John was unaware of the exact thought process going on inside the ninja's head, but he could clearly see the toll his actions over the past few days were taking. The ninja's movements had grown noticeably slower, and his reaction time to John's sudden movements had lagged. The sharp, elite edge of the tracker was dulling under the weight of mental exhaustion.
For John, all of this was leading up to the inevitable clash with the Viper gang and, simultaneously, toward his own upcoming deaths. He was making sure that when those deaths occurred, the ninja trailing him would be completely unaware, too stuck in a state of "battling with his own imagination and mind" to notice the truth. As for the gangsters who would actually witness him revive, their silence was guaranteed, death was already their final destination.
It was during his nightly visit to the precinct that he finally saw the file Thorne had left for him. He knew immediately it was intended for his eyes; Thorne was the last one to leave the station, and the police chief was an orderly man who always kept his desk meticulously clean when not in use. The lone file was a clear signal.
From his vantage point on the roof, John sent his IBM down into the building. It snuck into the station unseen, wings out, hovering over the chief's desk in its invisible state. Through their shared vision, John was able to glimpse everything inside the file, memorizing the names, locations, and black-market dealings that would soon bring the Viper gang to their knees.
Comparing the hideouts found by Thorne to the ones he had already scouted, John saw that the cop's information was far more precise. It even pointed to a specific location the higher-ups believed was the hideout of the gang leader himself.
Finally having everything he needed, John stood on the dark rooftop with his eyes closed. He began to think about his actions, he knew how irrational it was. He was preparing to go on a killing spree because he felt his current fate had been forced upon him by this gang. If they hadn't shot and killed him that first time, he would never have known he was an Ajin. His deep-seated fear of this world had only been pushed further by this violent awakening.
It also seemed the League was having an effect on him. He could feel a growing bloodlust, fueled by the terrifying reality that he now possessed the power to act on those dark urges.
Thinking of this, John clenched his fist as he looked up at the full moon. "I need to get off this fucking planet," he muttered. Outwardly, he remained perfectly calm as he launched himself from the roof, leaping to the next building as he made his way back to his apartment to prepare.
Meanwhile, his IBM drifted through the air above the weakened ninja, who was struggling just to keep up. Through their shared vision, John watched the man's faltering movements and began to count down in his mind.
"Three, two, one."
The moment he hit one, the ninja leaped from his current rooftop in an attempt to reach the next. It was at this precise second that the IBM closed in. The ninja, now too slow to react, was hit point-blank with the paralyzing scream. The sound tore through his already frayed nerves, locking his muscles in place mid-air.
Frozen and unable to adjust his posture, the ninja lost his footing completely and began to plummet toward the three-story house where he was supposed to land. He hit the roof with a resounding crack, the sound of breaking bones echoing in the quiet night.
The sheer agony of the impact forced him awake from the paralysis, and he let out a roar filled with raw pain. As the ninja lay there, gasping and trying to hold in the scream of his injuries, John's IBM stared down at him with cold indifference. With a single beat of its wings, the entity vanished into the night sky, leaving the broken tracker behind in the dark.
The silence of the alley was broken only by the tracker's ragged, wet gasps. It had taken nearly an hour for his mind to stop screaming and for a cold, clinical clarity to set in. He lay twisted in the floor, the copper tang of blood filling his mouth. His limbs were no longer were in optimal conditions.
They were splintered weight. Both legs were snapped, one a dull ache, the other a sharp, protruding agony and his arms hung uselessly at his sides, the radius bones shattered during the fall.
He was an assasin of the League, a man trained to endure the impossible, but biology was a cruel master. In his current state, the distance between him and John might as well have been an ocean. He was no longer fit to shadow the target, let alone compile the meticulous data the Council demanded.
His hand hovered inches from the encrypted comms unit strapped to his tactical vest. It was his lifeline, yet it felt more like a trigger for his own execution.
The internal logic of the League was simple "Utility is Life". The Best case scenario, he reports in, they deem his injuries recoverable, and he is retired to a desk or a training floor.
The Reality with both arms and legs compromised, he was "spent brass." This even more the case when considering how it happened. Reporting his failure would be inviting someone to tie off the loose end.
The situation with John had already put the League on edge. They were fascinated by the by action of asssigned mentor, a variable they hadn't perfectly accounted for. They had issued strict orders: Observe, do not interfere. They wanted to see how John would handle the situation to get a better read on what type of person he was.
Because of this delicate balance, the League required daily, high-fidelity updates. Every missed check-in was a crack in their observation. By failing to report John's hourly movements, the tracker wasn't just failing a mission, he was depriving the League of the data they needed about John.
The tracker stared at the blinking LED on his comms unit. He could manage today's report, a few short bursts of encrypted text, a falsified "all clear" but tomorrow was a mountain he couldn't climb. His fever was rising, and the swelling in his limbs was turning a bruised purple.
It was then, a flicker of a forbidden thought occurred to him. The League demanded data, not necessarily his eyes. As long as the reports were accurate and delivered on time, the Council remained blind to the messenger's identity.
With trembling, blood-slicked fingers, he bypassed the League's secure line and dialed a number etched into his memory from a life he was supposed to have forgotten.
"Hello?" a voice rasped on the other end.
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