"Specter-7, are you in position?"
"Yep."
"What is the current location of the target?"
"Hm. He's just crossed the south entrance of the plaza. Near the old bus stop. Bald head, black coat, cap pulled low. Walking like he owns the ground under his feet. He's certainly an arrogant bastard. Tch. Why are low level psychos always so arrogant?"
"Confirm visual."
"Confirmed. Visual is clean."
"Any civilians in close proximity?"
"A few I suppose. Two smokers by the vending machines, one couple arguing about something pointless. Nothing within the immediate line. If he keeps moving at this pace, he'll clear the crowd in thirty seconds."
"Understood. Maintain observation."
"Already doing that."
High above the plaza, perched on the edge of a partially collapsed rooftop, the speaker lay prone with practiced stillness.
She was a young woman with short raven hair, tied loosely to keep it from catching the wind, though a few strands still slipped free and brushed against her cheek. The warm light of the late afternoon sky painted her in shades of amber and red, reflecting faintly in her sharp golden eyes as she looked through the scope of her rifle. The rifle was braced against the ledge with precision, its barrel aligned perfectly with the distant figure below. One gloved finger rested alongside the trigger, not on it. She never rushed that part.
From this distance, the man looked small. Just another shape moving through the world. But the scope brought him close enough to see the shine of his scalp beneath the cap, the subtle tension in his jaw, and the way his coat swayed with each casual step he took.
Her cross-shaped earrings caught the light as she shifted her head slightly, adjusting her angle. The city noise below felt distant, muffled, as if separated from her by more than just height.
"Target is entering the open stretch," she said softly into the mic. "No cover ahead."
"Permission to engage will be given shortly."
She did not respond immediately.
Instead, she adjusted the scope by a fraction, aligned the reticle with practiced ease, and exhaled slowly.
From up here, above the chaos and chatter of ordinary lives, Specter-7 waited.
They were not tailing him because he looked suspicious.
They were tailing him because, on paper, he did not exist anymore.
The man in the black coat had been declared neutralized three years ago after a containment failure in a coastal research sector. Official records listed him as deceased. However, that supposedly deceased fellow was walking through a public plaza at nine in the morning like an ordinary civilian.
It was definitely suspicious. The problem was not what he was doing but what he could do.
He was a confirmed Psycho. It was a term given to Shifters who have developed abnormalities inside their brain. Such abnormalities causes them to have murderous tendencies and influence them to harm or kill others. They were certainly troublesome to ordinary people so only special individuals could do with them. Unfortunately, for some reason, these so-called abnormalities also made them more powerful than the standard Ability User or Shifter.
For example, killing a man by destroying a few nerve endings inside their head was entirely possible.
That was why Crisis Control existed.
They were a four-person covert response unit designed specifically for rogue Espers who blended in too well. Their job was to observe until confirmation, then erase the anomaly before it escalated into an incident report the public would never be allowed to read.
Specter-7 was the overwatch.
Below her, moving through the city in controlled formation, were the other three.
The first man was known as Gravewire.
Late twenties. He specialized in electronic suppression and psychic interference mapping. If an Esper tried to hijack frequencies, neural implants, or digital infrastructure, Gravewire felt it first. He walked with one hand always near his device pack, constantly scanning reflections and shadows.
The second man was Lockstep.
He was a bit older, probably around his early thirties or so, and built heavier. His job was simple and terrifyingly effective. Stay close. Match pace. Never be noticed. If the target bolted, Lockstep was the one who would be there before anyone realized a chase had started.
And then there was the woman named Blackbird.
She was the squad's anchor. She had seen more rogue Espers than the others combined and survived long enough to know that fear was the fastest way to die around people who could hear thoughts bend.
Blackbird was the one who made the calls.
Right now, she was watching the man through sunglasses, her reflection hiding her gaze.
The reason they were trailing him instead of eliminating him immediately was simple.
His AR Field signature was muted.
Under normal circumstances, this should not be the case with Psycho. They usually couldn't control their murderous impulses and as a result, the flow of the reality distortion created by their Imaginary World was chaotic.
Which raised a far more dangerous question.
Was he suppressing his power?
Or was he waiting?
That was why the squad moved like ghosts through an ordinary morning.
And that was why a random man in a black coat had four shadows following him.
Because if he ever decided to stop pretending to be human, a city block would disappear before anyone could scream.
"...!"
Then something unexpected occurred.
Suddenly, the target ran.
One moment he was walking — unhurried, almost lazy — and the next his posture shifted, straightening his spine as if a switch had been flipped. His foot dug into the pavement and he surged forward, cutting hard to the right, straight into a narrow service corridor between two concrete buildings.
