AN: Ok. This one is on the ranking now. Can we reach top 10? Help out.
Today's goal:
200 PS: 1 bonus chapter
300 PS: 2 bonus chapters
500 PS: 5 bonus chapters
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Smoke curled through the rafters. The flicker of dying fluorescents cast the room in a strange half-light. Blood pooled beneath shattered displays. Civilians were being led out, one by one, past the bodies, eyes wide, some weeping, others dazed. The bomb squad swept in fast behind them, barking orders as they unpacked tools and scrambled toward the crates of RDX. Another team took off the bombs that were strapped to the civilians.
Outside the chaos, at the center of the room, the final pieces locked into place.
Sidorov stood tall and unshaken, trench coat flaring slightly as he stepped forward with hands raised, a grin cutting across his face like a scar.
"You said you'd capture me alive," he called out. "So do it. Like a man or a coward. But if you really are who I think you are, then I'm pretty sure you will fight like a man."
Raymond aimed his Glock at him, unblinking.
Behind them, Alpha and Bravo had secured the perimeter. Jake was panting against a vending machine, out of breath but very much alive. Amy stood beside him, watching the stand-off with her gun ready to fire. Rosa stood to Raymond's right, gun raised, blood dripping from her arm.
"You know this guy?" Rosa asked.
"Nope. Never seen his mug," Raymond replied.
Jake pulled out his phone and hit record.
"Ohhh yeah," he said, voice rising. "This is it. Final boss energy. Big showdown. Mano a mano. Look at them... two men, one past soaked in blood, one trench coat too dramatic to be legal. The hero, the villain. You can feel it. You can taste it. And I, Jacob Jeffery Peralta, am here for it."
Amy groaned. "Jake..."
Jake held up a hand. "No, no, let me have this."
He stepped into the middle of the room and turned to Raymond.
"Listen, Ray. You've been moving in shadows. Silenced weapons. Tactical takedowns. Very ninja. Very cool. But now? Now it's time to be a legend. You see this guy?" He gestured dramatically at Sidorov. "He's taunting you. He's unarmed."
"Not really," Raymond said.
"Don't mind the tiny details," Jake quickly replied.
"That's gonna get you killed someday," Raymond replied back.
Jack didn't even care what Raymond just said and continued his rant. "The thing is, he wants to throw hands. He's calling you out like a Bond villain, and if you don't respond, I swear to the NYPD badge and the holy temple of Die Hard that your cool points will drop so low you'll be ranked below Hitchcock in precinct fantasy."
Hitchcock, from behind cover, gave a lazy thumbs-up.
Jake continued in full passion mode. "So, unless you're scared, unless you're worried that trench coat man is going to break your spine in two and mail it to your mom, you need to put the gun down and fight him."
A long pause followed.
Raymond sighed, loud and tired, like a teacher dealing with a dumb kid on too much sugar. He shook his head, then turned to Rosa.
"Hold this," he muttered and handed her the Glock.
Rosa blinked, stunned. "Wait, what?"
Sidorov let out a loud chuckle. "Excellent."
He pulled two handguns from under his coat and tossed them aside, clattering across the tile near Terry's feet.
Everyone stared.
Then Sidorov bent down, slowly, and from beneath each sock, drew out another two pistols and flung them wide.
Jake screamed. "Oh my god. The sock holsters. He had sock holsters. This guy is the final level."
Terry muttered, "I hate this job. Captain's gonna be so mad."
Sidorov raised his hands again, now completely unarmed.
"Just you and me, Raymond," he said, cracking his knuckles. "No guns. Let's see what the shadow has become."
The entire fourth floor fell into a strange, breathless hush.
Then someone in the back yelled, "Kick his ass, White!"
Boyle jumped in, voice cracking with excitement. "Get him, man! For justice! For yogurt shops everywhere!"
More cheers followed.
Jake was practically vibrating. "This is it! This is the moment! This is why I became a cop!"
Amy sighed and set her gun down slowly. "I can't believe we're doing this."
Captain Holt entered the hall and stood near the stairs, watching the scene unfold without interrupting for once. Since he didn't have complete information on the rookie, this was the best chance to see what he could do.
Raymond stepped forward.
