Stuard Shepard was an entertainment publicist—one of those sleek middlemen who thrived in the gray space between celebrities and the media. His talent was simple: get something for nothing.
With a polished smile and an endless chain of lies, he maneuvered between agents, magazines, and rising stars, manufacturing hype where none existed. He even carried on an affair with a minor actress, juggling deception at home and at work with equal confidence.
Tonight, however, the performance had ended.
Trapped inside a glass phone booth in Times Square, Stuard clutched the receiver with trembling fingers while a sniper rifle remained trained on him from somewhere unseen.
The voice on the other end of the line was calm, almost conversational, yet every word pressed against his throat like a blade. He was given a choice: confess his infidelity to his wife and admit publicly that he was a fraud—or die.
Sweat soaked through his suit as the caller continued.
"Do you remember the pervert who got killed on 38th Street ten days ago? He thought he was an artist. Refused to admit he was a pedophile. He had chances to confess. He didn't. So I killed him."
A blattant threat.
Then another example followed—a stockbroker who manipulated the market, dumped overvalued stocks, and ruined countless retail investors.
"If he had been willing to repent and share the money back then," the sniper said lightly, "perhaps the ending would have been different."
Both killings had been his work.
This was no ordinary murderer. He was extreme, arrogant, self-righteous. He punished what he perceived as moral corruption and forced confessions at gunpoint. Yet behind the fanaticism was intelligence.
He hid well, planned thoroughly, and in the original timeline had even managed to toy with police before disappearing beneath their noses, his "justice" delivered without ever claiming credit.
Outside the cordoned perimeter, Luca and Matilda blended into the crowd of onlookers. From their distance, they could not hear the conversation inside the booth, but Stuard's pale face and rigid posture made the situation obvious.
"So many police," Matilda murmured, scanning the scene. "Luca, I see Officer Mills."
She pointed toward David Mills standing near a patrol car. Luca followed her finger and soon spotted another familiar figure beside him—William Somerset, calm and analytical as ever. Not far away stood Richie Roberts, observing procedures with rigid discipline.
And then there was another presence.
A broad-shouldered officer with a receding hairline and the unmistakable aura of perpetual misfortune.
_________________________________________________________________________
[Character Card: John McClane (Unlocked)]
[Rank: SSR]
[Source: Die Hard series]
[Skills: Misfortunes Never Come Singly; Ventilation Duct Raid; Barefoot Warrior; Die Hard; Heroism]
[Bond: Strangers]
__________________________________________________________________________
Luca's brow lifted.
For a single sniper incident, this lineup was absurd. An SSR card with five skills appearing at a random street standoff? What kind of karma had the shooter accumulated to attract this many rare individuals?
John McClane's most ridiculous skill, Misfortunes Never Come Singly, explained everything. The man had a unique talent: wherever he went, something catastrophic followed.
He once visited Los Angeles and ended up in a skyscraper siege. Another time, he went to an airport and walked straight into a terrorist plot.
None of it had anything to do with him—he simply happened to be there. As a cop, he could not ignore it. Even his wife had once questioned why disaster seemed magnetically drawn to him.
Luca silently concluded he would rather leap from the Empire State Building than inherit that curse. Still, the remaining four skills were more than appealing. An SSR was an SSR.
But approaching police required preparation.
Currently, Luca and Matilda's bond had reached Close Friend level, unlocking two available skills: Dexterity and Harmless Disguise. After brief consideration, Luca chose the second one.
Lowering alertness during first contact had broader utility—especially when dealing with law enforcement. Paired with [Shameless], it would smooth social friction significantly.
[Would you like to spend 50 Skill Fragments to exchange for "Harmless Disguise"?]
[Yes/No]
"Yes"
[Exchange successful. Skill acquired.]
[Harmless Disguise: When approaching a target disguised as a harmless identity (student, delivery worker, etc.), the target's alertness level decreases by 20%.]
[Remaining Skill Fragments: 14]
New skill obtained.
Meanwhile, several officers gathered near the command vehicles, exchanging assessments. Somerset walked over from the phone booth holding a megaphone and addressed the group with measured certainty. Stuard was likely being coerced, he explained; the voice on the phone was the true mastermind.
Mills connected the dots immediately, referencing the earlier sniper victims who had also been on phone calls when they died. The pattern was too precise to ignore.
"Handle the present case first," Somerset instructed. "Get technicians. Trace that call."
Richie Roberts insisted on procedural clarity, emphasizing warrants and legal boundaries, which only irritated Mills further.
McClane, clearly annoyed to have stumbled into yet another crisis while simply attempting to buy a gift for his child, dryly clarified that tracing a phone line was acceptable—as long as no one eavesdropped illegally.
Technicians soon arrived and worked at a roadside telecom box, attempting to track the signal source. The killer, however, had anticipated this. Encryption devices slowed the process dramatically. Frustration spread among the officers. The sniper remained invisible, silent, patient.
"We can't track or listen in yet," Richie reported. "Encryption. We need time."
Somerset frowned and asked Mills about the surrounding building sweeps. The sniper's angle suggested proximity without obstruction, but Times Square's skyscrapers rose like steel forests. Clearing them all would not be quick.
McClane volunteered to lead the search, prompting subtle discomfort among nearby officers. His presence alone seemed to tempt escalation. Somerset, sensing unease, suggested calling for additional backup from other districts. Something about this felt larger than it appeared.
Then a technician ran forward, breathless.
"We found it. The signal traces to the Barclays Hotel. Room 604. Second row of corner windows."
Confusion rippled through the group. Moments ago, encryption had blocked progress. Now they had a precise room number.
"Seal every exit," Somerset ordered instantly.
"Oh—sir," the technician added awkwardly, "a civilian helped us resolve a technical error. He was the one who identified the exact room."
The officers exchanged baffled looks.
A helpful citizen in New York?
Under these circumstances?
That might have been the most suspicious development of the night.
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