After the exchange ended, Alhaitham didn't linger. He got into the institute's car and headed straight back to the hotel.
En route, Alhaitham gazed quietly at the scenery, then suddenly turned to the driver. "This isn't the way to the hotel."
Driver: "It's a shortcut—only locals know it."
"Oh." Alhaitham answered as though he believed him.
The driver relaxed—until a hand shot from behind, seized his hair, and slammed his head against the window. Blackness swallowed him.
Alhaitham hauled the unconscious driver into the passenger seat, steadied the wheel with one hand, and slid into the driver's seat.
The whole maneuver took under ten seconds; the car wobbled, then straightened and sped on.
Alhaitham recalled the route and was about to turn right.
A car roared up behind and rammed his rear bumper. "Tch—missed the turn."
Two more cars flanked him, closing in.
Their windows dropped; guns poked out, trained on Alhaitham.
He ignored them, floored the accelerator, and surged forward; bullets thudded into the back half of the car.
When the henchmen realized they'd missed, they swung their muzzles toward the tires.
Bang—Alhaitham felt the car lurch. Unfazed, he eased off slightly, then wrenched the wheel and rammed the car on his right.
The impact caught the right-hand driver off guard; the airbag punched him unconscious.
"Two left."
Alhaitham abandoned the crippled car, ducked behind it, and used the Glint Mirror to shred the left pursuer's tire, forcing it to stop.
Three vehicles now blocked the road; the rear car had to halt as well.
Both drivers crept out, guns raised. Alhaitham ghosted behind the left one, side-kicked him five metres through the air, and left him motionless.
The rear driver spun and fired; Alhaitham weaved through the rounds, closed in, grabbed the man's hair and slammed his head to the asphalt—out cold.
Alhaitham surveyed the scene, ignored the bodies, shifted the parked cars to open a single gap, climbed into the least damaged vehicle and drove off.
Minutes later a porsche 356a arrived.
Gin stepped out, surveyed the debris, and sneered. "Trash."
He studied the bullet patterns: unarmed target, armed ambush, zero hits—calling them trash was generous.
He raised his beretta and, without a flicker of pity, dispatched the groaning survivors with clean headshots.
"Boss?" Vodka called.
"Clean this up," Gin ordered.
"Yes, sir."
As Gin turned back, something in the corner of his eye snagged his attention—a car tire.
He crouched. The rubber had been sliced while spinning; no blade left nearby. The cut angle meant a thrown knife had punctured it mid-motion.
Vodka peered over. "What's with the tire, boss?"
Gin's interest sharpened. "It was cut while rolling. In other words, the man hurled a knife hard enough to nail a moving target—impressive eyes, impressive arm." This was getting fun.
"Still too soft—didn't finish a single witness."
Alhaitham, meanwhile, drove to the city outskirts, abandoned the car beyond camera range, walked a stretch, hailed a cab and returned to the hotel.
Next evening he finished dinner and headed back to his room.
The instant he opened the door he sensed an intruder. From its hiding place he drew his blade, Leaf-Cutting Radiance, advanced slowly, rounded the corner—and found Vodka aiming at him. Alhaitham slashed horizontally.
Vodka froze. Gin yanked him backward by the collar, fired two suppressed rounds to force Alhaitham back.
Alhaitham retreated, hurled his sword; as Gin dodged, he darted behind, reclaimed the spinning blade and swung.
Gin spun levelled his gun at Alhaitham's head; the sword halted a breath from Gin's throat.
Neither man's expression shifted under the shadow of death.
"Care to test whether my bullet or your blade is faster?" Gin asked.
Alhaitham pressed steel to Gin's neck. "Feel free."
"…"
"I'm curious—why target me? I'm just a frail scholar; even if I noticed the surveillance, what could I do?"
"Frail scholar?" Gin scoffed, eyeing the weapon. "That's a funny definition of frail."
"Merely necessary self-defence."
"…"