Jarah had tracked Mason "High Stakes" Holt to a quiet suburban enclave in West Bonanza, a stark contrast to the chaos of Prime City’s core. Summerset was a gated community, pristine and artificial, built to keep out the very kind of trouble Holt had spent his life stirring up. But trouble had a way of finding people, no matter how deep they tried to bury themselves.

Jarah parked his Lennox down the street, stepping out slowly and deliberately. He adjusted the collar of his jacket, brushing a hand over the holster at his hip as he approached Holt’s house. It was a clean, two-story home with a well-kept lawn—far from the hideouts and gambling dens he had expected. Through the front window, he could see Holt inside with his wife and two kids, a picturesque scene of domesticity that clashed with the image of the notorious bank robber.

Jarah knocked firmly.

The door opened to reveal Holt’s wife, her expression shifting from confusion to fear when she saw him. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for Mason Holt,” Jarah said, his voice even. He didn’t want this to be difficult.

There was a beat of silence. Then Holt appeared behind her, his jaw tightening as their eyes met. His salt-and-pepper hair and wrinkled forehead didn’t match the bounty poster Jarah spent time observing days prior.

Holt put a steadying hand on his wife’s shoulder, whispering something Jarah could barely comprehend. She hesitated, then did as she was told, disappearing inside.

“I assume you’re not the neighborhood sales representative," Holt said softly as he assessed Jarah.

Jarah exhaled. “You know why I’m here.”

Holt shook his head. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“You can come quietly,” Jarah said. “No need to make a scene.”

Holt glanced back in the house, eyes lingering where his kids had been peeking out from the living room. He turned back to Jarah with a sad smile. “At least let me say goodbye.”

Jarah nodded. “Make it quick.”

Holt stepped back inside. Through the door, Jarah watched as he knelt before his children, whispering something only they could hear. His wife’s face was tight with grief, her fingers gripping his arm. It was the kind of farewell that felt permanent.

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Then Holt moved.

In a single motion, he shoved his wife aside and sprinted toward the garage. Jarah cursed, drawing his weapon as he rushed after him. The sound of an engine roared to life. By the time Jarah reached the driveway, Holt’s customized Emerson 500 was already tearing through the neighborhood gates, shattering the barrier as he sped into the dusk.

Jarah didn’t hesitate. He bolted back to his Lennox, slamming the door shut as he gunned the ignition. The Auxiliary Core hummed to life, sending a surge of power through the vehicle. Tires screeched as he shot forward, and the chase officially began.

The city blurred past in glittery streaks, engines roaring as they tore through the sub-district. Holt weaved through traffic, desperate to shake him. He veered onto a narrow side street, but Jarah was already there, shadowing his every turn. Holt’s car veered dangerously close to a pedestrian walkway, forcing bystanders to leap aside.

Jarah pressed forward, bumper nearly grazing Holt’s rear fender. A sudden sharp turn sent both vehicles barreling onto an elevated expressway, weaving through the sparse late-evening traffic. Holt gunned his engine, his turbo kicking in with a violent burst of speed. Jarah, unfazed, tapped into the Auxiliary Core, feeling the Lennox surge forward in response. The engine roared like a beast awakened, narrowing the distance between them once more.

Jarah could see Holt glancing at his rearview mirror, frustration evident in his tense grip on the wheel. The fugitive knew he was running out of options. His only chance was to force Jarah into a mistake. Holt suddenly cut hard to the right, forcing his car up onto a sloping on-ramp. The maneuver was risky—too fast, too unstable—but Holt had no other play.

Jarah anticipated the move, his reflexes razor-sharp. He followed, tires screeching against the asphalt. He braced himself as he rammed the rear of Holt’s vehicle. The impact sent Holt’s car into a tailspin. The sports car skidded sideways, colliding with a parked truck before bouncing off and slamming into oncoming traffic. The air was filled with the deafening crunch of metal and the hiss of steam escaping from ruptured radiators.

Jarah pulled up and stepped out, pistol drawn. His heart pounded, but his expression remained stoic. Civilians stared in wide-eyed horror, some recording the wreckage with their devices. Holt, groaning, was slumped against the deployed airbag. Blood trickled from his forehead, but he was otherwise intact.

“I thought you said you’d come easy?” Jarah asked, yanking Holt out of the crumpled vehicle with ease.

Holt coughed, blinking against the flashing lights of approaching police vehicles. “Screw you…” He said in an injured tone.

Jarah stepped aside as a unit of PCPD officers arrived at the crash site. A medic team soon followed and carried Holt away in a First Response Cruiser, a hovercraft that escorted him to Prime City Medical Center—

Meanwhile, District Commander Herbert Thomas, a sullen lawman with a craggy, anguished face, ridiculed Jarah for how he handled Holt.

“Next time, read the poster carefully… “Wanted alive,” he told him at the 9th Precinct in Loretta. He tossed Jarah his payment with a bit of reluctance. “Some bounty hunter you are.”

Jarah collected his payment without saying a word and stormed out of the precinct.