The figure on the roof continues his search, moving with a deliberate pace along the edge of the building. August watches on his own vantage point as the figure pauses, seeming to scan the street below with a pair of binoculars. After a moment, he lowers the binoculars and speaks into a radio, his voice too muffled to make out the exact words. He seems to be reporting his lack of findings, as he shakes his head in frustration before continuing his search.
As time passes, more figures join the search, a total of five now scanning different rooftops.
Quietly, August unfastens his belt, unsheathing his sword with a barely audible whisper of steel against leather. The blade feels familiar and comforting in his grip, its worn hilt fitting snugly in his palm. He holds the sword at his side, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light from the moon.
The figures seem to move closer, their movements more purposeful now, as if they've picked up a new lead. The search seems to be intensifying, with more frequent communication between the figures and a growing sense of urgency in their movements.
August can hear the faint crackle of radios and the occasional muffled voice, the distance and the wind make it difficult to make out the exact words. As he stands up on the roof, sword in hand, the faint crackle of radios grows louder, and he can finally make out some of the words.
"They're here," one voice says, urgency clear in their tone. "Spread out. Check every building. They can't have gone far."
"All I needed to hear. Time to go to work." August leaps from the roof of the building he's on, dropping silently onto another nearby rooftop. His enhanced reflexes and strength allow him to make the jump without a sound, landing in a crouch. The wind whips past as he straightens, the cool night air biting at his skin.
The figures on the surrounding rooftops continue their search, oblivious to your presence for the moment. August spots two of them near the edge, their backs turned to him as they scan the streets below, watching men enter the apartment building where Layla is.
"Layla! Shit!" The thought crashes into August, the fear of her being hurt or worse at the forefront of his mind.
He doesn't hesitate. He moves like a phantom across the rooftop, closing the distance between him and the two figures in an instant. The first doesn't even register his presence before August's sword slices cleanly through the back of his knee, severing tendons and dropping him with a choked cry. The second barely has time to turn before August slams a boot into his chest, sending him sprawling over the edge.
"No time to watch him fall to his death." August's focus snaps to the apartment building below as more men push inside. His grip tightens on the sword. He has to move fast. Without a second thought, he sprints toward the ledge and jumps, the night swallowing him whole as he descends to the second window of the apartment, landing in the living room. He moves to stand by the door to the stairs, sword in hand, ready and waiting.
August's keen senses pick up the soft creak of footsteps from within the building. The men have entered through the ground floor, their boots echoing faintly as they begin their methodical search. He can hear them speaking, their voices growing closer as they ascend the stairs. "Check every room," one commands. "They can't have gone far."
The sound of boots on stairs grows closer, accompanied by the faint crackle of a radio. The first man reaches the top of the stairs and opens the door, his eyes scanning the empty living room. Before he can react, a flash of metal finds his throat in a spray of crimson. The second man, just behind him, manages to pull his weapon as August's blade clears the first target, but his second strike is faster, catching him in the chest.
The man staggers back, blood welling from the wound, but August's third swing cleaves through his neck, ending his life instantly.
The third man, seeing his companions' fate, lunges for the radio at his belt, trying to call for help. "The Swordswoman is here!" But it's too late.
August closes the distance between them in the blink of an eye, his blade flashing in the dim light. His strike is swift and precise, the blade slicing through the man's hand and into his chest. He collapses to the ground. Silence falls, the only sound is the faint drip of blood from the blade.
Behind him, August hears Layla's voice from the bedroom.
"August!" Layla's voice is sharp with fear as she shouts his name. The echoes of her distress carry through the building, mixing with the fading sounds of violence.
August notices a new voice coming from the radio still clutched in the corpse's severed hand, more commanding than the others: "Sector 4 reports no contact, but heavy resistance. Aerial units, converge on that location."
August grabs the radio, silencing it with a swift motion before moving swiftly through the living room towards the bedroom. Layla's voice grows louder as he opens the door, her fear palpable. He finds her huddled near the window, her rifle clutched tightly in her hands.
Her eyes widen as she sees him, relief and fear warring on her face. "What happened? I heard... I heard..." She trails off, unable to voice the horrors she imagined in the living room.
"Just some idiots trying to get in." August's voice is casual as he explains, then changes to a gentle tone. "You okay?"
Layla swallows, gripping her rifle tighter before nodding. "Yeah… I just—" She exhales shakily, steadying herself. "I thought something happened to you."
August watches her for a moment, then steps closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm fine. You're fine. They didn't get close to you." His tone is firm, reassuring—practical as always, but with an edge of softness he reserves for moments like this.
