Police, ambulance, and fire truck sirens wailed in concert, ripping the city's midnight silence like the shriek of a wounded beast. Red-and-blue strobes danced wildly before the luxury high-rise, reflecting off shattered glass and wet asphalt. The acrid stench of burning materials and gasoline stung the air, carried by the cold night wind.
The door of the Cadillac Escalade swung open. Howard Tate stepped out, steam from the tumbler in his right hand curling into the night air. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, cut through the crowd—the officers, the residents, and the plumes of smoke still billowing from the lobby.
Beside him, Rita, with a face as cold as ice, held a tablet. Her left finger adjusted her sunglasses, a dismissal of the late hour. The wind whipped her trench coat, flashing the pistol holstered at her hip.
"Status?" Howard's voice sliced through the din of the sirens.
The Tactical Unit Team Leader, a man in black gear and a heavy vest, stepped forward.
"Teams Q and W are sweeping floors ten through twenty. Team E is on civilian evacuation. Teams R and T have all exits blocked. Snipers from Team Y are positioned at strategic city points," he reported, his tone rigid and respectful.
Howard nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Good. Don't let him slip away."
He walked to a nearby ambulance, where an apartment security officer sat, clutching an arm bloodied by shards of glass. His face was pale, his eyes vacant.
"Evening," Howard greeted him, his "Chief Director" name tag gleaming under the strobes. "You work here?"
The man nodded, whimpering softly.
"How many floors, and how many residents?" Howard asked.
"Sixty floors, six to ten units per floor. Roughly four hundred residents," he replied, his voice trembling.
Rita transcribed the data on her tablet, her fingers moving quickly.
"Thank you," Howard said, then turned, his eyes moving to a uniformed police officer near a patrol car.
"Sergeant Laura Hayes," she said, shaking Howard's hand firmly. "Special Operations Bureau?"
Howard nodded. "How many civilians out?"
Laura pulled a notepad from her pocket. "One hundred four, so far…"
Suddenly—BOOOM!
The blast shook the high-rise, like lightning striking the city. Shards of glass from the upper floors sprayed out, glittering like a shower of crystal. Debris of concrete and metal shrieked as it fell—
—CRACK! BOOM! CRASH!
—slamming into cars on the street, shattering glass and buckling metal. Officers were thrown back; some were struck by debris, blood soaking the asphalt. Screams and cries tore the air, fear suffocating the night.
Inside the high-rise, the upper floors were engulfed in flames, the desperate screams of trapped residents echoing. Bodies lay strewn.
The lower floors shuddered violently; residents fell, trampled in the panic.
PAT! PAT! PAT! The building's lights went dead, replaced by the faint, crimson glow of emergency lamps, mixing with the wildly dancing fire. People were trapped in the elevators, pounding on the doors in despair, their cries drowned out by the roar of the alarms.
Firefighters fought the blaze, water hoses spraying the flaming lobby, thick smoke choking the air.
Howard, Rita, and Sergeant Laura ducked behind the patrol car, then scrambled to their respective posts, dust and smoke burning their lungs.
The helicopter overhead rocked, its rotor blades VWRRR-VWRRR, nearly downed by the concussion of the blast.
"Report!" Howard bellowed into the radio, his tone sharp with emotion, a stark contrast to his typical calm. A monitor screen in the command vehicle showed blurry footage from the tactical team's cameras: dark hallways, thick smoke, and crawling fire.
Rita sprinted through the mayhem, tablet in hand, gathering intel from panicked officers. "Upper floors, the restaurant—it's total destruction!" an officer's voice crackled over the radio.
"Teams Q and W are trapped upstairs! We've lost contact!"
Laura, her face streaked with dust, helped EMTs distribute oxygen masks, her eyes narrowed at the high-rise, which now resembled a pyre.
Howard stared at the continuing fallout, his coffee cup shattered on the asphalt, its steam vanishing into the night. "Damn it,"
***
A moment before the explosion…
The luxury restaurant on the top floor was empty, silent as a tomb. Tables were overturned; steak plates and wine glasses lay scattered. The rich aroma of food still teased Brisky's rumbling stomach.
He stepped slowly. His tank top was ripped to shreds, and his wrinkled trousers were damp with sweat and dried blood. With a cynical smirk, he plucked a piece of steak from the floor, chewing it slowly. The meat was cold, yet flavorful. He grabbed a forgotten bottle of red wine, tilting it back. The liquid washed over his chin, mixing with the grime and dried blood on his olive skin.
His stride was calm, but his mind was a storm—plotting, escaping, surviving. His breathing was heavy, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. His eyes were vacant yet razor-sharp, like a cornered beast ready to strike.
He entered the kitchen, his hand turning the valves of the gas canisters one by one. Sssshhh. A hiss of gas filled the space, the chemical smell stinging his nostrils. Calmly, he sealed the kitchen door shut, locking his death trap.
Brisky moved to the whiskey bar. Glass bottles gleamed under the restaurant lights. He snatched several bottles, splashing their contents onto the floor—creating a trail leading toward the kitchen door. The ethanol slicked the tiles.
He kept one bottle in hand, its liquid sloshing as he walked. In the restaurant's corner, a grand piano stood, framed by glass windows that captured the city lights and the stars.
He picked up a forgotten cigar from a table, then sat on the piano bench, the whiskey bottle resting beside him.
CRACK. He ripped the remainder of his tank top, exposing a torso covered in scars—crude stitching and old bullet wounds. He stuffed the ripped cloth into the neck of the whiskey bottle, turning it into a makeshift Molotov.
