The sterile white of the hospital room was interrupted only by the rhythmic beeping of machines and the steady hum of air conditioning. Marcus lay motionless, his body covered in bandages and hooked up to an array of IV drips. His face pale, remained as still as stone. Outside his room, a small cluster of NYPD officers stood talking in low voices, their badges glinting under the fluorescent lights.
Two detectives leaned against the wall, both looking worn from hours of investigation and little sleep. Detective Ramirez, a tall man with sharp features and deep-set eyes, thumbed through his notepad, shaking his head as he reread his notes. Beside him, Detective Callahan, a broad-shouldered man with a graying beard, stared through the observation window at Marcus, eyes narrowed with curiosity and something like awe.
“I still can’t believe it,” Ramirez said, snapping his notepad shut and tucking it into his coat. “One man, unarmed, manages to take down five heavily armed assailants.”
Callahan crossed his arms, the sleeves of his worn jacket straining at the seams. “Not just any man, apparently,” he muttered. “But who the hell is he, really? A civil engineer from what we’ve dug up. Family man, no record, no military history that we could find. And yet he takes out a whole team of terrorists armed to the teeth.”
Ramirez sighed, glancing at Marcus through the glass. “It doesn’t add up. The witnesses said he moved like he knew what he was doing. One woman described it as watching ‘something out of a movie.’ Tactical, precise, like a soldier.”
“More than a soldier,” Callahan corrected. “Like someone who’s been through hell and back and knows how to bring it right back to whoever’s on the other side.”
Stolen story; please report.
The hallway outside Marcus’s room was bustling with activity. Nurses passed by, casting curious glances into the room where the mystery man lay unconscious, his chest barely rising and falling. One of the younger officers, new to the force and still wide-eyed with ambition, walked up to the detectives.
“Sir, the initial report is in,” he said, holding out a slim folder. Callahan took it, flipping through the first few pages, eyes narrowing at the clinical recount of what had gone down at Riverside Park.
“Marcus Thompson,” he read aloud, his voice heavy with thought. “This guy took a bullet to the side, another to the shoulder, and still managed to fight back, take down the attackers, and save who knows how many lives.” He snapped the folder shut, turning to Ramirez. “You ever seen anything like that?”
Ramirez shook his head, a look of respect flickering across his face. “Never. And I’ve seen some pretty crazy stuff in this city.”
Callahan glanced back into the room, at the man who lay motionless, a man whose peaceful, suburban existence had exploded in blood and violence. There was something about him, an air of mystery that unsettled him. The detectives shared a brief, knowing look.
Whatever he was before,” Callahan said quietly, “it wasn’t just an engineer. He definitely was something much more than that. Have you seen the surveillance tape yet?” He paused, eyes narrowing as the weight of what he was about to say settled between them. “He ran like a normal guy, panicked like any father would. But after his daughter was shot… it was like something changed. Almost like another person took over his body. His movements, his focus—it was beyond anything I’ve seen.”
Ramirez glanced at the window again, his brow furrowing. “This city just experienced its first terrorist attack since 9/11,” he said, voice low and charged with tension. “The entire investigative and intelligence power of this country is going to descend upon our city. Whoever he is, we’ll soon find out. And whoever attacked us… they won’t be able to hide for long.”
They stood there for a moment, silent, each man lost in thought as the reality of the days to come pressed down on them. In that small hospital room, with one unconscious man and the echoes of the tragedy that had unfolded, they knew this was only the beginning.