The apartment door closed with a click that echoed deafeningly in the silence. Thomas leaned his back against the sturdy door for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of his room. Outside, police sirens still wailed in the distance, but here, inside his small fortress, there was only the sound of his own breathing.
Now, as the hunt concluded, the adrenaline began to recede. He raised his hands and noticed the faint tremor in his fingers, remnants of the tension he had just released. A faint throb resonated in his chest, precisely at the spot where the bullet had struck. There was no pain, only a lingering sensation, like an echo of an impact that should have been fatal. His body remembered the impact that his suit had rendered impenetrable.
With controlled movements, he began to undress. His dark t-shirt, cargo pants, and boots were tossed into a corner of the room, as if he were shedding the skin of the role he had just played. He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the hot water stream before stepping in.
Steam billowed around him, and the sound of water hitting the tiles became the only sound in his world. He let the water wash away the remnants of the night; the smell of the alley, the cold sweat, and the sensation of the fight. His mind was not filled with guilt or doubt. Instead, he was processing data.
The physical feedback from the impact felt minimal, but present, he thought, letting the water massage his shoulders. Suit integrity confirmed against low-caliber threats and conventional sharp weapons.
He emerged from the shower a few minutes later, his body clean and his mind clearer. The physical effects of his first intervention were now under control. He dried his hair with a towel, ready for the next phase of tonight's ritual: evaluation.
With a towel wrapped around his waist, Thomas sat at his simple desk. He reopened the notebook to the page marked "ASSETS: KITCHEN DOGS." Below the description of the two thugs, he added a new line in neat, controlled handwriting.
Status: Incapacitated, handed over to NYPD. Minimal resistance.
Then, he created a new sub-section: EQUIPMENT EVALUATION (MMPR-BLUE). Beneath it, he recorded his observations with the objectivity of a scientist.
* Ballistic threat (small caliber): Kinetic impact negligible. Suit integrity 100%.
* Bladed weapon threat (conventional): Zero effect. Suit material unscratched.
* Weapon (Power Lance): Effective as a blunt weapon for incapacitating targets without causing fatal injury.
He put down his pen. The tactical analysis was complete. Mission successful.
In the silence of the apartment, when there was no more data to process, his mind wandered. He looked at his hands resting on the table. The same hands that hours ago had steadily held the Power Lance. The same hands that had rendered two men helpless.
And the same hands that were supposed to hold Lucy that night.
A momentary pang in his chest, an echo of a promise that would never be fulfilled. He recalled her passionate voice on the phone, demanding he come, to finally break down the wall he had built between them. He remembered his own promise to make that night unforgettable.
This was not sadness. It was a sharp acknowledgment of a lost reality, a reminder of the man he was supposed to be that night, in stark contrast to the man he was forced to become tonight.
With a long breath, Thomas pushed the memory away. The past was unchangeable data. Dwelling on it was an inefficiency. He refocused his attention on the table before him, on the reality of his current situation. His eyes fell on the only card he possessed, lying next to his notebook.
He picked up the Mighty Morphin card, flipping it between his fingers. His first intervention had indeed been successful, but the conclusions from his analysis could not be ignored. His success was highly dependent on the low threat level and the element of surprise.
This method is effective, he thought, but the variables are too high.
He couldn't choose the power he received. Today he was lucky to get the Power Lance, a balanced weapon. Tomorrow, he might only get Power Daggers, forcing him into close-quarters combat, or a Power Bow, useless in a narrow alley. He couldn't build a long-term strategy on such random uncertainty. Against a more organized enemy, who might carry assault rifles or more, relying on a single random card was tantamount to suicide.
He put the card back down. His eyes shifted from the card to his notebook, then back again. For the first time, the two missions given by the gods, his duty as a vigilante and the "punishment" from the God of Chaos, connected in his mind into a single, inseparable strategic whole.
Acquiring new cards was no longer just a side task or a peculiar curse. It was a tactical imperative. It was the only way to enhance his abilities, to gain more options, and to ensure he could face greater threats. The mission to clean up the streets would be meaningless if he were killed due to inadequate equipment.
He closed his notebook. A decision had been made. His gaze was now sharp, filled with a new purpose more urgent than merely hunting small-time thugs.
To increase effectiveness in the field, he thought coldly, acquiring new assets must be the top priority.
The next few shifts passed in a predictable rhythm. Calls came one after another, each a small window into the chaotic pulse of the city. Thomas worked with an efficiency that earned occasional nods of approval from Sal, his cynical partner. He handled victims of bar brawls, helped a woman give birth in a taxi, and stabilized traffic accident victims. He was an exemplary paramedic.