Flick. The lighter flared, igniting the cigar at his lips, then lighting the cloth wick. Cigar smoke curled into the air. He finished the last of the whiskey, his eyes closing.
"They see a monster because their worldview is narrow," he muttered, his voice low and loaded with meaning.
"I see an artist, repainting the world in honest colors."
A cynical smile curled across his lips.
"They built their heaven upon our hell. I'll burn their heaven down, and invite everyone to dance in the same damn inferno."
WOOSH! He hurled the Molotov near the kitchen door. The fire caught, creeping along the whiskey puddle, the stench of ethanol mingling with the smoke.
His fingers touched the piano keys; a soft melody flowed out, starkly contrasting the creeping fire. In the glass windows, the building lights flickered, spectators to a dance of ruin. He began to sing, his voice hoarse but full of soul:
I was born with a sword of Damocles over my head… Ding-ding-ding.
In the middle of a blue spring… Tang-tang-tang.
Nobody told me I could get sick of myself… Dang! Dang! Dang!
When everything looked like heaven, but felt like hell… Brang…
The melody broke. Brisky took a long breath, cigar smoke dancing in the air. "Calm in the chaos," he sighed, his smile bitter.
The fire now roared, the smell of gas intensely sharp. He rose, leaving the piano to be consumed by the flames, and walked toward the emergency stairs.
A few moments passed. The fire crawled to the kitchen door, meeting the trapped gas.
BOOOM!
The blast shook the high-rise. Shards of glass from the restaurant sprayed out like a shower of crystal, and debris of concrete and metal fell
***
In the immediate aftermath…
The magnificent high-rise, once a symbol of prosperity, now stood gutted. Its top floors were demolished, exposing the interior like a raw, open wound. Black smoke billowed into the night sky, the cold wind worsening the inferno as it spread to the lower levels.
The lobby was a scene of pandemonium. Medics ran with stretchers, and local police dragged out residents choking on smoke. Shouts, cries, and ceaseless sirens blended into a wall of noise. The fire department was divided: some sprayed water onto the blazing lobby, others struggled up the stairwells to the upper floors, their hoses snagging on debris.
Howard's tactical teams had lost control. Teams Q and W, previously sweeping the restaurant floor, were trapped when the blast hit. Out of twenty-four members, some were shredded by the explosion, some crushed by concrete, and others lay critical, whimpering in the darkened halls. Carbon monoxide and thick smoke saturated the building; the red emergency lights flickered weakly amidst the blaze.
"Damn it!" Howard cursed, standing on the dust-choked asphalt. He had never anticipated the suspect creating an absolute inferno like this. His mind had run through every scenario—civilian hostage, escape via vents—but now he faced a sea of fire, screams, and blood. The command vehicle monitor showed grainy footage from the tactical cams: dark hallways, thick smoke, indistinct shadows. The radio crackled with raw panic: "Team Q, report! Team W, what's your position!" But only screams and static answered. What was left of his teams was now fractured, their focus shifted from pursuing Brisky to civilian rescue.
Inside the building, Brisky crawled out of the restaurant's rubble, dust caking his body. Fresh blood trickled from a wound on his head, spotting his wrinkled trousers that were damp with sweat and sprinkler water.
His torso was bare. The scars and stitches on his skin glistened under the emergency lights. His eyes narrowed, taking in the ravaged restaurant—the floor was a gaping hole, revealing the apartments below, filled with fire and hysterical screams. The night sky was visible, the moon and stars spectators to the destruction. Occasionally, a helicopter spotlight VWRRR-VWRRR arced through the darkness.
His breathing hitched, his chest aching from the wound: *Hah… hah… hah…. He clamped a hand over his nose. His steps faltered as he searched for anything useful. His eyes scanned the bodies strewn across the wreckage—some dead, some crushed by concrete, others moaning in pain. His brow arched, a bitter smile twisting his mouth.
"Tactical Unit?" he rasped, his voice hoarse. "The bastards only sent lambs to slaughter."
Suddenly, a weak voice. "He… lp…" Brisky turned, his eyes piercing the gloom. "Someone's alive," he sighed. He approached the source of the sound, his steps stumbling through the heat and flames. In the corner, a tactical soldier whimpered, her mask cracked.
Brisky crouched, pulling the mask off—a woman's pale face, her left leg severed, blood pooling on the floor. "Sir… please…" she whispered, her voice barely there.
"Help?" Brisky sneered, yet his eyes held a strange bitterness. He ran a hand over her hair, his fingers grimy with dust and blood. "You sacrificed your life for a rotten system. An innocent lamb, dreaming of a hero's death, yet manipulated like a puppet by those bastards." He took the combat knife from her belt, the blade glinting under the firelight. "I will help you." His left hand covered her eyes, then—CRUNCH!—the blade plunged into her heart. The woman went still, her breathing ceased.
Brisky let out a ragged breath, shaking his head. "You were just a casualty of this wretched system," he murmured. He went through the other tactical soldiers, pulling off masks one by one. Among the corpses, he found a Hispanic soldier; the body type was a fit. "Perfect," he muttered.
Quickly, he shucked his wrinkled trousers, donning the tactical uniform—body armor, helmet, and an M4 with a full magazine. The smell of blood, smoke, and burning wiring mixed; the roar of the fire was his soundtrack.
Now disguised as a Tactical Soldier, Brisky moved toward the emergency stairwell. Below, screams and sirens wailed; the rest of Howard's teams were closing in. But concealed within the stolen uniform, he moved like a phantom, ready to carve his own path through the hell he had made—or burn the city to the ground.