In the hospital room.
Just as the doctors predicted, the moment the massive dose of anesthesiaâenough to knock out ten grown menâwore off, Jeff Martin woke up, immediately gasping for air and hissing through his teeth.
Pain. Agony in every inch of his body.
But... Jeff stubbornly shook his head, refusing any further sedatives the doctors tried to administer.
"You have no idea," Jeff gasped, looking at his old friend George as he walked in. "What it feels like to be back in the world. I went to Hell, George. It felt... terrible."
He spoke of a sky raining ash and a breath filled with the thick stench of sulfur.
"Don't put me under again," Jeff insisted, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and newfound appreciation for life. "The pain makes me enjoy it. It lets me know I'm still alive."
George let out a dry chuckle. "Old friend, you're not a kid anymore. Let the youngsters try out that 'resurrection' stuff. We're past the stage of sampling new experiences. If you want to feel pain, go to a boxing gym. At your rate, people would pay a hundred bucks an hour to use a detective as a human punching bag."
Jeff gave a raspy, broken laugh, then winced, clutching his chest. "The person who shot me wasn't the Legendary Assassin. In fact... Peerless saved me."
He described his journey through the underworldâwalking on a road of magma toward a distant, grand palaceâwhen suddenly, he felt a rope snap around his waist. He was reeled back like a fish, the world blurring in reverse. When he regained consciousness, he was on an autopsy table, and a man in a suit and sunglasses was prying his jaw open to pour a strange liquid down his throat.
Jeff knew that liquid was the only reason he was breathing.
George nodded. "I know."
The notification card results were back from Forensics.
A cheap knockoff.
The real cards used by the Legendary Assassin were made of a material Forensics couldn't even identify, let alone match. The ones found with Jeff, while not exactly common paper, were easily traceable.
"Who was the shooter?"
"Sorry," Jeff shook his head. "He wore a mask. A lightning bolt pattern. I never got the chance to pull it off before... well, before I died."
Jeff felt weird saying that. He was alive, but he knew he had crossed the threshold once. He looked at George, then at Locke, who had entered with Gwen. "He was a junkie. Young. If he hadn't ambushed me from behind, he wouldn't have stood a chance. He might be someone we've busted before."
"Why do you say that?"
"He hated us. I mean, pure venom. Why else would he keep stabbing me even after I was down?"
Jeff's official cause of death was the gunshot. The stab wounds, he was certain, were delivered post-mortem. As for being a junkie? Any New York cop worth their badge can spot someone who's touched the stuff within forty-eight hours just by looking at their eyes.
"Wait," Jeff remembered something. "There was a homeless man in the alley. Did you find him?"
George frowned. "A homeless man? No."
"He was there," Jeff insisted. "If you find him, you'll find that son of a bitch."
George immediately called an officer over, directing the information to Kate and Jason, who were leading the manhunt.
Locke remained silent in the corner. He thought he had hit a dead end, but a new path had opened up.
A homeless man? That was Bowery King's territory.
In New York, fifty percent of the pigeons you see are the Bowery King's eyes. He was a major partner with the Continental and controlled the city's vast network of the displaced.
Just then, an officer hurried into the room, looking tense. "Captain, an officer has been shot on 5th Street in the Lower East Side. A notification card was left."
George froze. Locke mirrored Gwen's expression of disbelief.
...
*Wooo-wooo!*
A police cruiser and an Audi R8 sped toward 5th Street in tandem. The alleyway was already cordoned off with yellow tape.
George stepped out of the cruiser and intercepted Locke and Gwen before they could reach the tape. "I told you two to stay away!"
"Dad, it has to be another copycat!" Gwen cried.
Everything pointed to itâthe forensics, Jeff's statement. Even the Legendary Assassin had gone out of his way to save Jeff just to send a message: It wasn't me.
"This is a crime scene," George barked. "Until the evidence is in, we assume nothing. Now get back to the hospital and stay with your mother." He pointed at them and told the patrolman on duty, "Don't let these two inside."
Since Jeff's "death" the night before, the NYPD had cast a net so tight it was suffocating. They were going door-to-door, apartment-to-apartment. Complaints? Internal Affairs was looking the other way. When a cop gets gunned down, the rules for "polite policing" go out the window.
Mayor Castle had even held a midnight press conference, vowing the NYPD would catch the killer at any cost. But now, they were down another man.
Half an hour ago, a male officer searching for leads had gone radio silent. When backup found him, he was lying in a pool of blood.
Locke and Gwen watched from the perimeter. George was holding a notification card.
This time, it was handwritten.
'So, you weren't as prepared as you thought,' Locke thought with a cold smirk.
George signaled to Kate and Jason. The shooter hadn't come prepared for a second kill; he had likely been spotted by the officer and panicked.
Soon, an officer emerged from a nearby dumpster holding a wallet. Locke's eyes sharpened. He could see part of a photo inside. It was Jeff Martin's walletâfound two kilometers away from the original crime scene.
Gwen's phone started buzzing incessantly. "Locke, look at the school group chat."
Every student was buzzing with the news. 'The Legendary Assassin kills again.'
Not far from the tape, news reporters were already swarming. Some were already live on the scene, broadcasting the "Assassin's" latest victim to the city.
...
That evening, Locke returned from the Continental and flicked on the TV.
New York's Channel 1 was in the middle of a special report. A female reporter stood in front of the Lower East Side alley. The second officer had been rushed to the hospital, but his survival was in the hands of fate.
Locke sat on his sofa, his eyes narrowing into slits.
[Mission: "Someone is Impersonating My Face!"]
[Base Reward: 1,000 Achievement Points, 1,000 Potential Points]
[Mission Description: Can you endure this? I certainly can't. Go. Catch him. Show him the meaning of cruelty!]
[Bonus Description: The greater the public impact, the higher the bonus!]
"Heh."
Locke watched the internet frenzy on his laptop. He stood up slowly. "You want to use my identity to play? Fine. I'll play with you."
As he spoke, Locke stepped out of his physical body, donning his sunglasses and leaving the Star Tower.
...
New York Channel 1 Building.
Hot news is a carnival for the media. It means overtime, but it also means ratings.
Locke moved through the building, a ghost in the machine. He reached the broadcast studio, which was still buzzing with activity. Two security guards at the door saw himâa man in a sharp suit and sunglasses, with no ID badge.
"Hey, who areâ"
Locke's hand moved in a blur. The barrel of his golden "Peerless" handgun pressed against the guard's forehead. He looked at the other guard and smiled.
"Weren't you just reporting on me? Well, I'm here. Surprised?"