However, behind his facade of professionalism, a new program ran in the background of his mind. His priorities had shifted.
As they responded to a call for a construction worker who had fallen from scaffolding in Midtown, the change was evident in his work. While carefully applying a neck brace to the patient, his eyes weren't solely focused on the victim. His awareness expanded, scanning the small crowd gathered on the sidewalk. He observed office workers looking from windows, pedestrians stopping out of curiosity, and a female police officer directing traffic.
Is one of them? he thought, a question that now always popped up automatically. The hunt for street thugs felt simple and direct. This hunt, on the other hand, felt like looking for a needle in a city-sized haystack.
After they successfully stabilized the patient and brought him into the ambulance, Sal started the engine and glanced at Thomas. "You look like you're searching for something, kid," he said flatly. "If you're looking for a girlfriend, the hospital's the place, not an accident scene."
Thomas merely offered a faint smile. "Just making sure the area's secure, Sal," he replied, a convincingly enough lie.
Sal snorted, as if disbelieving but not caring enough to argue. He stepped on the gas, and the ambulance sped towards Metro-General Hospital.
Some time later.
The stretcher wheels squeaked on the clean linoleum floor as they pushed the patient through the automatic doors of Metro-General Hospital's ER. Controlled chaos immediately greeted them. The rhythmic beeping of heart monitors, the hurried footsteps of nurses, and the firm commands of doctors created a busy symphony. The sharp smell of antiseptic stung his nostrils, an aroma very familiar to Thomas.
"Male, 32, fall from scaffolding, approximately three meters," Thomas reported to a male nurse who greeted them. "Brief loss of consciousness, GCS now 15. Laceration to the scalp, possible mild concussion and left wrist fracture. Vitals stable en route."
As he was giving further details, a female doctor with neatly tied dark brown hair walked past them. She didn't notice Thomas, her eyes focused on a tablet she held while giving instructions to a resident doctor who followed her. "Prep OR three. I want a head and neck CT scan ASAP," she said, her voice calm yet authoritative.
As soon as the doctor was within a few meters, something impossible happened.
In Thomas's peripheral vision, right in the center of his sight, a line of translucent golden text appeared, shimmering with a soft glow. The text floated in the air, a digital anomaly in the real world.
[SPECIAL TARGET DETECTED: DR. CHRISTINE PALMER]
Thomas stopped speaking.
For a fraction of a second that felt like an eternity, his brain tried to process what he had just seen. The text was real, clear, and unmistakable. His heart pounded, a cold jolt of surprise.
"...and his blood pressure is 120/80," he continued, successfully rejoining his interrupted sentence as if he had only paused to think. The nurse nodded, completely oblivious.
After the handover was complete, Thomas stole another glance. The female doctor was now speaking with another patient's family, her expression empathetic. "We'll do our best for him, ma'am," the doctor said. Another nurse approached, "Dr. Palmer, trauma consult is ready."
Christine Palmer, Thomas thought, the name now etched into his mind.
The male nurse nodded after receiving Thomas's report. "Alright, we'll take it from here. Thank you," he said before turning to attend to the patient.
Sal patted Thomas's back. "Come on, kid. Our report isn't going to write itself."
Thomas nodded, but his movements were slightly stiff. He turned from the handover area, his eyes automatically seeking out Dr. Palmer's figure once more. He saw her for a moment in the distance, checking another patient's monitor with a focused expression, completely unaware that she had just become the center of a covert mission.
As they walked down the busy corridor towards the ambulance exit, Sal began to grumble. "See? We spend twenty minutes saving a life, and now we gotta spend forty minutes filling out three different forms to prove it. Bureaucracy..."
The automatic doors slid open, and the warm city air greeted them. They reached the ambulance and climbed inside. The doors closed with a dull thud, as if separating them from the busy hospital world.
Sal continued talking as he started the engine, but Thomas was no longer listening. He stared out the window, his mind replaying the events of a few minutes ago.
Special Target Detected.
Previously, his mission felt abstract, a long-term goal without a clear starting point. He could only wait and hope. Now, luck had given him a clue. A name. A face.
Dr. Christine Palmer.
He began to compile an initial file in his head. Work location: Metro-General ER. Profession: Doctor, likely a trauma surgeon, judging by her authority and the type of instructions she gave. This was his first data point. The foundation for the upcoming operation.
The conclusion he had made in his apartment a few nights ago now felt more urgent. Success as a vigilante depended on his ability to evolve, and that evolution could only come from new assets. Assets that now had a specific name and location.
Staring at his own reflection in the ambulance window, framed by the towering New York buildings, a final decision was made in his mind.
First target confirmed, he thought, his gaze cold and purposeful. Operation 'Christine Palmer' begins.