Chapter 23: They Miscalculated
The smoke doesn't clear right away.
It hangs thick over the street, dust and concrete particles still falling like gray snow. Car alarms scream. Somewhere nearby, someone is crying. Glass crunches under shifting weight.
Ten figures stand across from me.
Not rushing.
Not posturing.
Not afraid.
They're spaced perfectly—angles covered, blind spots sealed. No wasted movement. No chatter. Professionals.
A-rank.
All of them.
The one in front takes a step forward. He's tall. Broad-shouldered. Military posture. Scar along his jaw like someone tried to carve his face and failed.
"You're Evan Carter," he says.
"Wrong name," I reply.
A few of them smile at that.
"Doesn't matter," the scarred man continues. "You interfered with a protected operation."
"Your operation," I say. "My problem."
He tilts his head, studying me. Not my stance. Not my fists.
My breathing.
"You took down A-17," he says. "Alive."
"Barely," I correct.
Behind me, A-17 coughs. Blood spatters the asphalt.
That gets their attention.
One of the men to the left clicks his tongue. "He still breathing?"
"For now," I say. "If you want him alive, call medical."
Scarface's lips twitch. "That's considerate."
"I'm in a good mood."
They spread slightly.
Subtle. Coordinated.
I count heartbeats. Foot placement. Micro-shifts in balance. They're all good. Too good to be sent blind.
Which means—
"You watched the footage," I say.
Scarface nods. "Multiple angles."
"And still came."
"We were ordered to confirm," he says calmly.
Confirm what?
I already know the answer.
That I'm not supposed to exist.
The man on the far right rolls his neck. "So what now, boss? We rush him?"
"No," Scarface says. "We pressure him."
Pressure.
Cute.
I glance past them—at the sidewalk, the storefronts, the people frozen in fear.
Too many witnesses.
I sigh.
"That's a mistake," I say.
Then I move.
To them, it looks like I vanish.
To me, it's just… faster walking.
The man on the right reacts well—gun clearing leather, finger tightening—
Too slow.
I hit him first.
Not hard.
Just precise.
My palm strikes his throat. Not enough to crush. Enough to shut it down.
He drops, choking, hands clawing at air.
Before his body hits the ground, I'm already pivoting.
Two more come in from the left—blades flashing, movements sharp and synchronized. One high. One low.
I step between them.
My elbow snaps backward.
Crunch.
The one behind me folds, ribs collapsing inward like paper. He goes down without a sound.
The second adjusts mid-strike, blade slashing for my side.
I let it graze my jacket.
Then I grab his wrist and twist.
Bone snaps.
He screams.
That's new.
Scarface barks, "Spread!"
Too late.
Three of them open fire.
Not wild. Controlled bursts.
The bullets don't hit me.
They pass where I was.
I'm already moving—sliding between parked cars, stepping up onto a hood, leaping over a windshield as glass explodes behind me.
One bullet grazes my shoulder.
It stings.
I land behind a shooter and tap the back of his head.
Tap.
He goes limp.
I catch his body before it hits the pavement and set him down.
Another one charges me barehanded. Big guy. Confident. Thinks strength matters.
I let him get close.
I duck his swing and drive my fist into his abdomen.
Once.
He folds like he's been unplugged.
That's six.
The remaining four regroup fast.
Scarface's voice cuts through the chaos. "He's not engaging fully! Force him!"
Force.
They rush together this time.
That's smarter.
I step backward—just enough to draw them in.
One goes for my legs.
I jump.
Another swings for my head.
I twist.
The third fires point-blank.
I catch the gun barrel and redirect.
The bullet punches through his partner's shoulder instead.
Screaming.
I disarm him, slam the weapon into the pavement, then grab both men by the collars.
I jump.
And slam them down.
The street caves.
Concrete fractures outward like a dropped plate.
When I straighten, only Scarface is still standing.
He stares at the bodies scattered around him.
Alive.
Broken.
Moaning.
