"We have to ensure a steady supply. Tell them to stop wasting time on those damn animal drugs."
An aged, ugly hand—its nails painted a garish scarlet—clutched an old Nokia. Wrinkles dragged across a mouth soaked in snake's blood, twisting into a nauseating grimace. It moved with the deliberate, repulsive grace of an elderly, faded Jezebel primping for her enemies.
"—Vitomira Lončar, I must remind you: NMDA-6 remains the foundation of 'Hesheman' power. Without it, you're nothing."
Lončar's hand propped up a cheek as desiccated and mottled as the wings of a dying powder moth. A row of wide gold rings hid the gang tattoo on her fingers, yet the insulting letters still peeked out at the edges.
"It's not being used on me. I think you overestimate its nootropic effects. NMDA has cost the organization dearly: mind control, dead-cell shutdowns, and training expenses that are grossly over budget… Why are we raising a bunch of psychologically fragile lunatics?"
Through the bulletproof glass of the VIP box, she gazed out at the stage. The wine-red curtain parted in the dim theater. Spotlights swept across the audience; they applauded in unison.
A Victorian middle-class drawing room materialized on the screen: costumed dancers rose as the warm lights lifted.
The Nutcracker, Act I: the family party.
Piles of gifts, a gilded clock above the fireplace, an opulent Christmas tree rising inch by inch.
"—But NMDA-7 is revolutionary, Lončar. It abandons the schizophrenia-mimicking enlightenment model and achieves true, permanent bidirectional memory programming. 'Hesheman' will create the world's first human who acts solely according to optimal experience. That is our future."
Vitomira watched the mime-like performance on stage. The lights shifted with the music, transitioning from reality to fantasy. Dancers in pomegranate skirts held aloft by steel frames; a clown-faced figure capered around her.
She furrowed the penciled-in brows over her bare brow ridges and asked into the phone:
"But since all your chosen test subjects died in the slaughterhouse, what meaning does this fruitless screening have for validating the new product?"
"—So you really don't know the inside story of this cross-disciplinary feast? I mean, with your nature, Lončar, I'm surprised you haven't done a little private digging."
She lifted the stemmed glass and took a sip of Dalmatian red. A thin line of wine lingered at the corners of her mouth.
"Don't play coy. If you actually know something."
A low, amused chuckle came from the other end. Vitomira swallowed hard, choking back a cough in embarrassment.
"—Throughout our long-term dosing trials on the 'Gray Horse' task force, we've always trusted in the correctness of natural selection. The inferior horses died in that oil-well ambush. The good ones survived a little longer but not for long… until mercenaries disguised as frogmen… selected the finest mount for 'Hesheman' and drove him to the brink."
Her old eyes flickered.
"Who is he?"
She raised a hand, summoning an attendant.
"—But only one task-force member survived that death encirclement. No family, no one to mourn him—so he lived. He chose to sink into the past…"
"Tell me his name."
Tired of word games, Lončar raised her voice. She set down the glass; deep-red wine sloshed over the rim, leaving sediment on the edge.
On stage, dancers costumed as toy soldiers and mouse armies entered, brandishing exaggerated weapons. They danced forward, fired, clashed swords—music tense and surging. At first the sides were evenly matched.
"Who is he?"
Outside the theater, snow fell between the concrete walls of a narrow path in the gray, towering threshold. A tall figure stood backlit.
"A damned nameless nobody?"
Another mocking laugh rolled from the phone.
In the theater's backstage, at the direction of the rushing attendant, the casually dressed mercenaries scattered. They yanked open locker doors, donned lightweight body armor, retrieved rifles—VHS-2, AK-103, G36. Suppressors screwed on, magazines inserted, bolts racked.
"—That 'damned' nameless nobody is John Hastings."
Snow settled on broad shoulders. The waterproof coat flapped in the wind, revealing a subdued black shirt and suit trousers, tie whipping to one side.
He carried a cello case. Coat tails fluttered like black shadows. Leather gloves brushed the warm glow of a streetlamp. He moved through the city's guts, past empty gaps in the alleys, while steel behemoths roared along the railway.
"Who is John Hastings?"
At the theater's rear door, the guard noticed the anomaly.
Inside the VIP box, Lončar shivered. Uneasily, she set the Nokia down without hanging up. The man continued:
"—He once had dealings with us, you understand—playing the righteous cat in our little game of cat and mouse."
On stage, the clock struck; the Christmas tree grew taller, the parlor filled with dizzying, kaleidoscopic lights.
