Chapter 100:
[Spartan POV]
[1 Week Later, New York City]
The roar of the engine reverberates through the empty streets, cutting through the cool, crisp night air like a razor. It's an oddly serene contrast—the raw power beneath me humming in a deep, low growl while the city, normally brimming with life, feels unusually quiet. My hands rest confidently on the sleek, custom-built handlebars, fingers gently gripping the throttle as I ease the motorcycle forward. She's new, fresh out of my workshop, a beast of my own making. Every inch of her has been meticulously crafted and designed to perfection. She's modeled after the legendary motorcycle from Akira, the one Kaneda rode, and while there's a certain nostalgia in that inspiration, this machine is very much mine. It's more than a piece of anime fandom—it's an expression of power, control, and speed molded by my own two hands. The body's a deep, matte black with sharp lines, angular and aggressive like a predator waiting to pounce. Her curves are sleek but muscular, every component finely tuned for optimal performance. Karai's upgrades have integrated seamlessly with EPYON's systems, and as I lean into a turn, feeling the weight shift and the tires hug the asphalt, I can sense that this will be the most flawless ride I've ever built. The streets stretch out ahead, glistening under the orange hue of the streetlights, and I feel an almost meditative calm settle over me. This is what I live for—this moment where everything aligns. No distractions, no second-guessing, just me and the road, the wind rushing past as the city opens up before me like a labyrinth to be conquered. I glance down at the dashboard interface embedded in the bike's frame. The heads-up display syncs effortlessly with EPYON, projecting a translucent map of the city in front of me, highlighting key points of interest, potential threats, and patrol routes. EPYON speaks in my ear with its usual calm efficiency. "All systems running optimally. Performance output exceeds baseline parameters by 12%. Would you like to initiate a diagnostic check?" I smirk beneath my helmet, the dark visor reflecting the cityscape like a mirror. Of course, EPYON would want to run a diagnostic now—always so damn thorough.
I tap a small button on the handlebar, dismissing the suggestion for now. I know the bike is running like a dream, and I'm in the middle of feeling it out. This ride, this bike, it's about more than numbers or readouts. It's about instinct, trust, and pushing the limits. The tech does what it's supposed to, and I do what I'm made to do—keep the city safe, one street at a time. I rev the engine again, letting the growl turn into a deafening roar as I take off down the straightaway. The acceleration is instantaneous, the force pushing me back against the seat. I can feel the adrenaline spike in my veins, the speed is an intoxicating rush. The city blurs past in streaks of neon, the hum of streetlights, the occasional blur of a pedestrian or car whizzing by. But out here, at this hour, the city belongs to me. New York at night is a different beast altogether. It's quieter, yes, but beneath the surface, there's always an undercurrent of tension, a pulse of something darker waiting to surface. Crime never really sleeps, and I've learned to read the subtle signs—the flicker of movement in a shadow, the slight uptick in chatter on the police bands, the way certain streets just feel off. Tonight, though, things seem eerily still. But I know better. Stillness can be deceptive. It often is. I cross over into Harlem, the buildings rising taller around me, casting long, jagged shadows across the road. The neighborhood has seen better days, but it's resilient. People here are tough, and they've weathered worse than most. As I ride through, I can't help but remember past patrols—close calls, nights spent chasing down leads through these very streets. I've bled here, fought here, and, on more than one occasion, barely made it out alive. But that's the job. That's the life. And in some strange way, I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Suddenly, a sharp buzz crackles through my helmet's comlink. It's EPYON alerting me to a situation. I glance down at the translucent map projected across the heads-up display. On the digital map overlay, multiple markers flare red—high-speed movements, chaotic traffic patterns, and flashing alerts: a biker gang causing havoc in the East Village. I feel the familiar twinge of excitement course through me, an electric jolt of anticipation. "A biker gang?" I murmur under my breath, a smirk pulling at the corners of my mouth, "Perfect." This is exactly the kind of opportunity I've been waiting for—no, craving. A chance to see what this beast beneath me is really capable of. The streets here are tight and winding, perfect for testing the agility and raw power I've poured into this machine. I tighten my grip on the throttle, feeling the hum of the engine vibrate through my gloves, and with a slight twist of my wrist, the bike roars to life, its guttural snarl echoing off the surrounding buildings. There's no hesitation. I'm off, slicing the night like a bullet. The cityscape rushes past me in a blur of dark glass and neon lights, the roar of the motorcycle rising in my ears, blending with the wind as it tears past my helmet. EPYON's voice cuts through the rush, delivering real-time updates with calm precision. "Multiple suspects, armed, currently moving eastbound on 2nd Street. Local law enforcement is trailing, but they're falling behind." I grit my teeth beneath the visor. "Of course they are," I mutter. The NYPD does what it can, but tonight? Tonight, they're not needed. Not for this.