He slid the ski mask off his head first. Then he shrugged out of his vest and let it drop with a heavy thud on the blood-slicked floor.
Finally, he pulled off the borrowed tactical shirt.
Gasps rolled through the room like a wave.
His body was carved like stone. Broad chest, shoulders layered with lean muscle, abs defined like armor. But what drew everyone's eyes was the scars. Dozens of them. Knife wounds, old bullet marks, deep cuts that told stories no rookie should have.
Jake's breath caught in his throat.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay, yeah. That guy's seen some real shit."
Amy Santiago stared. Her hand tightened on her own vest. Her eyes locked onto the lines across Raymond's chest, the brutal marks across his ribs, one deep scar that curved under his collarbone like a signature. She bit her lower lip. Hard.
'Jesus,' she thought. 'He's hot. Like... war-forged hot.'
Rosa glanced at her as if saying, 'Don't even think about it.'
Amy cleared her throat and looked away.
Raymond didn't seem to notice, or maybe he didn't care.
He rolled his shoulders once. Muscles shifted under skin like coiled steel. Then he stepped into the center of the floor.
Sidorov met him there.
The two stood a few feet apart, eyes locked. Soldiers. Killers. Survivors of worlds the rest of the precinct could only guess at.
Sidorov lunged first. His fists came fast. Two jabs followed by a crushing elbow meant to break ribs. Raymond blocked high, caught the elbow, but the follow-up knee rammed into his side like a piledriver.
Raymond grunted and staggered back a step.
Sidorov grinned. He moved in to attack again. He was using Systema. He hit Raymond in the collarbone, then raked a palm strike across his throat.
Raymond reeled, coughing once. Sidorov spun and slammed a heavy fist into his jaw. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed from Raymond's mouth. He dropped to a knee, one palm pressed against the floor, breathing slowly.
Sidorov raised both arms, taunting the crowd.
"Is this it? This is your legend? This is your ghost?"
Jake nearly shouted, but Rosa raised a hand without looking. Her eyes stayed locked on Raymond.
Raymond didn't look up. He spat blood. Rolled his neck. A sharp crack echoed through the room. He exhaled slowly and finally stood, with a large grin. His teeth were covered in blood.
"Systema…" he said, wiping his mouth. "Not bad. But not good enough."
Sidorov blinked.
Raymond moved.
He was fast. Closed the distance in a blink and drove his elbow into Sidorov's jaw. The big man staggered back, stunned, and Raymond didn't let up.
CQC [Close Quarters Combat] wasn't designed to impress. It was designed to end people.
Raymond grabbed Sidorov's wrist mid-strike, twisted the joint backward with a sickening crunch, and slammed the man's face into his own raised knee. Blood flew. Sidorov roared and tried to counter, but Raymond stepped inside his guard, ducked low, and delivered three brutal strikes to his solar plexus, neck, and temple in rapid succession.
Sidorov stumbled back. Raymond was already behind him, arm hooked around his throat, lifting. His forearm nearly crushed the windpipe, and Sidorov's eyes bulged. But the Russian wasn't done yet. He twisted with monstrous strength, breaking the hold, and smashed his elbow into Raymond's back.
Raymond hit the ground, rolled once, and came back up like nothing happened.
Sidorov yelled and charged.
Raymond met him.
They collided mid-sprint, fists blurring. Sidorov caught Raymond with a shot to the ribs; there was a crack, but Raymond didn't flinch. He headbutted Sidorov straight in the nose. Blood poured instantly. Sidorov roared and swung wide.
Raymond ducked under the punch, stepped inside the arc, and drove a punch straight into the side of Sidorov's knee. A horrible pop followed. The man dropped with a scream, landing hard.
Raymond stood over him. Even after taking on those punches and kicks, he wasn't even breathing hard.
Sidorov tried to rise.
Raymond grabbed his collar with both hands, lifted him slightly off the ground, and drove his forehead into the Russian's face...
...Once, twice, three times, until Sidorov's nose and jaws broke and he slumped like a rag doll.
Then he dropped him.
Silence again.
Raymond stood in the center of the carnage, blood dripping from his fists.
Sidorov groaned, coughing blood.
Raymond looked down at him.
