The helicopter locked on DJ, and stayed on him.
Locked. Steady. Like a predator that had finally picked its prey.
Highway lights stretched into long white lines as DJ on his bike tore through them, rain smashing into his visor, water exploding under his bike like a boat carving the river. The city thinned behind him—buildings giving way to empty lanes, barriers, long curves meant for speed.
"Control, he's heading out," someone said over the radio. "Looks like highway."
Everyone heard it.
Blocking roads was pointless now. Everyone knew it. Barricades didn't slow him. Nails didn't stop him. If there was a car, he ran over it. If there was a gap, he jumped it. If there was nothing—he just kept going.
Rain didn't help either. It made it worse.
Visibility dropped. Tires slipped. Bikes spun out trying to keep up. A police SUV clipped the divider and spun, sparks screaming across wet asphalt.
The helicopter with MAHI logo on them adjusted altitude, searchlight cutting through sheets of rain, glued to the black-and-red blur below.
Inside the jeep, the first cop, the fat one, wiped rain from his face, breathing hard.
"He's not stopping," he said. Not panic. Just a fact. "If he reaches the exit—what then?"
The second cop didn't look away from the road.
"They don't need him to stop."
The first glanced at him. "Meaning?"
A beat.
"Someone else will."
He didn't say the name. He didn't need to.
The rain hammered harder, like it agreed.
Far ahead, lightning split the sky again. For a second, the whole highway lit up—and DJ was right there, dead center, still moving.
The first cop swallowed.
"You mean… him?"
The second nodded once. "He's already in the air."
They drove on in silence after that.
—
In a quiet room, far from the rain, Roy watched the same footage.
Muted.
Helicopter cam. Blurry. Shaking. The red circle struggling to keep up with a shape that didn't behave like anything human.
He sipped his wine. Calm. Unbothered.
He wasn't smiling. He wasn't angry either.
He felt everything was in control.
He was just… watching.
"Running," he murmured, mostly to himself.
"Interesting choice."
He tilted his head slightly as the feed cut to another angle.
"You don't know when to disappear," Roy said softly. "And you don't know when to stay."
Outside the screen, thunder rolled over his building.
Roy didn't flinch.
"I still don't understand these young people," he admitted. " So impolite, immature."
On-screen, the blur shot past another exit to the open highway.
The police were getting nowhere. And they knew it.
Orders kept coming anyway. Louder. Sharper. Use force. Do something. The rain wasn't helping, visibility was trash, tires were slipping, and DJ was still too fast. Even the helicopter struggled to keep him centered, the reticle shaking like it was nervous, they seem no other way.
Then—
A sound ripped through the sky.
Not thunder. Not lightning.
A sonic boom like a fighter jet.
Every radio went quiet for half a second. Every cop looked up without being told to.
Roy leaned forward in his chair.
"All eyes on the sky," someone whispered, almost instinctively.
The rain bent.
Not fell—bent.
Like something invisible was cutting through it, shoving sheets of water aside. A blur moved overhead, too fast to track, too clean to be a helicopter.
And then—impact.
Krish landed on the highway.
Not crashing. Not sliding. Just there.
Feet planted. Road spider-webbing under him. Rain smashing into his shoulders and breaking apart like mist. He stood in DJ's path like a wall that decided to exist.
DJ didn't slow.
Didn't swerve.
Didn't hesitate.
The helicopter cameras barely adjusted before—
BOOM.
No dramatic pause. No slow motion.
Just pure, violent physics.
Bike and rider exploded apart. Metal shredded.
Sparks vanished under rain. DJ's body tore free, flung forward—and his head separated, bouncing once before skidding across the soaked asphalt.
Silence hit harder than the collision. Everyone paused.
Krish stepped forward and caught the head before it could roll again. Water ran down the helmet's cracked faceplate. The eyes inside dimmed.
Krish frowned.
He turned the head slightly.
Inside—
Nothing.
A hollow shell. Wires. Synthetic casing. A dummy.
The realization hit like a second punch.
Anger flickered across Krish's face, sharp and sudden.
Above, the helicopter zoomed in. The image was crystal clear: Krish holding the severed head.
"Control—" someone started.
Too late.
From the wrecked bike—
A pulse.
White. Silent.
EMP.
Mixed with something else exploded .
The world went dark.
Radios died mid-sentence. Dashboards blinked out. Cameras froze, then cut. The live feed on every channel vanished into static.
Roy stared at the black screen.
Then laughed—soft, impressed.
"Well played," he murmured. He had seen it, the suit was empty, a decoy.
On the highway, chaos bloomed.
Police cars lost power and slammed into each other. Sirens died mid-wail. Helicopters dipped, rotors choking as systems failed.
Krish reacted instantly.
He launched upward, rain tearing away from him, catching the first helicopter under its skids, steadying it like it weighed nothing. Another dipped—he grabbed it mid-air, forcing it level. The third wobbled—he shoved it upward with a single hand.
"Are you okay?" he shouted over the storm.
"Y-Yes!" one pilot yelled back. "All good!"
Someone muttered, stunned, "He tricked us…"
Krish didn't respond.
He landed again, slower this time, eyes locked on the wreckage below.
The bike was dissolving.
Rust spread across it like a disease. Metal flaked away, collapsing into reddish dust that washed down the highway drains with the rain.
Krish' eye sharpen .
"He got away," someone said quietly behind him.
"Every unit's down. It was a decoy, I repeat it was a decoy."
Krish didn't react.
He turned toward the city.
His expression changed—not rage. Focus.
He felt it.
Something moving. Far. Deliberate.
The rain kept falling