As I weave between cars and dart down side streets, the machine responds like it's an extension of my body. Every shift in weight, every twitch of muscle is met with perfect, fluid motion. Karai's upgrades have made this ride almost too good. It's not just the engine's raw power; it's the seamless fusion of man and machine that makes it feel like I'm flying, not riding. The roads are mine. The city is mine. The thrill of the hunt pounds in my veins as I push the bike faster, weaving through traffic like a predator honing in on its prey. "EPYON, give me a visual on the targets," I command, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surge that has my heart hammering in my chest. Within seconds, a live feed flickers into view on the heads-up display. Grainy at first, but rapidly sharpening into focus. There they are—three motorcycles tearing through the East Village streets like wild animals, weaving recklessly through traffic. I can see the flashes of metal glinting in the streetlights, likely weapons. They're not just out for a joyride. No, this is a statement. They want all of the East Village to know that they run the neighborhood now. I hit the throttle, feeling the bike lurch forward with an almost violent burst of speed. The engine's roar swells, filling the night with its growl. I cut across lanes, narrowly missing a cab as it honks furiously behind me. The bike's handling is as sharp as a knife, carving through the city with precision as I make my way toward the East Village. I'm gaining ground fast.
The streets begin to narrow as I approach their position, the tall buildings on either side crowding in, casting long, looming shadows. The occasional pedestrian flits by, startled by the sudden appearance of my bike. They know something's happening. The city always has a way of sensing when things are about to go down. My helmet's visor flickers with a new set of data—police comms, traffic patterns, escape routes. As I close in, I can see the gang more clearly now. Three bikes, all heavily modified. They're built for speed and power, but there's something rough, almost haphazard about them. No finesse. I scan their riders—leather-clad helmets with tinted visors bristling with weapons. The leader, at the front, carries what looks like a sawed-off shotgun strapped to his back. The others are armed with bats and chains, crude but effective in a high-speed brawl. They're laughing, hollering at each other as they tear down the street like they own the night. "EPYON," I call out, my voice firm, "Highlight potential ambush points." Instantly, the map shifts, highlighting alleys, narrow streets, and bottleneck zones. I need to force them into one of these choke points and cut off their escape before they can scatter. The East Village is a maze of tight streets and sharp turns, perfect for trapping them if I play this right.
I pull back slightly, falling into position a few blocks behind them. I could rush them now, but there's no need to be reckless. I wait, my mind racing, calculating. The gang is approaching a series of tight turns, and I know just the spot to make my move. The bike hums beneath me, ready. I can feel the tension building as I prepare to strike. And then, in a flash, it happens. The gang makes a hard right, turning onto a narrow street lined with parked cars. It's the perfect bottleneck. I gun the engine, surging forward, my bike roaring as I tear down the street after them. They don't see me coming—at least, not at first. But then, the leader glances back. I see the exact moment his eyes widen behind his visor, the split-second when he realizes they're being hunted. I'm on them in a heartbeat. The leader veers left, trying to shake me, but I'm too fast. I lean into the turn, my tires gripping the asphalt as I close the gap. The two bikers behind him are panicking now, their movements becoming erratic. They swerve wildly, trying to break away, but I'm right there, cutting them off at every turn. One of them pulls a chain from his side, swinging it in a wide arc as he tries to catch me. I swerve effortlessly, the chain whizzing past me, missing by inches. Amateurs. They don't know who they're dealing with. I speed up, coming alongside the first biker. He glances at me, his eyes wide with fear, and for a split second, I can see the realization dawning on him. This isn't just some random chase. They're in deep trouble.
Without hesitation, I ram my bike into his, sending him careening into a row of parked cars. His bike slams into a fender, and he's thrown from his seat, crashing onto the sidewalk in a heap. One down. I barely have time to take in the victory before the second biker is on me, his bat raised high as he swerves toward me, trying to knock me off balance. I duck just in time, the bat whistling through the air above my head. The thrill of the fight surges through me as I pull ahead of him, cutting him off at the next turn. He's reckless and desperate now. He tries to swerve past me, but I anticipate his move. With a flick of my wrist, I cut across his path, forcing him into a hard left. He loses control, skidding across the street before slamming into a fire hydrant. Two down. That just leaves the leader.
