Silence fell like a hammer.
Every pair of eyes locked onto Locke as he stood before the four criminals, their bodies still upright for a fraction of a second longer than they should have been. The black robe on his shoulders fluttered slightly, and his fists moved so fast they blurred into streaks of shadow.
Then he stopped.
He straightened, fists lowering, and turned his head slowly to look at everyone watching—police and criminals alike.
Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.
Four bodies hit the ground in sequence.
The sound shattered the frozen atmosphere.
"Fuck!"
The closest criminal was the first to snap out of it. His finger slammed the trigger, and his weapon roared to life, muzzle flashes bursting wildly as he unloaded everything toward Locke's position.
But he hit nothing.
An afterimage flickered.
Locke appeared at his side.
One punch.
It slammed into the man's waist, folding his body as blood sprayed violently from his mouth. The force lifted him clear off the ground, his limbs flailing as he was launched into the air.
Before he could fall—
A kick.
Lightning fast.
It struck his chest and sent his entire body hurtling forward like a missile, crashing into the stunned criminals behind him and knocking them off their feet.
"Oh my god…"
The black officer's voice trembled, his eyes wide with disbelief. Even George stood frozen for a moment, caught between shock and something dangerously close to awe.
At this point, no one was firing at the police anymore.
Every gun was trained on Locke.
From their perspective, everything had changed.
The arrogance and cruel laughter of the criminals had turned into frantic shouting. Bullets poured out wildly, yet they hit nothing but air. Locke's figure blurred across the battlefield, weaving between them with impossible speed.
Wherever he passed—
Bodies dropped.
Blood sprayed across already stained walls, thick and violent. Some were thrown through the air, crashing into desks and walls. Others crumpled where they stood, their chests caved in, their bones shattered.
It wasn't a fight.
It was a hunt.
One of the criminals was sent flying like a cannonball, slamming straight into the black officer. The man panicked, raising his gun instinctively, but George immediately forced it down, dragging him aside.
They both hit the ground hard.
The mask on the man's face shattered, revealing a burned, distorted expression beneath. His pupils were dilated, his breathing gone. The depression in his chest made it clear—his heart had been crushed.
The black officer sucked in a sharp breath.
Even under heavy gunfire, he hadn't felt fear like this.
Gradually, the gunfire weakened.
Then it stopped.
Locke stood in the center of the hall, surrounded by broken bodies. His gaze lifted, settling on the one man who hadn't moved.
The golden monkey mask.
Blood still stained the surface of the mask, but the man's posture remained steady. The corners of his mouth curved upward, as if none of this bothered him in the slightest.
"Judge, huh?" His voice carried a strange amusement. "With that kind of killing style, I'd say you're more brutal than any of us."
Locke tilted his head slightly, studying him. There was no tension in his stance, only quiet curiosity.
"Interested in joining the Mask Club?" the man continued, his tone almost inviting.
"Mask Club?" Locke asked calmly. "What's that supposed to be?"
Before the words even finished—
The man moved.
His body exploded upward, covering the distance in an instant. His fist came up in a brutal uppercut, aimed directly at Locke's jaw.
Boom!
"Watch out!"
A police officer shouted, but it was too late.
The punch connected.
Locke's body was sent flying upward.
The golden monkey mask grinned wildly, his eyes gleaming with excitement. He stepped forward immediately, his second punch driving straight toward Locke's chest.
Boom!
And stopped.
The smile froze.
The man's eyes widened.
Locke stood there, one hand raised, gripping his fist mid-strike.
"A little strength," Locke said quietly, his voice flat, almost bored. "Not enough."
The words echoed through the station.
Hope surged across the faces of the surviving officers.
Despair crept into the criminals.
Then Locke moved.
A kick.
Fast. Clean. Devastating.
It slammed into the man's abdomen, his expression twisting instantly. Unlike the others, he reacted—his hand dropped to block instinctively.
But it didn't matter.
The force crushed through his defense, driving his own arm into his stomach as his body was launched backward.
Locke didn't let him fall.
He appeared in front of him again.
Another kick.
Simple. Direct.
The man twisted mid-air, planting a foot against the ground and flipping away with exaggerated agility, barely escaping the full force of the blow.
Then it began.
Punch after punch.
Locke advanced relentlessly, his strikes coming one after another with no wasted movement. There was no technique, no flourish—just raw, overwhelming force.
The golden monkey mask dodged.
Barely.
His body bent and twisted like a spring, narrowly slipping past each attack. To an outside observer, it might have looked controlled, even impressive.
But inside—
He knew the truth.
He couldn't fight back.
He could only dodge.
"Interesting," Locke murmured, slowing slightly.
The moment the pressure eased, the man seized the opportunity. He stepped in, throwing a desperate punch toward Locke's face.
Locke's head tilted.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Then—
An uppercut.
Boom!
The impact was catastrophic.
Bone cracked audibly as the man's skull snapped back. Blood and broken teeth sprayed into the air, his vision going blank as the world tilted violently.
The difference was absolute.
The damage Locke dealt far surpassed anything the man had done earlier.
Before he could recover—
A kick.
It drove him straight into the ground.
Crack!
Tiles shattered beneath his body as he slammed down, the force spreading through the floor like a shockwave.
"Ugh—!"
Blood poured from his mouth as he struggled to breathe, fear finally surfacing in his eyes. He stared up at Locke, who now stood over him, one foot pressing down on his chest.
"You… fucking monster…"
Boom!
The floor collapsed further beneath him.
His chest sank inward, bones snapping under the pressure. The light in his eyes faded rapidly as his heartbeat stopped in an instant.
Silence.
True silence.
The entire police station fell still.
Everyone stared at the figure standing in the center of the hall, one foot resting on the corpse of the man who had led the assault.
The black robe stirred in the cold wind, the dark mask revealing nothing but a pair of deep, unreadable eyes.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The pressure alone was enough.
Thump.
A man wearing a fly mask dropped to his knees.
Fear consumed him completely.
He had never felt anything like this—not even when facing Batman. This wasn't justice, and it wasn't chaos.
It was something worse.
It was absolute.
Locke glanced briefly at the remaining criminals, all of them trembling, some already throwing down their weapons, others begging silently for their lives.
Then his gaze shifted.
Toward the police.
George slowly raised his head from behind cover, their eyes meeting.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then George understood.
"Move!"
His voice cut through the silence.
The remaining officers surged forward, adrenaline replacing fear as they rushed the surrendered criminals. One by one, they were dragged down, handcuffed, and secured without resistance.
Locke's eyes flicked toward the entrance.
Outside, a crowd had already gathered.
Reporters.
Civilians.
Cameras pointed inward.
Without hesitation, he moved.
His body blurred upward, rushing toward the second floor. A second later, he burst through the opening and leapt out into the open air.
Gasps erupted from outside.
He cleared the crowd in a single motion, his figure streaking across the street as he moved at full speed.
Within seconds—
He was gone.
Vanished into a narrow alley, swallowed by the city like he had never been there at all.
....
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