Chapter 16 — The Phantom Executioner
Liberty City had always been dangerous. But lately, it felt cursed.
People didn't linger on sidewalks anymore. Street vendors packed up early. Taxi drivers refused to go near the industrial district after dark. And at every corner café, one name whispered like an omen:
H.I.M.
The mysterious killer who appeared without warning, struck with impossible precision, and vanished as if the city itself sheltered him. To the criminals, he was retribution. To the police, humiliation. To the people… a legend too terrifying to ignore.
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Stellman's Obsession
Detective John Stellman's apartment looked less like a home and more like a war bunker. The walls were plastered with crime scene photos, maps with red string connecting names, police reports stacked like bricks, and a dozen half-empty coffee mugs scattered across every surface.
He hadn't slept in two days. His hair was unkempt, his tie loosened, and his eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion. Yet he worked, furiously scribbling on his notepad, circling, underlining, muttering to himself.
"He doesn't strike random. Look—three targets tied to the same council fund. Two tied to Grimson's administration. One… one connected to the archives."
Behind him, Gina leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. The assassin-turned-agent didn't share his obsession, but she watched carefully.
"You're killing yourself, Stell," she said flatly. "The city's burning, and you're here looking for ghosts in paper."
Stellman spun on her, eyes sharp. "Don't you get it? He's choosing. He's not chaos, he's strategy. He's crossing off names—systematically."
Gina raised an eyebrow. "And when you figure out his pattern? Then what?"
Stellman slammed his pen down, leaning across his cluttered desk. "Then maybe I'll know where he strikes next. Maybe I'll have a chance to stop him."
But even as he spoke, doubt gnawed at him. Each time he thought he was close, H.I.M moved ahead—like a predator watching its prey stumble blindly.
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The Shadow's Reflection
Elsewhere, in a derelict apartment with curtains drawn tight, H.I.M sat in silence. A broken mirror lay on the floor, its shards glinting faintly in the moonlight.
He crouched before it, studying his fractured reflection. Each fragment showed a man, but never the same one. In one shard he looked like the broken father who once wept over his family. In another, he looked like the avenger the city feared. And in the darkest piece, he looked like something else entirely—eyes hollow, smile wrong, not a man but a vessel.
A whisper coiled inside his skull. "Every strike feeds you. Every scream makes you stronger. Don't deny it."
He pressed his hands against his temples, shaking his head. "I didn't ask for this."
"And yet you answer. Again, and again."
His fist slammed into the wall, leaving a crack. Silence followed, but the shards seemed to grin back at him.
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The Gala at Grand Aster Hall
That same night, the Grand Aster Hall glittered like a jewel in the city's crown. Dozens of luxury cars lined its entrance, paparazzi flashes lit the steps, and inside, the ballroom sparkled beneath golden chandeliers.
It was a gathering of the powerful—senators, tycoons, foreign dignitaries. Mayor Grimson himself presided at the center, smiling stiffly, though sweat beaded beneath his collar.
"Keep calm," he whispered to his aide. "The city needs to see strength."
But calm was impossible. Guards stood at every corner, earpieces buzzing, rifles concealed beneath their jackets. Every creak of the floorboards made them twitch.
The orchestra played softly. Laughter floated, brittle and forced.
And somewhere above, unseen, a shadow slipped silently along the balcony rafters.
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A Flicker
It began small. A single light above the stage flickered once, twice.
Then the chandeliers trembled.
The hum of the generator coughed.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Glasses stilled mid-toast. Fingers tightened on champagne stems.
Then—darkness.
The orchestra's music strangled into silence. A woman screamed. The sound of crashing glass echoed through the black.
The lights surged back seconds later. The guests gasped in unison.
One senator lay slumped unconscious against the floor. A table overturned. Panic buzzed like static in the air.
And across the velvet stage curtains, written in broad, dripping strokes of red paint, a single word glared at them all:
JUDGMENT.
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Panic
The room exploded in chaos. Senators shouted for guards. Socialites screamed. Reporters, smelling blood, rushed outside to broadcast live.
Mayor Grimson's face went pale as chalk. "Get me out of here," he hissed, shoving his aide.
But even as security swarmed, one fact chilled everyone—H.I.M had infiltrated the most secure event in Liberty City without being seen.
It wasn't murder this time. It was worse. It was a message.
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Stellman's Breaking Point
Back at his apartment, Stellman stared at new photographs, hands trembling slightly as he dragged smoke from his cigarette.
"He's changing the game," Stellman muttered. "Not just killing. Not just punishing. He's declaring war."
Gina glanced at the picture of the word painted across the curtains. "A message?"
Stellman exhaled, his face hardening. "Not a message. A promise. Judgment is coming—and we're all on trial."
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The Man in the Dark
Back in his safehouse, H.I.M sat cross-legged in silence, his breath calm. His chest rose and fell like a machine at rest.
But inside, something else stirred.
"There's still more," he whispered. "So much more."
And somewhere beyond the walls of Liberty City, beyond the reach of ordinary men, something laughed faintly—like a shadow pleased with its work.
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