He's fast, I'll give him that. But I'm faster. I can see him ahead, weaving through traffic, trying to make a break for it. He's smart enough to know he's outmatched, but he's still fighting. I can respect that. But it won't save him. I rev the engine, feeling the power surge beneath me as I close the distance. He glances back, and I can see the fear in his eyes. He's running out of road. Ahead of him is a dead end, a narrow alley with nowhere to go. He tries to make one last desperate move, but it's too late. I'm already there. I pull alongside him, matching his speed. For a moment, we're riding in tandem, side by side, his breath ragged, mine calm and controlled. I can see him reaching for the shotgun on his back, his last-ditch effort to get me off his tail. I don't give him the chance. With one swift motion, I kick out, my boot connecting with his bike. The force of the impact sends him spinning out of control. His bike skids across the asphalt, sparks flying as it crashes into the wall of the alley. He's thrown from the seat, landing hard on the pavement.
I slow down, pulling my bike to a stop a few feet away. The leader groans, struggling to get to his feet, but he's done. I dismount, walking toward him with deliberate, measured steps. He's clutching his side, wincing in pain, but I can see the defiance in his eyes. He's not giving up that easily. "You're under arrest," I say, my voice low and steady, as I pull out a pair of cuffs from my belt. He glares up at me, breathing heavily. "You think this is over?" he snarls, his voice filled with venom, "We'll be back. You can't stop us." I crouch down in front of him, my visor reflecting his battered face, "I just did."
[Karai POV]
[1 Day Later, J-Rabbit, New York City]
I'm savoring the last few bites of my breakfast, the warm, buttery toast and perfectly crisp bacon a comforting contrast to the cool, bustling morning outside. J-Rabbit is one of those diners that just feels like home, with its worn leather booths, the constant clatter of dishes, and the comforting hum of casual conversations. I come here often, and it's one of the few places where I can blend into the background, just another customer enjoying a quiet meal. It's early, barely past dawn, and the regulars are already in their usual spots. I like it this way—no pretense, no need for small talk. Just me, my food, and a brief moment of peace before the day kicks off. As I finish my coffee, I let my eyes drift to the familiar faces around me, the old man with his newspaper, the couple arguing softly over a crossword puzzle, and the waitress, Juna, gliding between tables with effortless ease. The smells of sizzling eggs and fresh coffee swirl around me, and for just a second, I allow myself to forget the chaos outside these walls. But then, out of nowhere, Juna's voice breaks through the calm. "Hey, Samus!" she calls out, waving a hand with the diner's old, corded phone, "Someone's calling for you!" That stops me cold. I glance up from my plate, brow furrowed in confusion. Someone is calling me? Here? My fingers instinctively tighten around the mug of coffee, the warmth of the ceramic grounding me as I try to keep my expression neutral. Weird. Really weird. In my line of work, being contacted like this is a red flag, especially in a place I consider a safe zone. Whoever is on the other end of that call has either gone to great lengths to find me, or they've been watching closely enough to know exactly where I'd be this morning.
My instincts kick in, and suddenly, I'm hyper-aware of everything around me—the steady chatter of the diner, the scrape of forks on plates, the clink of glasses, the buzz of fluorescent lights above. I'm still outwardly calm, but internally, my guard is up. I push my plate to the side, giving Juna a nod as I slide out of the booth, the soft squeak of the leather barely registering over the thrum of my heartbeat in my ears. As I cross the diner, I feel the weight of my sidearm discreetly holstered under my jacket, a silent reassurance that if this turns sideways, I'm not defenseless. But still, a nagging question echoes in the back of my mind: Who could be calling me here, of all places? I take the phone from Juna with a small, appreciative smile, though my mind is already racing, weighing the potential risks and considering if I should even answer. It's not often that I feel a chill of unease like this. I've faced off against mercenaries and infiltrated some of the most dangerous places in the world, but there's something about this call—something unknown—that sets my teeth on edge. I press the phone to my ear, bracing myself for whatever comes next. "This is Samus," I say, keeping my voice steady, though every nerve in my body is now on high alert. The silence that follows feels like it stretches for too long, just long enough for my mind to start racing through every possible scenario. And then, the voice on the other end speaks, low and calm. "You're a really hard person to track down, Karai," the voice says. And just like that, any semblance of peace I'd had this morning evaporates.
The voice on the other end sends a chill through me, even though I've faced more dangerous situations than I can count. Something about the calm, measured tone, paired with those cryptic words, makes my muscles tense. I lean against the counter, my fingers still wrapped around the old corded phone, though my grip tightens, the plastic creaking under the pressure. I force myself to stay composed, my mind racing as I process what I've just heard. "Okay, now you got my undivided attention," I say, keeping my voice steady, though the unease is creeping into my chest, "Who am I speaking to?" There's a brief pause on the other end, and in that silence, my mind flashes through a hundred possibilities. Is this some kind of setup? A trap? But something tells me it's not that simple. The voice returns, quiet but clear. "A ghost of an innocent man who was branded a traitor and was unjustly murdered," the caller replies, his words deliberate and heavy. There's no mistaking the bitterness that lingers beneath them, the kind of resentment that comes from betrayal, "I need your help." A ghost? Branded a traitor? This isn't a run-of-the-mill plea for assistance. Whoever this is, he's been through something dark, something deep enough that it's led him to me. I'm not one to jump into things without understanding the full picture, but there's something in his tone that piques my interest—a desperation masked by determination. It's the voice of someone who's been cornered but refuses to back down.
