Chapter 4: Chapter 4

The balcony air was thick with the stench of gunpowder and the distant wail of sirens cutting through Manhattan’s restless night. Anatoly stood frozen, his heart pounding as he glanced at the thug beside him, clutching a bleeding ear and howling in pain. Blood trickled between the man’s fingers, staining his black mask a gruesome red. Anatoly’s breath hitched, his chest tight with the realization that if Vladimir hadn’t yanked him back from the railing, that bullet would’ve torn through his skull instead.

He clapped a shaky hand against his chest, his voice trembling with residual fear. “Brother, that bastard’s aim is too damn good. What the hell do we do now?”

Vladimir’s eyes narrowed, scanning the balcony with the cold precision of a predator. His gaze locked onto the rappelling rope, its thick, military-grade fibers secured to the railing, swaying slightly in the humid night breeze. A cruel smirk curled his lips, a mix of vindictive glee and calculated malice. “Shoot the rope,” He said, his voice low and venomous. “Let him fall thirty, forty meters. He’ll be a cripple for life—if he survives. We’ll drag his broken body to Kingpin and call it a day.”

“Brilliant!” Anatoly grinned, adrenaline surging as he drew his .45-caliber Colt M1911, its weight reassuring in his calloused grip. He aimed at the taut rope and fired twice, the gun’s recoil jarring his arm.

Bang! Bang!

The shots echoed, but the rope held, two gaping holes torn in its braided surface. Anatoly’s grin faltered, his brow furrowing in disbelief. “This damn thing’s tough as hell.”

“Military-grade,” Vladimir said, his tone clipped, eyes never leaving the rope. “Composite fibers, built for helicopter extractions. That bastard planned his escape like a pro.”

Anatoly’s sneer returned, colder now. “Well, let’s see how prepared he is when he’s splattered on the pavement.” He stepped forward, raising the pistol for another shot, his finger tightening on the trigger.

—

Bang! Bang!

The gunfire from the balcony above sent a jolt of dread through Jason’s core. His worst fear was unfolding—the rope was under attack. His gloved hands burned against the coarse fibers as he pushed his descent to a reckless speed, the city’s neon-lit chaos blurring below. The wind whipped at his balaclava, the distant shouts of onlookers and the screech of tires filling his ears.

’Faster, damn it, faster!’ His mind screamed, heart hammering like a war drum. Every second counted, every meter a gamble against death.

Bang! Bang!

Two more shots rang out, and the rope snapped with a sickening twang. Jason’s stomach lurched as he plummeted, his body weightless for a terrifying moment, the ground rushing up to meet him. He was fifteen meters up—too high to walk away unscathed, too low to deploy any tricks. A back-first fall would shatter his spine, condemning him to a hospital bed for life, if he even survived.

Instinct and years of brutal training kicked in. With no leverage in midair, he summoned every ounce of strength, his core muscles burning as he twisted his body. His abs contracted painfully, forcing his legs downward, aligning his feet with the pavement below. The maneuver was desperate, a last-ditch effort born of survival’s raw edge.

He hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, dust billowing around him in a gritty cloud. Pain exploded through his legs, but he rolled forward, tumbling across the asphalt, each rotation bleeding off the crushing force of the impact. His tactical vest scraped the ground, the ceramic plates grinding as he came to a stop, crouched and clutching his throbbing ankles. Agony seared through his feet, the nerves screaming, but he was alive—barely.

The crowd around him stood stunned, their faces a mix of horror and awe, frozen like deer in headlights. Camera flashes popped, phones raised to capture the masked man who’d just fallen from the sky and somehow stood up. Their murmurs swelled into a chaotic buzz, a cacophony of gasps and shouts.

From fifteen meters, it was a miracle he wasn’t a broken heap. But miracles didn’t dull pain. His feet felt like they’d been crushed in a vice, each step sending jolts of fire up his legs. Gritting his teeth, Jason forced himself to stand, his movements unsteady, lurching toward the five-story shopping mall across the street. Its crowded interior and maze-like layout were his best shot at losing the Russians.

—

“Falling from that height and still crawling away? That bastard’s luckier than a cat with nine lives,” Vladimir sneered, peering over the balcony. His cold eyes tracked Jason’s limping form, a predator savoring the sight of wounded prey. “But his luck’s run dry.”

Anatoly chuckled, raising his automatic rifle, the barrel trained on Jason’s retreating back. “Kingpin’s top dog, running like a stray.” His finger hovered over the trigger, eager to end it.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots rang out, the bullets slamming into Jason’s vest with bone-crushing force. The impact hurled him forward, his body crashing to the pavement, the air driven from his lungs.

