John had built dozens of prototype weapons before. Most of them—unstable. Some of them—abandoned halfway, design complications. But, None of them were like this.
The final lock snapped into place.
[Energy stabilized.]
Shock‑absorbers humming low.
The JX‑45
Compressed ballistic–energy bullets, each forged around the white crystal core, caged in carbon‑steel internals and a reinforced alloy frame—engineered for prolonged engagement.
A single round didn't just pierce. It blasts.
Fifteen meters of death per shot.
Seventy‑nine percent accuracy
Four hundred megapascals of raw force…'killing two birds with one a bullet'
John exhaled slowly, eyes locked on the weapon in his hands.
John turned.
Crow froze mid‑flutter.
The barrel lifted.
A clean line of sight. No hesitation. No remorse.
BOOM—
The shot ripped past Crow's head, shredding the air itself.
Three feathers drifted down, sliced cleanly from his wing, still smoking as they hit the floor.
Crow spiraled, barely catching himself.
"…JOHN !!!"
The wall behind him had burst from the blast. A perfect circular void. Four inches wide. The room howled as pressure collapsed inward.
John lowered the gun, unfazed.
"Calibration," he said quietly.
Crow stared at the hole… then at the weapon… then back at John. "…You missed on purpose."
John's eyes never left the JX‑45.
He smirked.
Crow paused for a while, "Okayyy… I accept your apology."
"The coil…" John still eyes-fixed at his gun "its Three seconds slow"
"John, I don't think there's anyone that can escape such blast"
"You did", while tightening some nuts.
"Well, that's because you missed, I could've been…." Crow cuts halfway. The iron frame of the pistol reflecting on John's eyes. "You missed…on purpose…right??"
John never lies.
He picks up the magazine filled with compressed energy bullets, "I won't, next time"
"Well, rather than spending time looking for ways to kill me, you could invest in a plan."
Crow lands on the workbench, one foot on the pistol "John, You've spent all week on this thing. It's time we come up with a good plan…. You won't be the only one after the briefcase, you know"
John lifts up the pistol, throwing Crow into the air. "A good plan, is a good gun"
.
.
.
.
.
SATURDAY, 3 PM
Lincoln Hotel, Crossroad, 10th Avenue.
A busy lane. Neon lights reflecting on the wet roads.
The hotel had never looked so glamorous on a weekend.
...
John storms in.
Right hand lifts his hat.
Face shadowed.
Missing arm floating oddly at his side.
Grey overcoat. Black shirt. Trousers long enough to sweep under polished loafers. Silent walk.
A firm nod as the security returns his briefcase without a word.
No pause at reception. Walks up to the elevator.
He grips the handle of the brown leather briefcase tightly. It's important.
He stands Infront of the iron elevator door. He stares at the number counting…Thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine….
His eyes fixed. He looks down at his reflection.
"Iris"
[Initiating gestural modules….]
Focus lines running up and down as it picks up data from the entire room's reflections on the door surface.
[Subject 1]
**Hotel Entrance, Armed, Uniform.
**Muscle movement indicating alertness.
**Threat level: Wary.
[Subject 2]
**Nineteen.
**Young enough to ignore.
**Old enough to kill.
[Subject 3]
**Female
**Three o'clock clock, Sitting, Reading.
**Threat level: Extremely
"Extreme??" He mutters as he takes a slight peep backwards.
**No recorded eye movement in the last 40seconds**
"Shit"
[Subject 4]
**Three men.
**Counter, Reception, Stairs. Mid forties.
**No relation.
"What's with them?"
**They have stared at you a total of Seven times.
"..what !!! " He rumbled.
**Eight
[Subject 5]
**Waitress
**Perilously positioned dagger.
**Right arm, ninety-four degrees to your neck. Perfect angle.
The moment boils. Sweat began to pour down John's face, he gulps.
[Subject 6]
**Approaching
**Energy signal active. Awakened. Huge. Strong!
**Twelve steps away….ten, nine, eight…
The scene intensifies. John panicked. Heartbeats louder.
The Elevator rings. The door slowly extracting inward.
Bright-white dotted light flashed. Distance away.
Iris captures.
[Subjec—.]
**SNIPER!!
John ducked. The glass from the lobby doors rattled. The crowd burst in panic. Uncontrollable.
The man walking up to him dropped dead. Flat on the floor.
He reads the trajectory from the reflection on the polished floor. Calm, deliberate, and he muttered "Outside".
[Update]
**Subject 6; Dead
"....and the sniper?"
**Disengaged.
**Subject 4 and 5 are moving.
"Shit", He lifts the briefcase, shielding his face. He ran straight up the stairs.
A crowd poured downstairs as the alarms came on. He snuggled his way through the crowd to the fourth floor.
He landed.
Two guards in tailored black suits blocked the corridor. They were bulky, trained, paired with their machine guns. They were tough.
John walked up to them carelessly "Make way."
The guards stiffened. One of them glanced at the briefcase, then back at John.