"Alright," I respond, pushing off the counter and letting my eyes drift across the diner. I notice the regulars still sitting at their tables, completely oblivious to the strange turn my morning has taken. "Come to the diner, we'll talk," I say, keeping things casual. If this guy's legit, meeting in public is the safest bet, especially if he's paranoid about being watched. But the voice shakes his head, or at least, I can feel that refusal in his next words. "Can't do that. They're everywhere. Don't know who to trust," he pauses again, this time longer, as if weighing his next statement, "If you're as good as they say, you'll be able to track me down." And just like that, the line goes dead. The sudden silence on the other end feels louder than the buzz of the diner around me. For a moment, I just stand there, the phone still pressed to my ear, my mind racing through every detail of the conversation. He thinks I can track him down. He's putting a lot of faith in someone he's never met, and it makes me wonder—just how desperate is he? How far has he gone to stay off the radar, and why reach out to me now? My instincts scream that there's more to this, and the more I think about it, the more questions pile up. What kind of man fakes his death—or comes back from it—and why does he think I'm the one who can help? I lower the phone, a flicker of excitement sparking beneath the initial unease. This is a challenge, a puzzle. And if this "ghost" thinks I'm good enough to find him, then I'll take him up on it.
Just as the line goes dead, EPYON pings a location—the caller's last known position. The sudden alert snaps me out of my thoughts. My instincts kick in, sharp and precise. I don't hesitate, my mind already calculating the next steps. I slap down a $20 bill on the counter, a quick payment for my breakfast, and give Juna a small nod of thanks. "Keep the change," I mutter, though my thoughts are far from the diner now. This lead is fresh, and the window of opportunity is closing fast. Pushing through the door, I break into a run as soon as my boots hit the pavement. The morning air bites at my face, crisp and cool, a sharp contrast to the heat that flares inside me. My muscles stretch and contract with practiced ease as I sprint two blocks, weaving between pedestrians who are just starting their day. I can feel the stares, but I don't care—my focus is locked, laser-sharp on the task at hand. Whoever called me is out there, and I need answers.
[New York City]
I make it to the building, a nondescript brick structure that looks like it's seen better days, the kind of place no one pays attention to. Perfect for someone trying to hide. I don't waste time with the front door. Instead, I leap onto the fire escape, my fingers gripping the cold metal railings as I scale the side of the building, taking the rungs two at a time. The world narrows into a tunnel of action, each move deliberate, fueled by adrenaline and muscle memory. By the time I reach the roof, my heart pounds in rhythm with the hum of the city, my body coiled and ready. I pull out my stun pistol, sweeping it across the rooftop as I survey my surroundings. My eyes dart to every corner, every potential hiding spot, but it's clear. I keep the pistol raised as I make my way across the roof. Then, at the edge of my vision, I catch a glint—something small and out of place. I turn my head and see it: a cheap flip phone tied to a string dangling precariously from a vent pipe. A piece of paper is taped to the phone, the white sheet fluttering slightly in the breeze. I lower my weapon, my fingers flexing as I approach the phone with caution. Whoever left this behind wanted me to find it. I grab the phone and peel the paper away, feeling the weight of whatever message is scrawled on it before I even unfold it. I glance around once more, just to be sure I'm alone, then open the note.
The words are simple, hastily scribbled in dark ink: "You're my last hope. I'm counting on you." A cold sensation ripples down my spine as I read those words. Last hope? The weight of the situation sinks in a little deeper. This isn't just a job. This is personal—at least, for the caller. And now it's personal for me, too. I fold the paper carefully, pocketing it along with the phone. This feels like the beginning of something much bigger than a random call for help. Whoever this guy is, he's tangled up in something messy, and now he's pulled me in. I take a breath, feeling the air fill my lungs as I stare out across the city. The sky is beginning to lighten with the first touches of dawn, casting long shadows over the buildings. "Alright," I mutter under my breath, my mind already shifting gears, "Let's see where this rabbit hole goes."
