... ... Over!
"Damn it!" Howard slammed his hand onto the command table.
"Team R, report again!" he shouted into the radio.
His voice was hoarse, choked with panic.
Only static hissed back.
His face was flushed. Veins bulged in his neck.
"All remaining teams, proceed to the 50th floor now!" he ordered. His marine cadence was a mix of fury and raw fear.
"Rita!" he called. His eyes were wild as he stared at his assistant, who ran toward him, tablet in hand.
"Yes, Sir!" Rita answered sharply.
However, her hand, gripping the tablet, betrayed the tremor of pure fright behind her cool expression.
She quickly contacted the bomb squad.
Then she sprinted toward the medical station.
Her quick steps were lost in the chaos of sirens and screams.
Howard slumped into the command chair, his breath heavy.
The monitors showed only muzzle flashes and blurred shadows from the remaining tactical team cameras.
"How the hell am I going to explain this to the press?" he muttered to himself.
Too many casualties.
He rubbed his forehead, trying to calm his thoughts.
In his 20-year career as an operations commander, he'd never faced a disaster this absolute.
"This suspect... he's too reckless. This isn't a common crime, this is terrorism," he growled, his voice low.
A file marked "Brisky Corwin" lay on the desk.
Howard snatched it, his eyes narrowing as he read the name.
"No prior record. This guy appears a few days ago with a rap sheet that long?"
He crushed the file until it crinkled, then threw it to the floor.
"The brass are idiots," he cursed, a cynical edge to his voice. "This has to be a conspiracy."
He strode out of his mobile command post, staring at the apartment building now engulfed in flames.
The roar of helicopters, the footfalls of medics, and the scream of sirens mixed with the acrid smell of smoke and blood.
His gaze was vacant.
Fixed on the high floor.
Glittering under the helicopter spotlights
***
Inside the Apartment Building
Brisky stumbled down the fire escape.
His left hand clamped over his bleeding stomach.
Each step left a red trail on the slick concrete floor.
Cough... cough... Blood surfaced in his mouth.
Thick smoke worsened the constriction in his chest.
His vision sometimes faded to black. Mustering his last ounce of strength, he fought back the pain—a thousand needles stabbing his body.
His ears filtered the noise: the roar of the fire, the hiss of the sprinklers, and the thunder of the choppers overhead. His eyes, though blurry from the smoke, remained sharp and alert.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Footsteps from the floor below grew closer—quick, rhythmic, and disciplined.
Brisky ripped the emergency door open and stepped into the hallway.
He pressed his ear against the door, listening to the approaching thump of combat boots.
His breath ragged, his mind remained cold and focused—counting the seconds.
Suddenly: "Huwaa… huwaa!"
The cry of a baby shattered his concentration.
Brisky let out a soft sigh.
His brow furrowed in annoyance, but a cynical smile curved his lips.
"New plan," he thought.
He moved away from the door, following the sound of the wailing.
The hallway was dark, stuffy, filled with the black fog of the fire from the floors above. Small debris littered the scorched carpet.
Brisky reached a unit.
The door was ajar, venting a metallic scent mixed with smoke.
The baby's cries were unmistakable now.
Brisky tracked through the room until he reached the kitchen.
A woman was sprawled there, clutching a baby to her chest. On the wall, a tilted family portrait seemed to be crying as it gazed upon the chaos.
The woman's head was bleeding, a red smear marking the corner of a cracked kitchen counter. Shattered plates and utensils lay scattered on the floor.
Brisky knelt down, checking the woman's pulse—nothing.
He stroked her black hair with his bloody hand, leaving a crimson stain on the strands.
Brisky looked down at the baby boy, about five months old. He was still weeping in his mother's embrace.
Brisky's face was devoid of expression as he lifted the baby with both hands.
The baby's crying suddenly stopped.
Innocent, round eyes stared up into Brisky's, which were hidden behind a blood-splattered tactical mask.
Strangely, the baby smiled.
His tiny hands reached out, as if trying to grasp the mask. A cheerful, typical baby laugh echoed, showing gummed, toothless gums.
"For a moment…," Brisky thought. "I almost forgot why I was doing this."
Brisky paused, his head tilted. The baby's tiny hand brushed against the mask.
With a slow movement, Brisky settled the baby in one arm, then removed the mask.
His face was revealed—brown eyes burning strangely beneath caked blood, a gash on his cheek, and a bruise on his jaw.
The baby laughed harder. "Heehee! Haha!"
The small hands reached for Brisky's cheek. Occasionally, the baby hiccupped. His eyes sparkled without fear.
For a moment, Brisky froze.
A machine losing its program.
A single tear slid from the corner of his eye, landing on the baby's small hand.
His gaze was vacant, submerged in the baby's joyful laughter. The innocent face seemed to reflect his own reflection—a former self, when his face was clean, warm, full of color.
Suddenly, a memory slammed into him like a shard of glass.
His eyes twitched, his pupils widening. The pain from his stomach vanished. The wounds felt cold, as if freezing. The blood in his arm seemed to stop flowing.
Time, for Brisky, shattered in two. He wasn't pulled; he was dragged back into the past…
***
Flashback....
A sliver of yellow morning sunlight crept through the gaps in the modest house, bringing a blanket of warmth.
The sound of spices being chopped, the busy murmur of boiling water, and the scent of strong coffee filled the peaceful morning.
A five-person family photo was mounted on the wall. Below it, a low cabinet displayed trophies, one marked: "Brisky Corwin: First Place Regional High School Boxing." An acoustic piano stood neatly across from it.