"Identify yourself."
John lifted the case, set it gently into the man's hands.
Then he turned. Walked back toward the stairwell. The guard cleft confused . They titled it, slightly opening it to inspect.
BOOM!!!
The explosion ripped through the corridor, a massive sweep. It shattered the front doors of the nearby rooms. The building screamed. Triggers multiple alarms.
Smoke surged out from everywhere. Guests flooded out from all the rooms, bodies colliding against eachother, voices breaking.
John returned to the corridor.
The two guards were no longer guards. Burnt, twisted, reduced to human charcoal.
He stepped over them.
Room A308.
Inside, was calm. Boring white walls. Mountain sized windows.
A dark-skinned man, slightly aged. He was relaxed, hands folded, sitting by the window. On the table before him rested the Target Briefcase—black, dangerous. No energy signal around him.
John thought to himself 'Is that The Dancer?'
The old man smiled without turning.
"And… which one should you be?"
John advanced.
Three steps in———a tiny razor dagger brushed his face, two centimeters from splitting his throat.
He froze. His hand instinctively rushed to his neck, breath hitching, fear tightened his grip. His eyes swept the room, sharp and cautious.
Iris captured movement.
Four figures burst from the walls. They had no faces. Smooth, blank skin stretched where eyes and mouths should be. They moved as one.
They paused for a few seconds, then immediately jumped on John.
John raised his only arm, he blocked.
A kick from below, took his legs out. A flying fist crushed into his ribs. Before he could even react, A foot pressed to his face.
He flings halfway across the room, bareback on the glass tea table.
No time, they rushed for him again.
His gun popped from his dimension pocket.
Four shots. None hit.
The JX-45 kept barking, heavy recoil tearing through his shoulder. One of the faceless people staggered, head snapping back—but the others adapted instantly. Their movements synced, precise, merciless. Running, climbing the walls, from four different angles.
Kicks! Punches! Jabs! Again…and again.
John could hardly keep up with one. The Four of them had their rounds on him. Chest, Face, Arm, Legs. No mercy.
Amidst the beating, he heard Iris spoke—calm, sharp.
[Movement detected. Target seated. Finger articulation confirmed.]
John saw it. The old man by the window. Fingers dancing softly. Tiny motions. Commands.
He is a Puppeteer. They were Puppets!
John forced himself up as Iris mapped their rhythm—strike, pause, converge. He fired three shots between beats. One puppet dropped.
A sniper round punched through the window— Another fell.
[Alert!]....Iris was seconds late.
In no time, some people swarmed in from the door.
The Subjects from downstairs. Three men, and a waitress with floating daggers.
The old man laughed.
He stood up. "Well, well, well…"
Began to Float.
His eyes burned red with aura, "A lot of friends, I see"
He stretched his arms wide, micro-treads appeared on his fingertips. He continued to talk to himself.
"You see…., The music always played at night, the trees danced to his course....
'Stay home' mama warned, but curiosity now preying on the younglings…fear told to wait...
The villagers marched, swarming through the mortuary gate....
Hell behold! The music runs from owls to crickets, the shallow graves hummed and The attendant caught dancing with the corpses"
"Dance !," he whispered.
Bodies answered.
More than a hundred. Limbs snapping upright, Puppets morphing from thin air. Piling like dust.
—THE DEAD MAN'S DANCE— (Unique Skill)
They crashed together. Bursting out in complete chaos.
Gunfire! Screams! Walls collapsing! Glass raining! John fought like an animal, bullets tearing paths through the swarm, but they kept coming—endless, pressing.
Out of extreme panic, he pulled a grenade.
Threw it into the center of the room.
BOOM!!!!
The room imploded.
In the smoke, John lunged, seized the black briefcase from the table, and barged himself through the window. Glass exploded outward.
Falling from the fourth floor down. He hit a car below—crash—then rolled hard onto the asphalt-paved road.
Pain flared. He stood anyway. Staggering. Bleeding.
A few seconds to calm the ringing in his ear.
Bullet! — few millimetres from blasting his skull out.
Iris Alert, [SNIPPER]
"God dammit !".
Another Shot landed. This time, targeting his arm—pressing tightly on the briefcase. Missed!!. It hit the briefcase, realising the briefcase is actually bulletproof.
John ran.
Another Shot. Passed across his eyes. Missed again. This time—on purpose. It hit the gastank of the car, crossing behind John.
Boom!!! Crash.... Car explodes. Sweeps John across the other side of the street. His leg numb! Vision impaired!
He tried getting up. He collapsed. He began to crawl. Hard! But Fast. On rough asphalt pavement. In the middle of the road.
From Above, the hundreds of puppets poured from the fourth floor—leaping, tumbling, swarming down the building like insects—spilling into the busy street.
Traffic screamed. People scattered. The city shattered into noise.
The old man limping from the explosion above, makes his way to the scattered window, screaming at the top of his lungs,
"GET HIM !!!!!"