[Spartan POV]
[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Mission Room.] I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms as I listen to Karai recount her morning. She's pacing in front of me, her usual calm demeanor replaced by a kind of restless energy that I don't often see from her. I can tell she's been turning this over in her mind, every detail ticking like clockwork in that sharp head of hers. But still, something about it doesn't sit right with me. My instincts are tugging at the edges, warning me to tread carefully. "So this random guy just called you, asking for help?" I repeat, trying to pin down the situation in my head. There's always more than meets the eye. Karai stops mid-pace, turning to look at me with an intensity that I can't ignore. "Not just a random guy, Spartan," she says, her voice steady but carrying the weight of conviction, "An innocent man who was accused of something he didn't do and apparently murdered for it." Her eyes narrow slightly as if she's reliving the call in her mind, "You didn't hear his voice, Spartan. He was telling me the truth." I raise an eyebrow, still skeptical. Karai's gut instincts are rarely wrong, but I've been in this game long enough to know that truth can be a slippery thing, twisted and manipulated. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my fingers interlacing as I think it through, "And you're sure he wasn't just playing you? We've seen this kind of thing before—people pretending to be victims, leading us into a trap. He knew exactly where to find you, right? At the diner? That's already a red flag."
Karai doesn't hesitate. "I've thought of that. Believe me, I ran through every scenario in my head, every potential angle," she steps closer, her voice lowering, "But Spartan, there was something in his voice... something raw, real. I've heard a lot of liars in my time, and I know when someone's hiding something. This wasn't that. He sounded like a man on the edge, like he's running out of time. Desperate, but not reckless." I hold her gaze, reading the conviction in her eyes. Karai doesn't waver, and that tells me everything I need to know. I trust her—she's one of the most capable people I know, and her instincts are razor-sharp. She doesn't get rattled easily, which makes her current agitation all the more noticeable. I lean back in my chair, rubbing the back of my neck as I consider the next move. "Okay," I say slowly, letting the words hang in the air for a moment, "Now the question is—who's hunting this mystery man?" Karai exhales, her frustration showing for a brief second before she pulls it back under control. She's good at that, keeping herself in check, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. "That's still a blank line," she admits, running a hand through her hair as she continues to pace, "Right now, I have EPYON running an analysis on every report on a suspected traitor being killed within the last five years. It's the best lead we've got, but so far, nothing's jumping out."
I nod, processing her words. The gears in my mind are turning, piecing together fragments of information and scenarios. Whoever this guy is, he's running from someone with deep connections. The fact that he knew how to find Karai means he's resourceful but also desperate. People don't call out of the blue like that unless they've exhausted every other option. Desperation makes people reckless, but it also makes them dangerous. The room feels heavy with the weight of what we don't know. It's the not knowing that gets to me—the pieces are there, but they haven't clicked together yet. I'm about to suggest reaching out to one of our more discreet contacts when a soft ping echoes through the room. EPYON's voice follows a second later, calm and efficient as always. "I have flagged a potential match," EPYON announces, the smooth, modulated voice cutting through the tension, "David Linus Lieberman. Formerly a high-ranking IT security analyst for several government agencies. Declared a traitor and killed by Homeland Security two years ago." I sit up straighter, the name ringing a distant bell. "Lieberman…," I mutter, my mind racing as I try to recall the details, "I remember that case." I glance at Karai, whose eyes have narrowed in thought. "Wasn't there controversy around his death?" I continue, piecing it together, "They said he leaked classified information, but there were rumors that the evidence against him was shaky at best. No trial, no real investigation—just a quick execution by Homeland Security."
Karai nods, her arms crossed, her brow furrowed in thought, "Yeah. He went dark before they could bring him in, but they found him a few months later in some safe house. The official story was that he resisted arrest, and Homeland Security had no choice but to eliminate him." She pauses, her voice trailing off for a second, a flicker of doubt crossing her face, "But the man survived his brush with death. Lucky." I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of this new revelation settle over me. The pieces are starting to fall into place, but none of them bring any sense of comfort. "Yeah, lucky," I mutter, though the word feels bitter, "Lucky enough to spend the rest of his life on the run and being hunted. The man left a family behind, didn't he? A wife and three children." The memory resurfaces like a cold gust of wind, the kind that cuts through you no matter how thick your skin is. I remember reading the report—about how his family was left shattered by the accusations, how his wife had gone into hiding with the kids shortly after his supposed death. They'd all but disappeared from the grid.
