When he finally reached his apartment, John staggered through the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. The adrenaline was fading, but the mission wasn't over. He immediately began his next "performance."
He moved with the labored, heavy steps of a man on the verge of death. Reaching for the first aid kit with trembling hands, he began to clumsily treat the "bullet wounds" his own IBM had inflicted. He cleaned the grazing shots and bound his shoulder in gauze, ensuring the scene looked like a desperate struggle for survival.
Finally, to complete the narrative for anyone who might come knocking, John allowed himself to "pass out" on the floor, the bloodied package of his mentor's head resting just inches from his hand.
Though the "fainting" was a tactical choice, John's body truly craved the rest. He needed those few minutes of darkness to clear the mental fog of death and regeneration. He had just drifted into a shallow, alert sleep when the soft click of the door lock echoing through the apartment pulled him back to reality.
John didn't flinch. He stayed limp, keeping his breathing ragged and shallow.
The Ninja hobbled into the room, his broken foot dragging painfully across the floor. He scanned the scene with wide, panicked eyes, the blood-stained floor, the scattered first aid supplies, and John's battered, unconscious form. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat on the bloody package near John's hand, but he didn't reach for it. He had seen enough. He had confirmed the one thing his life depended on, John was home, and he looked like a man who had barely survived a war.
A heavy, audible sigh of relief escaped the Ninja's lips.
As the intruder began a slow, awkward retreat, John shifted his weight slightly, a low groan escaping his throat. The sound acted like a whip, the Ninja's movements turned frantic as he scrambled to exit before the "wounded" boy could wake and identify him.
Ever the perfectionist, John kept the act alive even after the door clicked shut. He knew he was never truly alone in this world of observers and assassins. He forced himself to sit up, blinking blurrily as if disoriented, his eyes searching the shadows of the room for a threat that had already vanished. Only after "failing" to find anything did he allow his head to lay back against the wall, "passing out" once more into a much-needed, genuine sleep.
For the next six days, John settled into a repetitive rhythm. He remained confined to his room, allowing the healing process to take its course, but he was far from isolated. He had no physical need to leave, his IBM ghost served as his eyes and ears, prowling the streets and feeding him every detail he required.
His mind, at the same time was elsewhere. He was fixated on two problems, the League and the severed head of his mentor.
Communication was the primary hurdle. He had no direct line to the League, to tell them of his current situation and for his possible retrieval.
The only way now was to force their hand by shattering the very protocol they had imposed on him. He realized that as long as he played the role of the obedient student, he was stuck. He had to be seen.
The plan was simple, step out of the shadows, and wait for them to approach him. Once they initiated contact, he could pivot and handle whatever followed.
But for now, he forced himself to stay still. He spent the remaining hours scanning his memories and his ghost's footage, looking for gaps, any stray footprint or digital breadcrumb that could be tracked back to him and used against him.
The only lingering loose end was Elara. He considered her for a moment, weighing his options, but the only permanent way to "deal" with her was a path he wasn't willing to take. He wasn't fond of the idea of killing her, he hoped that by maintaining his distance, time would do the work for him and she would eventually move on.
"Hopefully, she does," John muttered to himself.
Through the eyes of his IBM, he had been watching her from the shadows. Her mental state was deteriorating, she was frantic, scouring the city and looking everywhere for a trace of him. She wasn't the only one hunting, either. The government's search was heavy. It felt like a minor miracle that his face hadn't plastered every news cycle yet, but he knew the league has to be responsible for that.
A full week passed. His bullet wounds had closed enough to be manageable, leaving behind partially healed scars. John took a long, final look at the apartment, the small space he had occupied for months. In this strange, cold world, this was the closest thing he has had to a home.
He found some extra cloth and began wrapping his mentor's head, which was beginning to give off a faint, grim odour. With the bundle secured and his resolve set, John stepped out of the doorway.
For the first time in months, he felt the heat of the sun on his face as he walked out into the city.
John pulled his hood low, the fabric casting a shadow that perfectly obscured his features. With his mentor's head resting in a heavy, cloth-wrapped bundle at his side, he found a nearby bench and sat. He looked like someone waiting for a ride.
High above, the ninja who had under the week resumed his post as the observer. He watched as John stepped into the sunlight, defying the strict schedule he'd been given. Without hesitation, the observer made a call. It was brief, a few coded words before the ninja glanced down at John one last time, shook his head in a silent gesture of admiration.
John remained still, his eyes scanning the crowd. He watched the faces of the passer-by until his gaze locked onto a figure standing a short distance away. The stranger didn't look away, instead, he tipped the brim of his cap in a deliberate greeting.
Recognizing the signal, John stood up, gripped the wrapped package firmly, and began to close the distance. The figure turned and began to walk. His pace was neither fast to be a chase nor slow enough to be an accident. It was a clear invitation.
As the man turned a sharp corner into an alleyway, John quickened his step, every nerve on edge. He rounded the bend, hand hovering near his side, only to find the path blocked by a sleek, black-tinted limousine. The door was already standing open, waiting for him.
John hesitated for a heartbeat, his hand gripping the doorframe, before sliding into the plush interior. The door clicked shut with a heavy, pressurized thud, sealing out the noise of the city.
Without a word, the glass partition between the passenger and the driver slid down. A ninja sat in the driver's seat, eyes fixed forward, his gloved finger pressing a button on the console. A moment later, a voice crackled through the car's high-end audio system, a voice John knew all too well. It was Master Torren.
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