, Bontaine’s… ah! There.”

Jack clicks the screen for a pack of Bontaine’s. But as he touches the confirm screen, he hears movement. Shuffles. An annoying, shuffling sound.

“Boy, oh boy,” Jack rubs his eyes. “Not even a week…”

He turns around to a cadre of heavily armed assailants. Their guns’ red tracking lasers aim at Jack’s forehead all at once.

“... and I’m ambushed. Again.”

***