Putting that topic aside for now, I shift back to the main focus of the conversation. "Who was the lead agent on the Lieberman case?" I ask, my voice calm but my thoughts already running ahead, piecing together potential scenarios. Karai's fingers fly across her holo-computer, the faint glow of the display reflecting off her face as she works. After a few moments, she looks up, her expression set. "Agent Carson Wolf," she says, her tone carrying a hint of something I can't quite place—frustration, maybe? Or is it just the weight of this whole mess? I lean back, the name unfamiliar but already raising flags in my mind. "What do we know about him?" I ask, my arms crossing over my chest as I watch her. Karai doesn't miss a beat, pulling up more files, her eyes scanning through data faster than most people can think. "Not a lot," she starts, her voice steady, but I can hear the edge creeping in, "But he's some big shot in Homeland Security. The reports show he's the agent who supposedly 'killed' David Linus Lieberman. After that, his career took off like a rocket. He's now the commander of the New York branch of Homeland Security." I let out a low hum, more in thought than response. The pieces are starting to fall into place, but they're not forming a pretty picture. "Think he's dirty?" I ask, though I'm already feeling that familiar pull in my gut, the one that tells me we're walking into something murkier than it appears. I've seen agents like Wolf before—ambitious, willing to do whatever it takes to climb the ladder, even if it means stepping on a few people on the way up.
Karai pauses for a moment, her fingers hovering above the keyboard as she processes the question. Her eyes meet mine, sharp and thoughtful. "Too early to say for sure," she finally admits, her voice steady but carrying that trademark skepticism that I've come to trust, "But I'm suspicious of him. This whole situation reeks. I don't believe in coincidences, and this is a lot of coincidence." I nod, agreeing with her assessment. I've never been a big believer in coincidences, either. Not in this line of work. When things line up this neatly, it usually means someone's pulling the strings from behind the scenes. "Yeah, too much of a coincidence for my taste, too," I mutter, my mind already working through the angles. If Wolf was the one who 'killed' Lieberman, then he's either a pawn in something bigger, or he's at the center of it all, covering his tracks. The fact that his career skyrocketed after Lieberman's supposed death doesn't sit right with me. I've seen people make their name off one big case before, but this is too clean and too convenient. If Lieberman was set up, then Wolf might've known more than he let on. Maybe he's the one who orchestrated the whole thing, or he's just another piece on the board.
I glance over at Karai again, watching as she digs deeper into Wolf's file. She's good at this—digging, uncovering things most people miss. I trust her instincts, and right now, her gut's telling her that there's something off about this whole situation. "If Wolf's dirty, we need to be careful. He's got the weight of Homeland Security behind him. That's not an agency that lets its people get exposed easily," I say, my voice low as the gravity of the situation starts to settle in. Homeland Security is a behemoth, and going up against one of their own—especially a high-ranking agent like Wolf—isn't going to be easy. Karai looks up at me, her expression serious. "I know. But if Wolf had a hand in framing Lieberman, we can't just let that slide. We need to dig deeper. Find out who else might be involved, and more importantly, figure out why," she says, her eyes burning with that fierce determination. When Karai sets her mind to something, she doesn't back down. I give a slow nod, mulling over the next move. This whole thing is starting to feel like a game of chess, and I'm not sure who's playing the other side yet. But one thing's for sure—we're not going to let this go without getting to the bottom of it.
[Karai POV]
[Lieberman's Resident, New York City]
I stroll the streets of Queens, blending into the crowd, keeping my pace casual as I move through the neighborhood. EPYON managed to pinpoint the whereabouts of Lieberman's family, and now, I'm following the lead, trying to stay under the radar. I know better than to charge in recklessly, especially if they're being watched. This entire situation could blow up if I'm not careful. The trick is to play it smart, play it cool, just another face in the city. As I walk down the sidewalk, the familiar hum of the city surrounding me, I catch sight of the car we flagged earlier—Lieberman's wife's vehicle, a modest sedan that's a bit beat up but still holding on. It's driving slowly down the street, weaving through the residential area as if she's been doing this same route for years. I clock the plate—yep, that's the one. My heart rate picks up, but I keep my body language relaxed, casually looking at my phone as if I'm just some passerby with no particular place to be. The last thing I need is to spook her or any potential eyes on her. As the car pulls into the driveway of a small, unassuming house that blends in with the rest of the block, I make my move. My feet move before my mind fully catches up—years of instinct kicking in. I dash forward, timing it just right, and jump onto the hood of the car as it slows to a stop, letting my body collapse like a ragdoll as if I've been hit.
The impact isn't bad—I've taken worse falls—but I wince theatrically, making sure to sell the performance. To make it more convincing, I reach up to my eyebrow and, with a quick flick of my hidden blade, cut the skin just enough to draw blood. Warmth trickles down the side of my face, dripping onto the windshield as I lie there, feigning injury. The crimson streak contrasts sharply against the pale skin of my forehead, and the sight of it alone should be enough to get the reaction I need. It's all part of the show, and right now, I need to play this part perfectly. I hear the car door slam and the hurried footsteps of Lieberman's wife as she rushes out in a panic. "Oh my God, are you okay? I didn't see you—I'm so sorry!" Her voice is frantic, trembling with fear and guilt as she runs up to me, her face pale and wide-eyed. She's buying it. Good. I groan softly as if trying to collect myself and sit up slowly, placing a hand over my cut eyebrow, allowing the blood to smear between my fingers. "I'm fine, I think... I just—" I stammer, keeping my voice shaky and weak, as though I'm still in shock. Her hands hover near me, unsure whether to touch or help, her maternal instincts clearly kicking in despite her panic.