Screams erupted from the crowd. The bolder onlookers scattered like startled birds, their shouts echoing as they fled.

“He’s shot!”

“Run!”

“Get out of here!”

Jason’s world spun, pain radiating from his back where the bullets had struck the ceramic plates. The vest had saved him, but the force felt like a sledgehammer to his spine. He didn’t pause. Scrambling to his feet, he zigzagged through the panicking crowd, using their chaos as cover. The Russians wouldn’t hesitate to shoot through civilians, but the crowd’s density forced them to hesitate, their aim disrupted by the moving mass.

Bullets whizzed past, 7.62mm rounds tearing through the air. Screams pierced the night as several bystanders fell, blood pooling beneath them, their cries of agony blending with the city’s relentless hum. A stray round grazed Jason’s left arm, the pain sharp and immediate, like a hot blade slicing through muscle.

He clamped his right hand over the wound, blood seeping through his fingers, and sprinted toward the mall.

[Ding! Indirectly caused one civilian death. Gained 100 Villain Points. Current progress: 640/1000.]

[Ding! Indirectly caused six civilian injuries. Gained 300 Villain Points. Current progress: 940/1000.]

The system’s cold notifications flashed in his mind, a grim tally of the collateral damage. Seven innocent lives disrupted to buy him seconds. Guilt flickered but was drowned by necessity. He barreled into the mall, shoving through the glass doors of an ice cream shop. With a grunt, he vaulted over the counter, crashing behind it in a heap, his wounded arm screaming in protest.

No time to rest. He released his right hand, inspecting the mangled mess of his left arm. Blood soaked his sleeve, the wound a gory pulp. Through the torn flesh, he glimpsed the dull yellow tail of a bullet, lodged deep in the muscle. A ricochet, he realized. A direct hit would’ve blown through his arm entirely. Years of taking bullets had taught him to read wounds like a book—this one was bad, but not fatal.

Breathing heavily, sweat stinging his eyes, he probed the wound with trembling fingers. His right hand found the bullet’s edge, hard and unyielding. He clenched his jaw, took a deep breath, and yanked it out. Pain seared through him, white-hot and unrelenting, threatening to pull him under. Blood gushed, soaking his clothes, pooling on the tiled floor. His lips paled, his vision swam, but he swallowed the scream clawing at his throat.

Clink, clink, clink.

The bullet hit the ground, a small, cruel trophy of his survival.

With shaking hands, he tore a strip of fabric from his sleeve, using his teeth to rip it free. He wrapped the makeshift bandage around the wound, tightening it to stem the bleeding. The pain was excruciating, each movement a test of his will.

Footsteps echoed outside—heavy, deliberate. The crowd had fled, leaving only one possibility: the Russians. They were closing in, relentless, giving him no room to breathe.

“No fucking way out,” He muttered, his voice hoarse, laced with defiance.

His trembling finger opened the system’s shop interface, the glowing screen his last lifeline in a world collapsing around him. He was cornered, bleeding, and outnumbered. The system was his only shot.

[Shop: Melee Weapons Mastery, Combat Mastery, Firearms Mastery, Driving Mastery, Pilot Mastery, Special Ops Mastery…]

The footsteps grew louder, boots crunching on broken glass. His mind raced, scanning the shop’s endless options. What skill could pull him out of this death trap? His eyes locked on Firearms Mastery. In this moment, with bullets as his only language, it was the only choice.

[Firearms Mastery Level 1 (Acquired)]

[Firearms Mastery Level 2 (Acquired)]

[Firearms Mastery Level 3 (Acquired)]

[Firearms Mastery Level 4 (Acquired)]

[Firearms Mastery Level 5 (Not Acquired)]

He tapped Firearms Mastery Level 5, his heart sinking as the requirements appeared.

[Requires: 50 Points; Strength: 30, Agility: 35, Endurance: 30, Intelligence: 35]

“Fucking bullshit system with its damn prerequisites,” He spat, frustration boiling over. He pulled up his stats, the glowing numbers a stark reminder of his limits.

[Strength: 33]

[Agility: 32]

[Endurance: 30]

[Intelligence: 28]

He was 10 attribute points shy of Level 5 Firearms Mastery—3 points short in Agility, 7 in Intelligence. Each level-up granted 10 points, and he was only 60 Villain Points away from leveling up, the system’s progress bar taunting him at 940/1000.

His eyes darted to the approaching footsteps, his blood-slicked hand gripping the Beretta. Sixty points. One more kill, one more act of chaos, and he’d have the edge he needed to survive this nightmare.

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