"Specter-7, are you in position?"
"Yep."
"What is the current location of the target?"
"Hm. He's just crossed the south entrance of the plaza. Near the old bus stop. Bald head, black coat, cap pulled low. Walking like he owns the ground under his feet. He's certainly an arrogant bastard. Tch. Why are low level psychos always so arrogant?"
"Confirm visual."
"Confirmed. Visual is clean."
"Any civilians in close proximity?"
"A few I suppose. Two smokers by the vending machines, one couple arguing about something pointless. Nothing within the immediate line. If he keeps moving at this pace, he'll clear the crowd in thirty seconds."
"Understood. Maintain observation."
"Already doing that."
High above the plaza, perched on the edge of a partially collapsed rooftop, the speaker lay prone with practiced stillness.
She was a young woman with short crimson hair, tied loosely to keep it from catching the wind, though a few strands still slipped free and brushed against her cheek. The warm light of the late afternoon sky painted her in shades of amber and red, reflecting faintly in her sharp golden eyes as she looked through the scope of her rifle. The rifle was braced against the ledge with precision, its barrel aligned perfectly with the distant figure below. One gloved finger rested alongside the trigger, not on it. She never rushed that part.
From this distance, the man looked small. Just another shape moving through the world. But the scope brought him close enough to see the shine of his scalp beneath the cap, the subtle tension in his jaw, and the way his coat swayed with each casual step he took.
.
Her cross-shaped earrings caught the light as she shifted her head slightly, adjusting her angle. The city noise below felt distant, muffled, as if separated from her by more than just height.
"Target is entering the open stretch," she said softly into the mic. "No cover ahead."
"Permission to engage will be given shortly."
She did not respond immediately.
Instead, she adjusted the scope by a fraction, aligned the reticle with practiced ease, and exhaled slowly.
From up here, above the chaos and chatter of ordinary lives, Specter-7 waited.
They were not tailing him because he looked suspicious.
They were tailing him because, on paper, he did not exist anymore.
The man in the black coat had been declared neutralized three years ago after a containment failure in a coastal research sector. Official records listed him as deceased. However, that supposedly deceased fellow was walking through a public plaza at nine in the morning like an ordinary civilian.
It was definitely suspicious. The problem was not what he was doing but what he could do.
He was a confirmed Psycho. It was a term given to Shifters who have developed abnormalities inside their brain. Such abnormalities causes them to have murderous tendencies and influence them to harm or kill others. They were certainly troublesome to ordinary people so only special individuals could do with them. Unfortunately, for some reason, these so-called abnormalities also made them more powerful than the standard Ability User or Shifter.
For example, killing a man by destroying a few nerve endings inside their head was entirely possible.
That was why Specter-7's squad existed.
They were a four-person covert response unit designed specifically for rogue Espers who blended in too well. Their job was to observe until confirmation, then erase the anomaly before it escalated into an incident report the public would never be allowed to read.
Specter-7 was the overwatch.
Below her, moving through the city in controlled formation, were the other three.
The first man was known as Gravewire.
Early thirties. Former military signal analyst. He specialized in electronic suppression and psychic interference mapping. If an Esper tried to hijack frequencies, neural implants, or digital infrastructure, Gravewire felt it first. He walked with one hand always near his device pack, constantly scanning reflections and shadows.
The second man was Lockstep.
He was a bit older, probably around his late thirties or so, and built heavier. Former urban tracker and containment specialist. His job was simple and terrifyingly effective. Stay close. Match pace. Never be noticed. If the target bolted, Lockstep was the one who would be there before anyone realized a chase had started.
And then there was the woman named Blackbird.
She was the squad's anchor. She had seen more rogue Espers than the others combined and survived long enough to know that fear was the fastest way to die around people who could hear thoughts bend.
Blackbird was the one who made the calls.
Right now, she was watching the man through sunglasses, her reflection hiding her gaze.
The reason they were trailing him instead of eliminating him immediately was simple.
His esper signature was muted.
Under normal circumstances, this should not be the case with Psycho. They usually couldn't control their murderous impulses and as a result, the flow of the reality distortion created by their Imaginary World was chaotic.
Which raised a far more dangerous question.
Was he suppressing his power?
Or was he waiting?
That was why the squad moved like ghosts through an ordinary morning.
And that was why a random man in a black coat had four shadows following him.
Because if he ever decided to stop pretending to be human, a city block would disappear before anyone could scream.
"...!"
Then something unexpected occurred.
Suddenly, the target ran.
One moment he was walking — unhurried, almost lazy — and the next his posture shifted, straightening his spine as if a switch had been flipped. His foot dug into the pavement and he surged forward, cutting hard to the right, straight into a narrow service corridor between two concrete buildings.
"Shit! "Target is bolting!" Specter-7 cursed. "Damn it, he sensed us somehow!"
"Confirmed. Lockstep," Blackbird ordered, calm as ever. "Go."
"Already on him."
Lockstep broke formation without hesitation.
To anyone else, it would have looked like a bystander suddenly deciding to jog. It wasn't some dramatic chase. He adjusted his pace just enough to close the distance without drawing attention, boots hitting the pavement in perfect rhythm with the fleeing man's stride.
Specter-7 tracked them both through her scope as they vanished into the corridor.
"Visual lost," she muttered, already shifting position. "Repositioning. Gravewire, keep feeding me."
"I've got interference blooming. He's bleeding intent now. He's trying to disorient Lockstep."
Down below, the air twisted.
Lockstep felt it before he consciously registered it. A crawling sensation behind his eyes, like gravity had decided to pull sideways. The walls of the corridor seemed to stretch, angles warping subtly, depth perception slipping just enough to make a misstep fatal.
What sort of ability was this?
"Tch," he grunted, planting his foot hard and forcing momentum through sheer muscle memory. "What a cute trick."
As if in response, the target glanced back and raised one hand.
Out of nowhere, the pressure spiked.
Lockstep's vision blurred, a sharp pain lancing through his skull as something tried to dig into his motor cortex; commands that weren't his own, urging his legs to stop, his balance to fail.
"No," Lockstep growled through clenched teeth.
He then lunged forward like a bloody savage, putting all his strength into the tremendous tackle.