"This is for ruining my perfect day and making me crawl through the sewer and for all these shit you have done," he said flatly.
Then he turned to Rosa, who had already tossed him a pair of cuffs.
He knelt, cuffed Sidorov, then stood and faced the squad.
Jake was speechless. His phone was still recording, forgotten in his hand.
Amy slowly clapped once. Then twice. Then stopped herself and said, "Sorry. That was instinct."
Boyle looked like he wanted to cry.
Terry muttered, "Well... shit."
Captain Holt finally stepped forward.
"Officer White."
Raymond looked up.
"Report to my office after medical."
Raymond nodded.
Jake finally found his voice. "Can I just say... that was the coolest, most terrifying thing I've ever seen?"
Rosa walked over and handed Raymond his shirt.
He took it, met her eyes, and gave the faintest smirk.
She shook her head.
"Show-off."
...
[That Night – Brooklyn Dive Bar, 11:42 PM]
The Nine-Nine sat scattered across two tables pushed together, the kind with old gum underneath and water-stained menus no one ever actually touched. The air was heavy with music nobody was listening to. A jukebox in the corner played some sad indie song about war and whiskey. The bar smelled like beer, bleach, and nostalgia.
No one spoke.
Everyone nursed a drink. Jake had a whiskey sour, untouched. Amy holding a light beer. Terry had a tequila. Even Boyle had left his fries untouched, which was saying something.
The silence stretched. The weight of the day sat on everyone's shoulders. It had been an op that shouldn't have worked. A day that should've ended with more funerals than cheers.
Then Jake finally said it.
"So… that fight."
Everyone looked up.
Jake exhaled like he'd been holding the thought in for hours.
"That was, like, a one-man John Wick origin story. That was 'I was trained in the Himalayas by secret monks' level."
Amy nodded slowly. "I watched it five times already. I mean… on the precinct footage. Not for fun. For… analysis."
Terry raised a brow. "You downloaded it to your phone."
"I said it was for analysis," Amy muttered.
Boyle leaned forward, eyes wide. "He broke a guy's knee by breathing near it. I didn't even see the move. One second it was attached, and the next second it was doing yoga without permission."
Jake looked at him. "Did you hear the sound his forehead made against Sidorov's face? That was sick, like 36 Chambers of Shaolin move."
Terry shook his head. "That guy is not a rookie. He never was." He wanted to reveal the truth, but... Order from the Captain. So, he was playing along.
No one argued.
Hitchcock and Scully, surprisingly still awake, sat on the edge of the booth eating nachos. Scully licked cheese from his finger and said, "Back in the day, I headbutted a guy once. Broke my own nose. Good times."
Hitchcock grunted. "That was a wedding, and you were drunk. You headbutted me."
Jake leaned back, "So who is he, really? No real backstory, no academy photos, his file's a ghost file, and now we just saw him beat a Russian war criminal half to death with his bare hands."
Amy stared into her beer. "Holt knows something. He's playing it close."
"Or he doesn't," Terry added. "And that's what's bothering him."
Everyone fell silent again.
Boyle cleared his throat. "I mean, for what it's worth, I think he's one of the good ones. I saw how he moved today. You don't fight like that unless you've already made peace with a lot of bad things. He's carrying something."
Jake squinted at him. "That's surprisingly deep for a guy who tried to butter his burger bun with ranch dressing."
Boyle shrugged. "The man earned a pass."
Terry nodded slowly. "He fought like someone with nothing left to prove. That's the kind of man who's either gonna burn out… or become a legend."
They sat with that for a while.
Outside, rain tapped the windows. The city kept breathing like it always did.
Finally, Amy asked what they were all thinking.
"Where is he now?"
Everyone turned to Rosa's empty seat.
Jake blinked. "Wait. Where is she?"
Terry looked around. "She left right after debrief."
Amy checked her phone. No messages.
Boyle whispered, "She went to the hospital, didn't she?"
No one answered.
Jake raised his glass.
"To Raymond White. The rookie… who absolutely isn't."
Everyone lifted their drinks.
Amy whispered, "To the guy who walked through hell and made it blink."
Glasses clinked.
The moment held.
Then Jake said, "Still, if he is a time traveler, I called it."
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[31 advance chs] [No double billing.]
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