Breathing.
"You're… holding back," he says slowly.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I look at him.
"Because if I don't," I say, "this block disappears."
That finally does it.
Fear flickers across his face.
Just a flash.
Then it's gone.
He exhales. "So the reports were wrong."
"No," I say. "You just read them badly."
He nods once.
Then smiles.
"Good."
The air changes.
I feel it immediately.
Not movement.
Presence.
I turn.
I don't see her.
Not at first.
But the air feels… heavier.
Like the city just inhaled and forgot how to breathe.
Scarface feels it too.
His smile fades. Not panic—never panic—but something tighter settles behind his eyes. Respect. Calculation. Reassessment.
He raises a hand.
All movement stops.
Even the wounded A-ranks quiet down, instincts screaming louder than their injuries.
"That's enough," Scarface says into his comm.
Static crackles.
Then a voice answers—low, controlled, irritated.
"What happened?"
Scarface doesn't look away from me.
Not once.
"…We misjudged," he says.
A pause.
"How badly?"
Scarface swallows. "Target resistance exceeds projection. Subject confirmed not B-rank."
Another pause. Longer this time.
I can almost hear someone tapping a finger against a table somewhere far away.
"Then reclassify."
Scarface hesitates. "That may not be sufficient."
Silence.
The kind that stretches.
Then—
"Deploy Asset-Scarlet."
Every man on the street stiffens.
Not fear.
Reverence.
One of the wounded A-ranks laughs weakly. "You serious…? For him?"
Scarface finally looks away from me.
Up.
Toward the rooftops.
"Yes," he says quietly. "I'm serious."
Somewhere miles away,
A woman steps into the night.
She stands on the rooftop edge like it belongs to her.
Not slim.
Her body carries curves—full hips, a solid chest, lines flowing smoothly into each other like slow sea waves. Nothing excessive. Nothing soft. Just… right. Strength shaped into proportion. Power distributed evenly. Controlled.
Her gear doesn't hide it.
It confirms it.
Every movement settles cleanly. No sway. No wasted motion. The kind of body built to fight for hours without fatigue. Stable. Grounded. Dangerous.
Beautiful.
Cold beauty.
And then the air shifts.
Not wind.
Pressure.
The space around her feels denser, like the city itself has leaned in—waiting. My instincts tighten, not in panic, but recognition. The same sensation you get when standing too close to a cliff and realizing gravity has already noticed you.
Her face is sharp and composed—high cheekbones, straight nose, pale lips set without tension. Skin flawless. Untouched by doubt or strain. Like nothing in this world has ever been allowed close enough to leave a mark.
Her eyes meet mine.
Light gray. Calm. Empty of emotion.
She doesn't look at the broken men below.
Doesn't react to the damage.
Doesn't rush.
She just watches me.
And I know.
This isn't backup.
This is the end they were confident in
She rolls her shoulders once.
The building beneath her feet cracks.
"Location?" she asks.
Scarface answers immediately. "Downtown. Carter Street."
A smile curves her lips. Lazy. Confident.
"Ah," she says. "So that's him."
She takes one step—
And vanishes.
Back on the street, my fingers twitch.
There it is again.
That pressure.
Closer now.
Not hostile yet.
Curious.
Interested.
I exhale slowly and pull Mia closer to my side without looking at her.
"Stay behind me," I murmur.
She nods. I feel it.
Across the street, Scarface watches my reaction carefully.
"You feel her," he says.
"Yes."
"That makes sense," he replies. "She's the strongest we have."
I lift my gaze.
A shadow lands silently on the edge of a nearby rooftop.
No sound.
No announcement.
Just… arrival.
Ocean air shifts.
The woman straightens, hands resting casually at her sides, eyes locking onto me with open fascination.
"So," she says, voice carrying easily through the wrecked street.
"This is the young man who embarrassed my people."
Her smile widens.
"Good," she adds softly. "I was bored."
Our eyes meet.
The city holds its breath....