"Shit! "Target is bolting!" Specter-7 cursed. "Damn it, he sensed us somehow!"
"Confirmed. Lockstep," Blackbird ordered, calm as ever. "Go."
"Already on him."
Lockstep broke formation without hesitation.
To anyone else, it would have looked like a bystander suddenly deciding to jog. It wasn't some dramatic chase. He adjusted his pace just enough to close the distance without drawing attention, boots hitting the pavement in perfect rhythm with the fleeing man's stride.
Specter-7 tracked them both through her scope as they vanished into the corridor.
"Visual lost," she muttered, already shifting position. "Repositioning. Gravewire, keep feeding me."
"I've got interference blooming. He's bleeding intent now. He's trying to disorient Lockstep."
Down below, the air twisted.
Lockstep felt it before he consciously registered it. A crawling sensation behind his eyes, like gravity had decided to pull sideways. The walls of the corridor seemed to stretch, angles warping subtly, depth perception slipping just enough to make a misstep fatal.
What sort of ability was this?
"Tch," he grunted, planting his foot hard and forcing momentum through sheer muscle memory. "What a cute trick."
As if in response, the target glanced back and raised one hand.
Out of nowhere, the pressure spiked.
Lockstep's vision blurred, a sharp pain lancing through his skull as something tried to dig into his motor cortex; commands that weren't his own, urging his legs to stop, his balance to fail.
"No," He growled through clenched teeth.
Lockstep bit down on the inside of his cheek and forced his breathing into rhythm.
In two. Out in three.
The intrusive pressure clawing at his motor cortex did not vanish, but it loosened just enough for him to move. His legs burned as he pushed forward, scraping against concrete as the corridor narrowed further ahead. Pipes lined the walls, rusted and dripping, creating obstacles meant to break momentum. He weaved through them without slowing, shoulder brushing metal, sparks flying as his gear clipped an exposed valve.
The target vaulted a stack of plastic crates without breaking stride.
Lockstep followed a heartbeat later, kicking one crate aside and using it as a step rather than a hurdle. The moment his foot hit the ground, the world tilted again.
This time it was worse.
The corridor bent, visually curving like a warped lens. The far end stretched away and distance multiplied itself. Lockstep's inner ear screamed that he was falling sideways even though his boots were still firmly planted.
"As expected, dealing with Psychos isn't easy."
Lockstep shut his eyes.
For half a second, there was nothing but motion and memory. Years of urban pursuit training kicked in. Count steps. Track airflow. Listen.
Footfalls ahead. Slightly uneven. The target favored his left leg.
Lockstep opened his eyes again and the corridor snapped back into place, though it still wavered at the edges like heat haze.
He then lunged forward like a bloody savage, putting all his strength into the tremendous tackle.
The target burst out of the corridor into open space.
A service road. Parked delivery trucks. Dumpsters overflowing with trash. A maze of metal and shadow.
"Target exiting into service lane," Specter-7's voice cut in, almost casual despite the urgency. "I've got partial visual from a new angle. Lockstep, he's angling toward the underpass."
"I see him."
The man in the black coat shoved a rolling cart aside, sending it crashing into a stack of bins behind him. Garbage exploded outward, bottles and broken plastic skittering across the pavement.
Lockstep did not slow.
He leapt, planting one hand on the cart's handle as it tipped and using the momentum to vault clean over the debris. His boots hit hard, knees flexing to absorb the impact, and he was running again instantly.
The target glanced back once more.
This time, he smiled.
"...!?"
Sensing something was wrong, Lockstep briefly paused his tremendous spirit. However, it was already too late.
Before he could process it, an invisible force slammed into his chest, hurling him backward into a delivery truck. Metal screamed as his body hit the side panel hard enough to dent it inward. Pain exploded across his ribs, but he rolled with it, hitting the ground and coming up on one knee instead of flat on his back.
"Lockstep, report. What is the current status?" asks Blackbird.
"Still breathing," Lockstep answered while pushing himself up. "He hits harder than he looks."
Above them, Specter-7 had already relocated.
She lay prone atop a skeletal fire escape, rifle steady despite the wind whipping past her. The city unfolded beneath her in layers of concrete and motion. Her scope tracked the target as he sprinted toward the underpass entrance,
Her finger brushed the trigger guard.
"Open lane in five seconds," she murmured. "Lockstep, clear my shot."
"I'm not letting him disappear," Lockstep replied.
The target reached the underpass and cut sharply to the left, splashing through shallow runoff water. The sound of traffic above thundered like distant artillery.
