The street outside the East District Police Station had turned into a dead zone.
What had once been crowded with traffic and noise was now eerily silent, littered with abandoned food, scattered packages, and overturned carts. Police cruisers burned along the curb, flames licking into the air as thick smoke coiled upward, staining the sky in dark streaks.
Not a single civilian remained.
Everyone had fled.
No one stayed to help.
Bang!
A sharp crack split the air as a bullet tore through shattered glass and slammed into a nearby power pole. Sparks jumped briefly before fading, leaving behind only the echo of gunfire and the smell of scorched metal.
Locke came to a sudden stop beside the pole, his gaze sweeping upward toward a nearby high-rise. Several cameras were pointed in this direction, their lenses quietly capturing everything unfolding below.
He ignored them completely.
In the next instant, his body blurred forward.
He surged toward the police station, but just as quickly, his movement shifted. A storm of bullets exploded toward the entrance, forcing him to veer off mid-charge. Glass fragments burst outward as rounds shredded what remained of the front doors.
Without slowing, Locke changed direction.
He shot upward.
With explosive speed, he scaled the exterior and vaulted into the second floor, his figure cutting through the chaos like a streak of black lightning.
The moment his feet touched the floor—
A fist came at him.
Fast. Heavy. Precise.
The blow slammed into his chest with enough force to knock a normal man flying down the stairs. But Locke didn't budge. His body absorbed the impact, his expression unchanged as his own fist snapped forward in response.
The counterattack was instantaneous.
The attacker was sent flying backward, his body crashing violently across the floor.
Locke stepped forward, calm and controlled, his eyes locking onto the three figures standing ahead.
All of them wore brown bear masks.
"Late to the party?" one of them said, his voice deep and mocking.
As his words fell, gunfire erupted again from downstairs, the constant thunder of resistance reminding everyone that the fight wasn't over yet.
The three men exchanged glances.
Then they moved.
Their coordination was tight, their movements sharp and practiced. Heavy fists cut through the air from multiple angles, each strike aimed to overwhelm, to trap, to crush.
They weren't amateurs.
Each one carried the presence of a seasoned underground fighter, their strength and technique honed through real combat. Their teamwork was seamless, covering each other's openings, closing gaps before they even formed.
But against Locke—
It didn't matter.
He moved like a ghost among them.
Their attacks passed through empty space, striking nothing but air as he slipped between them with effortless precision. Every dodge was minimal, efficient, almost lazy in its execution.
Then he struck.
His fist blurred.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three rapid impacts landed almost simultaneously.
One of them dropped instantly, his body collapsing as blood burst from his nose. His head snapped sideways, consciousness gone before he even hit the ground.
The other two barely managed to react.
They raised their arms, bracing for impact as Locke's next punch came in fast and brutal. Their muscles tensed, their bodies preparing to absorb the force.
But Locke shifted mid-motion.
His left arm snapped upward from below.
A clean uppercut.
The blow detonated upward into the man's jaw, lifting his entire body off the ground. His scream tore through the air as blood sprayed from his mouth, his massive frame sent flying like it weighed nothing.
Locke didn't even look at him again.
He pivoted.
His leg came up in a sharp, brutal arc.
The final man took the kick directly to the abdomen.
Puff!
Blood exploded from his mouth as his body folded and slammed into the floor. Before he could even attempt to recover, Locke was already beside him.
A flicker of motion.
The pistol the man had tried to draw was kicked away instantly.
Then—
A second kick.
Clean. Direct. Final.
The man's neck snapped sideways, his body going limp without a sound.
Silence returned to the second floor.
Three bodies lay still.
Locke exhaled slowly, reaching up to wipe a smear of blood from his mask. His eyes moved quickly, scanning the area before locking onto the stairwell nearby.
The answer was obvious.
The bodies of fallen officers lay scattered along the steps, their blood staining the path upward.
This was how they had come in.
Down below—
George dragged a fallen teammate closer, his hands steady despite the chaos. He pulled spare magazines from the body, efficiently reloading his pistol with practiced precision.
Beside him, the older detective and the black officer continued firing in bursts, leaning out from cover just long enough to return fire before ducking back again.
The Mask Club had already pushed deep into the lobby.
The golden monkey mask stood at the center of it all.
Every swing of his fists crushed bone. Several officers had already fallen to him, their skulls shattered in brutal displays of strength. Blood spread across the floor in thick, dark pools, turning the entire space into something closer to a slaughterhouse.
Gunfire echoed constantly.
Then—
Something changed.
Near the shattered entrance, a sudden burst of gunfire rang out again. George leaned out just in time to catch it.
An afterimage.
It flashed across the doorway too fast to track clearly.
His eyes widened slightly.
Outside, the masked attackers guarding the entrance opened fire, their bullets tearing apart what little remained of the front doors.
"My God—are these guys insane?" the black officer shouted, panic creeping into his voice.
He stared toward the entrance, confused.
There was no one there.
At least—no one visible.
Inside, the golden monkey mask paused mid-kill.
His instincts screamed.
He moved instantly, dropping behind a nearby desk, his body lowering into cover as his hand lifted in a sharp signal.
Three figures stepped forward from the entrance.
Pig mask.
Chicken mask.
Bird mask.
They scanned the outside cautiously, weapons raised, eyes searching.
For a moment—
The gunfire stopped.
The entire station fell into a strange, fragile silence.
Both sides froze.
Then the three men outside signaled back.
Nothing.
No threat.
The golden monkey mask's lips curled upward beneath his mask, the expression exaggerated, almost grotesque.
Then—
"Finish them."
Gunfire exploded again.
The fragile silence shattered as bullets tore across the hall. The attackers surged forward, pressing their advantage with ruthless aggression.
Despair settled over the remaining officers like a suffocating weight.
One fell.
Then another.
It spread rapidly.
Each exposed movement became a death sentence. Heads snapped back under gunfire, bodies collapsing before they could even cry out.
George reacted instantly.
He grabbed the black officer just as the man leaned out to fire, yanking him back behind cover.
A bullet ripped through the edge of the desk a fraction of a second later, slamming into the wall behind them.
"Thanks… Boss George…" the officer stammered, his face pale with fear.
George didn't respond.
The screams continued.
Then suddenly—
Silence again.
The golden monkey mask stepped forward, raising a loudspeaker.
"This is what happens when you provoke the Mask Club!" His voice echoed through the entire station, amplified further by speakers outside. "Remember it well! This city will belong to us soon. Black Mask will rule everything!"
The message wasn't just for the police.
It was for everyone listening.
The masked men began to advance again, tightening the circle around the last remaining officers. Their footsteps were slow, deliberate, each step carrying the weight of inevitability.
Closer.
Closer.
George tightened his grip on the grenade in his hand.
He glanced at the other two.
No words were needed.
They understood.
Just as the masked men closed in—
Bang!
A heavy impact echoed through the hall.
"AHHH!"
A scream followed immediately.
Then chaos returned.
Gunfire erupted from a new direction, bullets tearing through the attackers as confusion spread instantly.
A blur moved through the battlefield.
Locke.
His body flickered like a phantom, weaving through the storm of bullets with impossible precision. Every shot missed him by inches as he closed the distance in an instant.
He grabbed the nearest masked man by the collar.
Then threw him.
The body flew straight into the densest cluster of attackers.
Bullets tore into him mid-air, shredding him into a blood-soaked mess before he even hit the ground. His corpse slammed into four others, knocking them off balance.
They didn't get a chance to recover.
Locke was already there.
Four punches.
Fast as lightning.
Each one slammed directly into a heart.
....
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