Chapter 18: Detective's Secret
The office was dimly lit, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. Detective Nikolov "Dragon" Dante sat hunched over, his elbows resting on the cool surface of the desk as his fingers ran over the scattered files. The evidence, the bodies, the pieces of the puzzle—nothing fit together in the way he wanted. His mind wandered back to Jason Kai, the charismatic man with a look in his eyes that was as unsettling as it was captivating.
"Can he be the killer?" Dante whispered to himself, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the photograph of Jason. The idea gnawed at him. There was something off about Jason, something that didn't sit right, but it was hard to pinpoint. Everything about him screamed charm, yet Dante couldn't shake the feeling that there was a monster lurking beneath the surface. Was this man truly the killer, or was he just another person caught up in the web of evil Dante had been chasing across the country?
Frustration bubbled up within him, and with a sigh, he stood up from the desk. His mind was clouded, and he needed clarity. He needed control. He walked over to the corner of the office, where a punching bag hung from the ceiling. Without hesitation, he stripped off his jacket, his sleeves rolled up, and his shoes discarded. The floor was cool beneath his bare feet.
Dante closed his eyes for a moment, the rhythmic sound of his breath filling the space. His mind cleared, focusing on the task at hand: shadowboxing. He moved to the center of the room, his body instantly slipping into a fighter's stance.
A quick jab and cross—sharp, measured, the punches cutting through the air with precision. He felt the fluidity in his body as his arms flowed through the motions, the strength building with each movement. He practiced the spear punch, extending his fist straight ahead with the force of a javelin, followed by a smooth transition into a throwhawk, his body twisting with controlled power. Each strike flowed seamlessly into the next.
A slash—quick and deadly—then a second slash, the momentum carrying his arm in a perfect arc, followed by an elbow strike that connected in midair with the invisible opponent. Dante's form was fluid, yet forceful, as he continued to work through his routine.
His legs began to move, too. A snap kick to the midsection, quick and efficient, and then a full rotational roundhouse, his body spinning like a coil releasing its energy. His limbs moved with practiced ease, the power and technique behind every kick showing years of discipline and effort. His feet barely touched the ground as he transitioned smoothly from one movement to another, his mind clearing with each powerful motion.
But still, his thoughts drifted back to Jason.
"If Jason is the killer, I will beat him with my own hands," Dante muttered under his breath, his voice low and almost feral. The thought sent a chill down his spine—not from fear, but from the primal desire for justice. He wasn't going to let anyone slip through his fingers—especially not someone who might have caused so much pain and suffering.
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He kept punching and kicking, his focus narrowing to the bag, but deep inside, he knew the real fight was still to come.
Dante's shadowboxing continued, but now his movements began to shift, his mind drawn to another martial art, a style he had studied in the past—Taekwondo. His body flowed with the rhythm of the techniques, his feet planting firmly in the center of the room. The cool air was filled with the sound of his breath and the sharp snap of his movements.
He began with the knee strikes, a technique he'd often found useful in close combat. His knee snapped upward with precision, aiming for an opponent's chest or face, the power behind each strike unmistakable. Dante's form was as sharp as his focus, his knees driving forward with the intent to maim, to crush. With every knee strike, his mind was momentarily clear of doubt, focused only on the fight.
Knee after knee, each one more fluid than the last, his legs working as though they were an extension of his own desire for clarity. His stance shifted smoothly as he changed angles, preparing for the next movement.
Dante's mind then locked into the point style footwork of Taekwondo—a distinctive, almost ballet-like agility. It was all about quick, sharp movements, and maintaining distance from an opponent while still being able to strike. His feet began to slide, pivot, and then push off the floor as his legs moved in a series of fluid motions, following the pattern of the footwork he'd spent years refining.
He practiced stepping forward, then quickly pivoting backward, maintaining perfect balance while moving with lightning speed. The forward steps were short but intense, the push of his legs catapulting him into the next strike, a move that could be used to deceive and close the distance quickly.
Then he shifted again, practicing the sharpness of his front kicks. He would snap his foot out quickly, like the strike of a whip, aiming for an invisible target in front of him. He would retreat back on his heel, almost effortlessly, as though he had anticipated the opponent's next move before it even came. He'd practiced this style for years, and it felt natural to him—more of a dance than a fight, though one with a deadly purpose.
His footwork, designed for sudden, unexpected movement, flowed like water around a rock. He transitioned from one stance to another with the ease of a seasoned fighter, never losing his balance, never faltering. His legs moved in a precise rhythm, each step and shift helping him feel grounded, yet ready to strike at any given moment.
Dante let his feet glide and slide across the floor as his mind finally began to focus fully on the task at hand. He practiced both high and low kicks, each one perfectly executed, snapping and turning with the speed of a viper. The technique was almost meditative for him, a way of escaping the constant onslaught of thoughts swirling in his mind about the case. With each kick and knee strike, he felt more centered, more in control.
But even in his focus, his thoughts inevitably returned to Jason. His eyes narrowed as he imagined the man, his smooth charm, his uncanny ability to slip under the radar. But Dante was prepared. He knew the signs now. Jason was a predator, and the time to confront him would come soon. Dante had trained his whole life for this. Every movement, every technique, was a testament to that preparation. He wasn't about to let Jason slip through his fingers.
The sound of his own breath filled the room, the steady rhythm grounding him. His final knee strike sent a jolt through his body, a perfect combination of technique, power, and precision. He stood still for a moment, the room silent except for the sound of his breath.
Dante knew what he had to do next. And this time, he would not let the killer get away.