Outside, the guard started to shout a warning and reached for the slung rifle. Another train thundered past; in the two-second wail and grinding of wheels—
He raised a suppressed pistol from under the coat, two-handed, close to the chest, pivoted, and fired twice.
Two faint sparks flashed; white mist lingered. The guards crumpled silently to either side.
"—John is a man of focus, commitment, sheer will… something you know very little about."
He propped the cello case against the corridor wall, shrugged off the coat—revealing a crisp, all-black suit underneath. Under the cold half-light, John drew a VP9L competition model fitted with a CGS Mod9 suppressor, advancing in a low-ready stance.
"Seven years of service forged him into an extremely efficient war machine. They called him 'Bogyman.'"
In the rust-colored neon glow outlining the mirrored jewelry counter, a point man edged forward, about to glance back—
A transparent filament looped his throat. A gloved hand blurred, yanked backward. He vanished into silent darkness.
The others slowed, weapons up, scanning. A crisp snap behind them—the rear man collapsed.
They spun, suppressing the rear with bursts. Muzzle flashes illuminated only shattered glass cases and tumbling jewelry.
"—Well… John isn't exactly a demon. He's the man you send to kill the fucking demon."
A black shape flickered in peripheral vision. The mercenaries whipped around, hosing the area, then dropped night vision and switched on weapon lights—only a straw dummy cut in half.
Realizing the mistake too late, one reached for a sidearm. John closed in, pinned the gun hand, wrenched, disarmed, and fired twice point-blank.
In the rust-red neon, John Hastings knelt amid the broken glass. The flickering sign stuttered four times.
In the brief dark intervals, the man in nylon combat gear and carbon-fiber plate carrier, left arm bearing a low-vis flag patch, tactical gloves flexing, rocked the slide to eject the empty magazine, slapped in a fresh one, released the bolt catch, and rose back into shadow.
The corridor beyond: another squad formed a "Hellfire" stack, ready to pour everything into the approaching footsteps.
"—In other words…" A measured pause, then quieter, almost pitying: "…you."
Lončar's attendant glanced back in terror. A body jerked and slammed into a display case, shattering glass.
In the murderous neon dimness, the man's black coat hem lifted on a draft. He raised his pistol. A flash—pain exploded in the chest, swallowing all sensation and thought.
He pressed forward—support hand high over the chest, strong hand pivoting to the new threat.
John Hastings flashed through tangled hair and beard, slapping back to a stable two-handed grip, Weaver stance, double-tap to stop the advance.
He ripped off his tie, looped the wrist of a knife-wielding attacker, yanked to disarm, locked the arm, stabbed the muzzle in for rapid point shots—punching through Kevlar for real damage. Withdrew the tie, cinched the neck, stepped, and threw a shoulder toss that shattered another case.
Before he could catch his breath, the next man lunged in a double-leg takedown. John lost balance, hit the floor. The enemy drew a pistol, fired into his ribs. Agony like a crocodile's jaws tore through his side; the bullets stopped in the suit's suppression layer, but residual energy crushed ribs and organs, drawing a tight grimace.
He growled through clenched teeth, grinding glass into his back to create space. Palm-heeled the wrist, twisted, disarmed. Swept with a hip-powered leg, flipped into a triangle choke.
Rolled, drew, aimed at the reloading mercenary, fired to drop him. The VP9L ran dry. He swept his coat aside, yanked the spare mag from behind his back, slung the gun to reload, thumbed the release, and finished with a downward shot.
Footsteps limped leftward. John rose, grimacing through the pain, and turned toward the fleeing attendant—who had just woken, clutching his chest. Two pistol rounds had struck the vest; a third had penetrated.
In the rust light, John unscrewed the suppressor, holstered the pistol. Buttoned the single-breasted jacket, and stepped back into the fading neon gaps.
Outside the VIP box, frantic footsteps approached. The wounded attendant burst in shoulder-first and collapsed to his knees before the stunned bodyguards.
"That demon is here!"
He stared down, dazed, at the blood soaking his shirtfront. Yes—he had been hit. Beneath the vest bullets lay a third, lodged in his chest.
"Who?"
Vitomira Lončar stared in disbelief.
"John…"
The attendant's pupils dilated. He turned stiffly toward the stage—white-skirted ballerinas circled in artificial snow, pirouetting, parting, overlapping.
He looked back, forcing the words:
"…John Hastings…"
The music swelled grandly, pushing the theater to its climax.
"He's come for you."
With that, the attendant pitched forward and lay still.
Lončar turned toward the theater's unilluminated, inscrutable shadows.
In the darkness, a pair of eyes watched through the light and swirling melody of the crowd—fixed on its prey, utterly silent.