Beside it was a comfortable green sofa. A seventeen-year-old sat there. His breathing was calm, his eyes fixed on the book in his hands.
The sound of the tube television and the shouts of the two children in front of him did not affect his tranquility at all.
"Ugh..!" sighed Cecilia, a ten-year-old girl. Her shoulder-length black hair swayed with her movements. In her hands, she clutched a PS1 controller. Cecilia's face was flushed, her brown eyes blazing.
"Yeaa! I won again!" yelled Mikhael, a twelve-year-old boy with spiky brown hair. Mikhael jumped gleefully, sticking his tongue out with a cheeky flourish, successfully annoying Cecilia further.
"I quit!" Cecilia declared. Her cheeks puffed out in frustration, and she slammed the controller to the floor.
She quickly walked over to Brisky.
"Hmmp!" Mikhael only snorted, continuing his game.
"Big Brother Brisky," Cecilia called softly.
She quickly climbed onto his lap, leaning her head on his chest. "What are you reading, Brother?"
Brisky smiled warmly, running his hand through his sister's hair.
"The Old Man and the Sea," he answered, his voice gentle and as serene as lake water.
"Uhh!" Cecilia's face filled with confusion as she read the words in Brisky's book.
"Kids! Breakfast is ready!" Laura, a brown-haired, blue-eyed woman, called from the kitchen. Her voice echoed throughout the modest house.
Laura stepped out, carrying chicken soup. Steam billowed, and the wonderful aroma instantly spread.
David, a man with short black hair and brown eyes, was sitting and reading the newspaper. A cup of coffee rested in front of him. He inhaled the delicious scent of the cooking, and his stomach rumbled.
David immediately folded his newspaper.
***
The five of them gathered around the dining table, laden with side dishes. The clinking of silverware and plates resonated in the quiet, warm room. Occasionally, Mikhael teased Cecilia. David and Laura smiled. Brisky calmly brought the food to his mouth.
"Son..." Laura's low voice called him.
"Don't forget, you have your routine psychiatric check-up with Dr. Thomas today," she continued.
Brisky swallowed his food, placing the silverware down.
He nodded calmly.
"Yes, Mother," his voice polite and controlled.
However, Brisky's hand holding the silverware trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"Brother! When will you fight again?" Mikhael interrupted, mimicking a stiff sparring motion.
"Don't bother Brother, hmmp!" sighed Cecilia.
Brisky smiled gently at his two younger siblings. His two hands stroked their hair.
"After we finish eating, let's spar, Son," David said with a proud smile.
They resumed their meal in quiet order.
***
Hyacinths lined the back of the modest house, blooming in purple and white. They sharply contrasted the simple gym equipment in the corner: a pair of rusty barbells and a battered punchbag.
Brisky and his father, David, stood in the small yard, wearing boxing gloves and headgear. David's eyes were full of vigor. By the back door, Mikhael and Cecilia sat on the steps, their eyes twinkling as they watched.
Whoosh! David's left jab landed, but Brisky nimbly slipped right, countering with an uppercut. David moved back with swift footwork, avoiding the strike.
"Hooray!" Cecilia cheered, biting her nails gleefully, while Mikhael jumped around, mimicking boxing movements.
Between the exchange of blows, Brisky tossed out a question, his voice relaxed despite his heavy breathing. "Dad, what does the name Brisky mean? Mom said you chose it." He threw a left hook, which David dodged with a bob and weave.
David's eyes twinkled. "The name has three meanings," David replied warmly. "First, 'quick'—like that move you just made. Second, it's short for 'bright sky.' I want you to be a shelter for the people around you."
He launched a jab-cross combination, which Brisky blocked with his guard.
"And third," David continued, "it's short for 'be brave, take a risk, limit to the sky.'"
Thud!
David's right cross landed flush on Brisky's lip—harder than he'd intended.
Fresh blood welled up.
It trickled down his chin.
The world seemed to slow.
Brisky stared at the blood.
His pupils dilated.
An alien, cynical smile cracked across his face.
"Damn," David muttered, recognizing the change in his son's eyes.
"Laura!" he yelled loudly.
Mikhael and Cecilia, who had been cheering, froze. Cecilia ran into the house, followed by Mikhael, who stumbled in panic.
Brisky, seemingly possessed, attacked blindly.
His strikes were wild, uncontrollable.
He hunted David like a predator.
David, with years of coaching experience, parried and dodged, but Brisky was too fast.
Wham! A punch landed on David's stomach, followed by a hook to the temple.
Crack! The skin on David's temple split open. Blood sprayed onto the dirt.
Laura ran from the house.
A taser gun in her right hand, Dr. Thomas's prescription bottle in her left.
Her face was etched with tension.
BZZZRAAAP!
The taser hit Brisky's back.
His body spasmed, then crumpled forward.
Like a puppet with its strings cut.
The cut on his lip seemed to twitch, as if refusing to bleed any further.
Catching his breath, Laura threw the bottle of medicine to David. He caught it, clutching his throbbing temple, then pushing the pill into Brisky's mouth.
Mikhael and Cecilia rushed over with a glass of water, their small hands shaking. David poured the water into Brisky's mouth, ensuring the pill was swallowed.
Silence blanketed the yard.
The family sat together, catching their breath, gazing at the bright sky that sharply contrasted the tension they had just endured.
"We have to take him back to Dr. Thomas," Laura said, her voice soft but firm, her eyes filled with worry.