Layla lets out another breath, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. "I know. It's just—hearing it, knowing you were fighting right there…" She shakes her head, forcing a wry smile. "I guess I need to get used to it."
August gives a small smirk. "You already are." Then his expression darkens, his eyes flicking toward the window. "But we're not done yet."
The distant sound of helicopter rotors echoes through the streets, growing steadily louder.
"W-what is that?" Layla's voice is tinged with fear.
August says nothing. Instead, he smiles as the sound of the helicopter rotors grows louder, a glimmer of hope in the tense atmosphere.
Layla's eyes widen at his reaction, confusion and fear warring on her face.
"That's our way out," August explains, gesturing towards the window. The helicopter is still some distance away, but it's clear it's heading in their direction.
Layla's grip on the rifle tightens, her knuckles white. "Our way out? You mean…"
"Stay here and get the bags ready, while I get our new ride."
Layla's face contorts in disbelief, her grip on the rifle tightening. "You... you can't just take a helicopter. It's not that simple. What if they see you?" Her words spill out in a rush, driven by a rising panic. She glances towards the window, the sound of the helicopter now a steady thrum. "And how? How can you get that helicopter? It's not like you can just... just take it."
August chuckles, shaking his head. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do." He steps toward the window, rolling his shoulders. "And if they see me? Even better. Means they won't see you."
Layla glares at him, her expression torn between frustration and worry. "That doesn't make me feel better, August."
He smirks. "Wasn't meant to."
The rotor noise grows louder, wind whipping through the streets as the helicopter nears. Its searchlight sweeps over the rooftops, hunting for movement. August watches it for a moment, calculating. Then he glances at Layla, his tone dropping to something quieter, more serious. "Get the bags. Stay low. The moment I've got control, I'll swing back around for you."
Layla hesitates, her jaw tightening. "And if you don't"
August turns toward the window, crouching slightly. "Then you'll know I screwed up," he says simply. Then, without another word, he climbs out and scales up the side of the building.
August hurries to the roof of the building, his breath steady despite his urgency. Once standing, dust and debris swirl in the rotor wash, and the thumping of the helicopter blades vibrates through his chest. The aircraft circles lower as August jumps to higher elevation, its spotlight sweeping the neighborhood rooftops. The searchlight nearly catches him, forcing him to duck low behind a metal vent, his heartbeat unshaken but his muscles coiled. His enhanced vision allows him to pick out the details of the cockpit—two pilots, scanning the streets below, oblivious to the predator now eyeing them from nearby.
The helicopter dips closer, banking slightly to adjust its angle. August sees his chance and takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders, feeling the tension in his limbs coil like a compressed spring. He takes three long strides back, gauging the distance, his mind already mapping the trajectory.
Then he bolts forward, each step deliberate, propelling himself toward the ledge with inhuman acceleration. The moment his foot hits the very edge, he launches himself into the air, arms tucked in tight as he clears the gap between the rooftop and the machine.
The force of the rotor wash buffets him mid-air, threatening to throw him off course. He twists his body instinctively, adjusting, reaching—his fingers scrape against cold metal. His grip locks onto the landing skids, the sheer force of his impact causing the aircraft to jolt slightly. The pilots react, one of them shouting something, but August is already moving, swinging his body upward to gain better leverage.
His muscles coil and snap with animal precision as he pulls himself up, his feet finding purchase against the skids. The helicopter sways under the unexpected weight, and the pilots react, glancing around in confusion. He makes it to the cockpit just as the chopper veers into a wide turn. With a burst of strength, he swings his body through the side door, landing inside with a fluid roll.
The pilot, a seasoned man in his late 40s, is caught off guard. His hand shoots down to the sidearm at his waist, but August's movement is a blur. With a sudden twist of his neck, the pilot's head jerks at an unnatural angle, the sickening crack of bone cutting through the noise of the chopper. He slumps, lifeless, against the seat, his body a useless weight.
The co-pilot, a young Afghan man, freezes in terror as he watches his commander's life snuffed out with brutal efficiency. His hands shoot up, trembling as they hover in the air. His voice cracks under the pressure, his words tumbling out in frantic urgency.
"Please, don't kill me," he pleads, his breath shallow. "I just fly. I don't want trouble. I... I'm not like them. Please..."
August stares at him, his gaze cold, unreadable. For a moment, he considers the young man's fear—the desperation in his eyes—and then he speaks, his voice low and steady. "You've got one chance. Do exactly what I say. Or I will drop you where you are."