"You... you're bleeding," she says, her voice a mix of horror and worry, "Please, let me take you inside. I can get you cleaned up, maybe call someone." I keep my breathing shallow, playing up the dazed act, and offer her a weak smile. "It's okay, I don't think it's that bad," I say, trying to sound reassuring, "Just a little blood, nothing serious." But she's already pulling me to my feet, insisting that I come inside, and honestly, it's exactly what I need. This gets me past the front door without raising suspicion, and hopefully, it will give me the chance to talk to her without alerting anyone else. I can feel her grip tightening around my arm as she helps me to the front steps of the house.
The door to the house creaks open, and she ushers me inside, still apologizing as if her life depends on it. "Let me grab the first-aid kit," she mutters, rushing off into another room. I take a moment to look around, noting the modest furnishings, the family pictures on the walls—her, Lieberman, the kids. The house is quiet. Not in a bad way, but in that way that tells me this family has been living on the edge for a long time, like they're used to the tension. She comes back with the kit, her hands shaking as she kneels in front of me and dabs at the cut on my eyebrow. I watch her face closely, reading every line of stress etched into her features.
I have to tread carefully here. One wrong word, and she might shut down or, worse—panic and bolt. So, I let her play the caretaker for a moment, allowing her to feel like she's in control. I stay still, letting her fuss over the cut she's tending to, dabbing at it with a damp cloth from the first-aid kit. Her hands are shaking, though she tries to hide it. I don't push, don't ask her anything just yet. She needs this moment, and frankly, so do I. It gives me time to assess the situation, read the room. The quiet tension in the house is palpable—there's a fragility here like one wrong move could shatter whatever delicate balance this family has managed to maintain since Lieberman's death. I keep my expression neutral, offering the occasional weak smile or murmured reassurance, but my mind is already working through a dozen possibilities. There's a high chance Lieberman didn't make contact with his family after he supposedly died—if he's smart, and I'm betting he is, he would've stayed away to keep them safe. People like him, people on the run, they don't just disappear without leaving a mark. And as much as I want to dig deeper, I can't risk tipping her off, especially if she has no idea her husband is still alive. She truly believes he's dead, and that's a truth I have to navigate carefully. Plus, there's something else gnawing at me. The hidden cameras. I spotted one almost immediately when I walked in—tiny, discreet, but there, tucked into the corner near the front window, blending into the shadows. The kind of thing most people wouldn't notice unless they were looking for it. I caught a glimpse of another in the hallway, angled just right to watch the front door. Whoever set them up knew what they were doing. My gut tells me Lieberman put them there himself, maybe before his 'death,' to keep an eye on his family from afar. I make a mental note not to give them too much attention, not to let on that I've seen them. Hidden cameras mean someone's watching, and right now, I don't know if that someone is Lieberman himself or someone else entirely. Either way, it makes things more complicated. If Lieberman is watching, he might be doing it to protect his family. But if someone else has access to those feeds, it could mean they've been compromised.
EPYON pings in my ear, subtle enough that she can't hear it but clear to me. "I've tracked the Wi-Fi signal from the hidden cameras," EPYON informs me smoothly, "It leads back to an encrypted network in an undisclosed location within a five-mile radius." I file that information away for later. Right now, I need to keep my focus on Lieberman's wife, steering the conversation slowly and cautiously but without revealing too much. I can't mention her husband—not yet. The shock alone could send her spiraling, and that's the last thing I need. Instead, I start with the small stuff, things that might seem innocent on the surface but will help me piece together the bigger picture. "Thank you," I murmur, gently touching the bandage she's placed over my eyebrow, still playing up the injury as I sit back on the couch, "I guess I wasn't paying attention to where I was going," I chuckle softly, trying to keep my tone light like this is just an unfortunate accident rather than a calculated infiltration. She relaxes a little, though the tension in her shoulders doesn't fully fade.
