"It's me," the tracker whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm down bad. I need a shadow... someone to stand where I can't. If the League finds out, we're both ash. Are you in?"
Miles away, in the silence of his apartment, John sat cross-legged on the floor. His eyes were closed, but his mind was a theater of violence as practiced his own demise.
For he current John, death wasn't an end. But it was a finite one. He knew the limits of human perception, if he "died" and stood up too many times, he transitioned from a man to a miracle, and miracles were hard to stay hidden.
He ran the scenario through his head, he could afford to fall a certain number of time before his enemies realises what happens and try to escape, which he can't have as risk of exposure increases.
He shifted his posture in meditation, imagining a bullet's possible trajectory. He needed to fall in a way that suggested a "near miss" to the heart or a "lucky" survival.
He had to bait the shooter into taking a sub-optimal shot. If he could position himself so the lighting or the environment forced the gang to aim for centre mass only for John to pivot at the millisecond of impact, it would look like the shooter simply had bad aim.
"To survive a killing blow, one must first invite it," he whispered to himself.
He visualized the impact over and over, the pain, the blossom of heat in his chest, the way his body would hit the pavement, the exact duration he needed to stay still before his "resurrection" began.
John's meditation deepened as he integrated his IBM into the simulation. The entity hovered at the edge of his consciousness. If a shooter's round whistled toward his skull, a slight shove to the shoulder at the moment of discharge could turn a lethal headshot into a "miraculous" graze against the temple.
John realized the mental load for all of this to happen as planned was staggering. He had to calculate windage, bullet velocity, and the IBM's reaction time simultaneously.
The following evening arrived quickly. As John stepped out of his apartment, the cool night air was now something he was used to. He knew the stakes, tonight was his best and perhaps only chance to reach the Grandmaster Stage.
The local gangs were still arrogant, still operating under the assumption that he was a predictable threat. By tomorrow, his threat level would increase and the streets would turn into an armed fortress. Tonight was the "easy" night, though "easy" in John's world meant a high probability of bloodshed.
As he walked, John performed his habitual sweep of the rooftops and alleyways. It was a rhythmic, subconscious check on the man who had been following him for weeks. He expected the familiar, disciplined presence of the Ninja, the rhythmic footfalls and the specific scent of high-grade incense.
Instead, he felt a hitch in his stride. He forced his muscles to remain fluid, his pace steady, but his mind raced.
The observer was different. This new observer was heavier, less practiced in the art of the "silent step." his original tracker was gone.
John didn't look back. A change in observers usually meant one of two things, the League was onto him, or he himself might have went too far.
John's pace didn't stop, as he began to reflect. He had been the reason for the Ninja's current agony. Last night, he had deliberately led to the injury of his observer. He had intended to break the man just enough to keep him side-lined while he performed, a wounded animal too terrified of the League's "retirement" policy to call for backup.
John had counted on the Ninja's desperation. He had banked on the man's ego and his fear of death keeping him in the field, broken but silent.
But as John felt the clumsy, unfamiliar rhythm of the new shadow behind him, he realized he had overestimated the Ninja's isolation. The loner in John had projected his own solitude onto his target. He hadn't expected a phone call, he hadn't expected a proxy.
John took a sharp left, veering away from the industrial district and toward the crowded, neon-soaked labyrinth of the slums. His original route to the Grandmaster stage was too exposed for an unknown variable.
He needed to test this new shadow. He needed to see how they reacted to sudden changes in pace and environment. But more importantly, he needed to know how senstive this new observer is.
He could not play the same mind trick as he did with the Ninja, it would lead back to him if everyone trailing him experience the same thing. He needed a different kind of leverage.
John had his IBM inch closer to the man, at the distance the Ninja usually maintained, the new man showed zero awareness. He was focused on his phone and the physical silhouette of John ahead of him.
The IBM closed the gap. Still, the man didn't flinch. He lacked the skin-prickling instinct that warned the ninja when being watched.
Finally, John commanded the IBM to hover mere inches from the man's nape. The entity's cold, static-like presence was "breathing" down his neck.
The man's reaction was agonizingly sluggish. He paused, a look of mild confusion crossing his face, not tense, but skepticism. He turned his head slowly, scanning the empty air where the IBM should be. Seeing nothing but the shadows of the alley, he simply shrugged.
He reached into his pocket, unwrapped a candy stick with a loud, undisciplined crinkle, and went back to his task.
The tension in John's chest uncoiled slightly. The "candy-chewer" behind him seem to be a massive oversight on the Ninja's part. With the IBM acting as a silent perimeter guard around the new tracker, John felt a fleeting sense of freedom. He pivoted on his heel, abandoning the slums and cutting back toward his original destination, the first gang hideout.
This incompetence was a gift. John no longer was worried as he turned the corner into the heart of the gang's territory, a derelict warehouse district where the air had a distinct smell. Tonight, he would push his body to the Grandmaster stage.
John didn't approach from the street. He scaled a neighbouring tenement, his fingers finding gap in the weathered brick with the effortless pace. From the rooftop, he looked down upon the target.
The hideout, a sprawling, former textile factory was no longer the quiet den of low-level thugs he had mapped out days ago. It was filled with movements.
Three heavy-duty trucks were backed up to the loading docks, their diesel engines idling with a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrated in John's teeth.
Crates were being moved with frantic efficiency. This was a "Job." Either a massive intake of contraband or a hasty evacuation before a raid.
The perimeter was locked down. Guards in tactical vests, armed with submachine guns rather than the usual handguns, paced the fence line with trained discipline.
John lay flat against the gravel of the rooftop, peering over the ledge. He felt the mental tether to his IBM, which was still hovering a block away, watching the candy-chewing observer lean against a lamp post. If his IBM were free, it could slip through the vents of the warehouse and map the interior in seconds.
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