Lockstep followed him in.
The instant he crossed beneath the underpass, the pressure multiplied.
The air felt thicker, heavy enough to resist every breath. Water pooled across cracked concrete, rippling without wind as if something massive had just passed through it. Fluorescent lights flickered violently overhead, some bursting outright in a shower of sparks as the Psycho's AR Field expanded unchecked.
The man did not slow.
He ran with long, unhurried strides. Loose gravel skittered away from his feet, dragged by invisible vectors bending toward him.
Lockstep gritted his teeth and forced his body forward.
Every instinct screamed that he was running into a storm with nothing but his own momentum to protect him.
The Psycho raised his hand without looking back.
It was just a simple gesture. Even so, a parking barrier ripped free from its hinges and shot backward like a missile. Lockstep saw it coming a fraction of a second before impact. He dropped low and slid, with water spraying as the barrier tore through the space where his head had been. It slammed into a pillar behind him hard enough to shatter concrete, sending shards raining down.
He rolled to his feet and kept running.
"Psychokinesis confirmed," Gravewire reported. "Lockstep, make sure to keep your distance. From what I'm reading, getting hit even once will send you packing into the afterlife."
"No kidding."
When he muttered that bitterly, the psycho snapped his fingers.
A dumpster ahead lurched sideways skidded across the ground. Trash exploded outward in a choking cloud of dust and paper. The dumpster itself lifted, rotating as if gripped by a giant invisible hand, then hurled straight at Lockstep.
Lockstep did not try to outrun it.
He veered sharply right, slipping on wet concrete as he ducked behind a support pillar. The dumpster smashed past, clipping the edge of the column and tearing a chunk of concrete free before crashing into the far wall. The impact shook the entire underpass.
Lockstep used the tremor.
He pushed off the pillar and sprinted forward, weaving through falling debris as more objects ripped free. Traffic cones became spears. A steel ladder peeled off the wall and twisted through the air, end over end. Lockstep threaded through them by instinct alone, changing pace constantly, never moving in a straight line for more than two steps.
Another gesture from the Psycho bought forth another distortion.
Chunks of concrete tore upward, forming a ragged wave that surged toward Lockstep. He cursed and leapt, planting one foot against a tilted slab and using it as a springboard. He vaulted over the rising debris, hit the ground hard, stumbled, then forced himself upright again.
The Psycho laughed.
It echoed, layered and stretched, as if multiple versions of his voice were laughing at slightly different times.
"My, aren't you a persistent fellow? Do you want my autograph or something? I'm not into old guys!"
He flicked his finger and a parked sedan lifted off the ground. It rose and rotated slowly, with the nose angling down toward Lockstep.
For a brief moment, Lockstep calculated whether he could clear it. Then he shook his head.
"Specter-7," he barked into the comm. "I need options. Now."
High above, Specter-7 tracked the unfolding chaos through her scope. The underpass roof obscured direct line of sight, but Gravewire's overlays painted a rough picture of the Psycho's movement and AR Field expansion.
"Underpass branches in twenty meters," she replied instantly. "Maintenance stairwell on your left. Leads to the pedestrian overpass above him."
Lockstep did not hesitate and cut left just as the sedan launched.
The car screamed past him, close enough that the displaced air knocked him off balance. It smashed into the ground where he had been a heartbeat earlier, crumpling like paper. Lockstep hit the stairs at full speed, taking them three at a time as concrete exploded behind him.
Psycho snarled.
The stairwell shook violently as invisible force slammed into its supports. Handrails tore free. Chunks of ceiling rained down. Lockstep ducked and weaved, shoulder checking through falling debris as he climbed.
At the top, he burst out onto the pedestrian overpass.
The city opened up around him. Traffic thundered below. Horns blared as drivers swerved around sudden shadows cast by flying debris. Ahead, the Psycho emerged from the underpass mouth, slowing slightly as he sensed the shift in pressure.
Specter-7 saw him clearly now.
She adjusted her scope, tracking the Psycho's head as he stepped into the open. Just when she was about to snipe the rogue abnormality, Blackbird suddenly ordered otherwise.
"Hold. Lockstep is closing."
"Tch. Understood."
Reluctantly, she removed her finger from the trigger.
At the same time, Lockstep vaulted the overpass railing without slowing. He dropped, caught the edge with one hand, swung, and landed hard behind the Psycho in a splash of water and shattered glass. The man spun instantly, his eyes widening for the first time.
Lockstep smiled in satisfaction. "Finally caught up to you, you sneaky bastard." Then tackled him.