"It's no problem," she replies, her voice still tight, but she's calming down, her hands finally steadying as she packs up the first-aid kit, "I'm just glad you're not hurt too badly." I nod, keeping the conversation casual. "It's been a weird day," I say, glancing around the room again, my eyes subtly flicking to the photos on the walls—her, the kids, and Lieberman. There's a sadness there, a weight that hasn't lifted since his death. I tread lightly, avoiding any mention of him directly. "You've got a beautiful home," I comment, drawing her attention away from her worries for just a moment, "It must be a nice place for the kids to grow up." She smiles, though it's a weak one. "Yeah, it's... it's home," she says softly, her voice tinged with melancholy, "We've tried to keep things as normal as possible." Her gaze flickers to the family photos, lingering on the ones with Lieberman. She doesn't say his name, but the grief in her eyes is unmistakable. She thinks he's gone for good, and every day, she has to pretend everything's fine for the sake of her children. I keep quiet, not wanting to break the fragile peace I've managed to create. But in the back of my mind, I'm already planning the next steps. EPYON's tracking signal is a crucial lead, but I'll need more information before I can make my move. For now, I focus on keeping her calm, playing the part of a grateful stranger who just happened to stumble into her life. The cameras are still watching, and so is whoever's behind them.
"I won't take up too much of your time," I say gently, starting to ease my way out of the conversation, "Thank you again for helping me. You've been really kind." I stand, wincing slightly to keep up the act, but I can see she's already softened toward me, her maternal instincts overriding the tension from earlier. "It's no problem at all," she repeats, her voice a little stronger now, "I'm just glad you're okay." As I make my way to the door, I cast one final glance at the hidden cameras, careful not to give anything away. Whoever's watching will know soon enough that I'm not just another bystander, but by the time they figure that out, I'll already be one step ahead. I step out into the crisp air of Queens, my mind buzzing with the possibilities. Lieberman's family has no idea what's really going on, and that's exactly how I need to keep it for now. But with the hidden cameras, the encrypted signal, and the pieces slowly coming together, it's clear this situation is bigger than just one man on the run.
[Spartan POV]
[New York City]
[Rooftop.] While Karai chases down her lead, I decide to go after Agent Carson Wolf, the man at the center of all this. The first red flag pops up as soon as I scope out his living situation. I'm perched on a rooftop across the street from his high-end apartment, using the binocular function in my visor to scan the area. Calling this place an apartment feels like an insult to the word. It's more like a penthouse, the kind of luxury living that screams money and power. I can see the sleek, modern design of the building, all clean lines and glass, with a rooftop pool and private balconies. It's the kind of place most people in New York only dream of, tucked away in one of the most expensive parts of the city. Homeland Security makes a decent amount of money, sure. But not enough to afford a place like this. Especially not on a government salary. Wolf may be good at his job—or at least, that's what his file says—but even the best agent wouldn't be living in a borderline mansion on Homeland Security paychecks alone. Something about this stinks, and it's not just the price tag on his penthouse. People don't live this well unless they've got something going on under the table. I've seen it before—officials who look clean on the surface but have dirty hands buried deep in something corrupt. I adjust the zoom on my visor, focusing on the windows of his apartment. The curtains are drawn, but I can make out the faint glow of lights inside. Wolf's home, which makes this a perfect time for surveillance. I'm not here to make contact, not yet. First, I need to know what kind of man we're really dealing with. I scan the building's perimeter, noticing the high level of security in place. Not just the standard alarms and cameras, either. There's something more here—subtle but enough to catch my eye. Hidden sensors, the kind that alerts you if someone even breathes too close to the wrong window. Wolf's got more than the usual government-issued security. That's another red flag. A man with this much protection either has a lot to hide or a lot of enemies. Maybe both.
I shift my position, crouching low on the rooftop, keeping myself hidden in the shadows. From up here, I can see the entire street below, watch the comings and goings of anyone around the building. The neighborhood is quiet, upscale, the kind of place where people mind their own business. I wonder how many of Wolf's neighbors know what he really does or if they care. People like this don't ask too many questions. They're content to live their comfortable lives, blissfully unaware of the dirt that's piling up around them. But I'm not here to judge the neighborhood. My focus is on Wolf and the life he's living. The more I watch, the more convinced I am that this guy is dirty. No one climbs the ranks as fast as he did without cutting a few corners, and this lavish apartment is proof of that. I make a mental note of everything—security measures, layout, even the routine of the doorman who comes out every few minutes to take a smoke break. I'll need all of it when I decide to make my move. EPYON pings in my ear, a soft alert to let me know it's found something. "Cross-referencing Agent Wolf's known income with his current living expenses," EPYON's voice is calm, as always, "Preliminary analysis shows a significant discrepancy. Estimated cost of living exceeds known salary by 200%." I smirk under my helmet. That's all I need to hear. Wolf's living beyond his means, which means he's getting money from somewhere else. And if he's dirty, that money's not coming from anything legal. "Keep digging," I murmur, my voice barely audible even to myself. EPYON doesn't need much to go on—it'll pull every record, every transaction, and if there's a trail, it'll find it.