Chapter 177 Infiltrating The Police Station

Liam’s playful expression vanished.

His jaw tightened. He leaned forward and placed a firm hand on Vanessa’s shoulder.

"Vanessa," he said, tone low and serious. "Where is Sam?"

She didn’t speak for a moment. Her eyes flicked away from his, then slowly returned.

She let out a sigh. "What we’re doing here is just a façade," she muttered. "A setup... to catch the Nightcrawler. Sam isn’t here."

Liam’s brows twitched.

Vanessa continued. "They’re keeping him at the police station. Under heavy protection."

Liam’s lips curved into a slow, wicked grin. Like a hunter that had just found the trail.

She didn’t say anything else.

He was already opening the door, ready to slip into the shadows again.

"Be careful," she said quietly.

He paused for a second, blinked at her once—silent acknowledgment—then disappeared without a word.

Like smoke in the wind.

He moved fast, sliding through alleyways, jumping fences with feline ease. Within minutes, he was back on the rooftop where his gear was stashed. The sniper rifle and binoculars were packed in seconds. He slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, his body moving with an economy of motion—sharp, practiced, dangerous.

He dropped from the rooftop like it was nothing, landing without a sound. He moved to the car he borrowed and threw everything in, shutting the trunk gently before slipping into the driver’s seat.

It was nearly 2 a.m.

He had less than an hour to finish this.

His fingers tapped the wheel, his foot hit the gas, and he tore down the road.

No hesitation.

The police station loomed ahead not long after. It stood quieter than it would during the day, only a few lights glowing through the windows. Inside, Liam could already picture the tired faces, the shuffling of paperwork, the night officers half-asleep behind desks.

But he wasn’t stupid enough to walk in through the front door.

That would’ve been suicide.

He grabbed a pistol, checked the clip—loaded. Then he tucked a sharp combat knife into his belt, adjusting his jacket to hide both weapons.

Then he stepped out of the car, moving low around the back of the station.

Time to kill the lights.

He reached the electrical panel behind the building, tucked behind a line of garbage bins and crates, mostly forgotten and unguarded. Typical.

His fingers worked fast, twisting wires, bypassing circuits. There was a small electric spark, a sizzle—and then everything went black.

Inside the station, chaos erupted.

The humming of lights died instantly, replaced with startled voices, the scraping of chairs, the clatter of dropped pens and cups. Phones blinked out. Computer monitors shut down. Darkness swallowed the building.

Then came the sound of drawers opening—guns being pulled out.

"Everyone get ready!" a voice shouted. "Check the perimeter!"

Flashlights flickered on, cutting through the dark with narrow beams.

Another officer’s voice rang out, tense and uncertain. "Could be a blackout..."

"No way in hell," someone else replied. "The block still has power. Look outside."

Across the street, lights were still shining from homes and shops. Headlights glowed from passing cars.

This wasn’t a natural outage.

The silence grew thicker.

Tension pressed against the walls of the station like a storm was coming.

This wasn’t a power failure. This was sabotage.

And they all knew it.

The officers spread out, flashlights and guns in hand, footsteps echoing in the darkened hallways. The few who had been sleeping were now wide awake, confusion and fear etched across their faces.

Someone had come for Sam.

A cool breeze slipped through the air.

The officers froze.

One of them, a tall man with a square jaw, swept his flashlight toward the lobby—and his beam landed on the front door.

It was wide open.

But there was no one there.

No footsteps. No sound. Just the whisper of cold wind curling into the station.

"The door," one of them muttered.

"He’s in."

The whole mood shifted instantly.

From alert to survival.

Every man and woman on shift tensed up, adrenaline cutting through their sleepiness like a blade. They knew what this was. The moment they’d feared since the order came down to house Sam here.

"Lock down the building. No one gets in, no one gets out," one officer barked.

"And two of you—" he pointed to a pair of younger cops standing nearby—"go check on Sam. Guard the room. No one else goes in or out."

The two men nodded sharply and rushed deeper into the precinct, their boots echoing down the hallway. They carried flashlights and sidearms, hands shaking just a little more than they’d like to admit.

But what they didn’t see...

Was the shadow behind them.

A figure, cloaked in darkness, silent and fluid like water, moved just beyond the range of their flashlights. Stalking them with surgical precision. Never rushing, never hesitating.

The two officers finally reached the reinforced room where Sam was being kept.

One of them tapped on the door with the butt of his flashlight before opening it slowly.

Inside, Sam was already pacing.

He looked like a wreck.

The moment the lights had gone out, he knew.

Something bad was coming.

When the officers stepped in, he spun around, face pale, sweat dripping down his temple. "What the hell is going on?" he stammered. "Is it him? Is the Nightcrawler here?!"

The two men exchanged a glance.

"We’re not sure," one of them said quickly. "Just calm down—"

"CALM DOWN?!" Sam shouted, voice cracking. "I’m not calming down, man! I’m dead! I fucking knew this was gonna happen!"

"Listen," the other officer said, trying to keep his voice steady. "We’ve already called for backup. We’ve got men posted all over the place. You’re not alone."

But Sam wasn’t hearing it.

His breathing was erratic, shallow, his pupils dilated. He backed against the wall like a cornered animal, shaking uncontrollably.

He could feel it.

The chill in the air wasn’t from the busted power lines.

It was death. Creeping closer. Step by step.

"Please, man..." he muttered, voice dropping. "Don’t let me die here..."

The officers were about to respond—when something shifted.

It was subtle.

A faint breeze. A sound like a whisper.

Then—WHAM.

Something cracked against the top of the first officer’s head. His flashlight dropped. His knees buckled.

Eyes rolled back.

Before the second one could even turn, another brutal hit landed. A dull thud echoed in the room as he crumpled like dead weight.

Both unconscious before they could even scream.

Sam gasped.

He stumbled back into the wall, knocking over a chair in panic.

A figure stepped into the flickering glow of the emergency lights.

Dressed in all black, face hidden behind a tight mask.

Eyes sharp. Cold. Inhuman.

"Wh-who are you?" Sam choked out, barely able to speak. "What do you want?"

The man tilted his head.

And then the voice came—altered, deeper, laced with venom.

"Your worst nightmare."

Before Sam could move, speak, scream—

One fluid motion.

The blade flashed through the dim light.

A single, clean slash.

Straight across the throat.

Sam gasped—no sound came. Just a bubbling gargle as blood spilled from his neck. He clutched his throat in a panic, eyes bulging, body jerking violently.

Then he dropped.

Dead before he hit the ground.