The interface of the System remained suspended in Evan's field of vision, a ghostly overlay against the blurred lights of Moscow passing outside the taxi window. It was a utilitarian piece of hardware—no glitzy animations, no cryptic riddles. It was built for one thing: efficiency.
He focused his mind on the "Newbie Mission" icon. With a mental tap, the notification dissolved into a shower of digital sparks.
Immediately, the zeros in his Attribute and Skill point columns flickered and climbed to '1'. But it was the new entry under his skill tree that caught his eye.
[Active Skill: Overclock]
Description: Pushes the nervous system and muscle fibers beyond biological safety limits. Subjective perception of time slows (Bullet Time). All physical attributes are doubled for 10 minutes.
Cooldown: 24 hours. Side effects: None.
Evan felt a predatory chill run down his spine. In a world of elite spies and high-tech gadgets, this wasn't just a skill—it was a god-complex in a bottle. Doubling his attributes meant crossing the line from "peak human" to "urban legend." It was the ultimate "break glass in case of emergency" button.
He looked at his remaining points. Survival in the field wasn't about being good at everything; it was about being the most dangerous thing in the room when the lights went out.
He poured his single Attribute Point into Constitution.
The change wasn't subtle. A surge of white heat erupted from the base of his spine, radiating outward like a pressurized wave of molten lead. It flooded his marrow, stitched his muscle fibers tighter, and hammered his heart into a more powerful rhythm. It felt like soaking in a pressurized hot spring—painful for a heartbeat, then intoxicatingly comfortable.
When the heat receded, Evan felt dense. His senses were sharper, his skin more sensitive to the vibration of the car's engine. He clenched his fist, and the leather of his glove creaked under a grip that could likely crush a windpipe like a dry twig. He was now an 8—surpassing the world's most elite Olympic decathletes.
Next, he turned his attention to the Skill Point. He didn't hesitate. He dropped it into Shooting.
The Lv.4 "Marksman" label vanished, replaced by a gleaming Lv.MAX.
The feedback was violent. A torrent of data—ballistics tables, windage calculations, the "feel" of a thousand different triggers, and the muscle memory of a million rounds fired in every theater of war imaginable—rammed into his skull. Evan hissed through his teeth, gripping the door handle until the metal groaned.
When he opened his eyes, the world looked different. He looked at the back of the driver's head and subconsciously noted the exact point where a 9mm round would need to enter to ensure instant spinal collapse, accounting for the angle of the seat and the thickness of the skull.
Using the shadow of the front seat as cover, he reached into his personal storage space—a shimmering void only he could access—and withdrew his sidearm. The moment his palm met the grip, the weapon felt like an extension of his own skeleton. He didn't just hold the gun; he felt the tension in the firing pin. Within its effective range, he didn't need to aim. He simply knew where the lead would land.
"We're here, comrade," the driver grunted, pulling the Lada to a jerky halt.
The train station loomed—a relic of industrial ambition now surrendered to rust and neglect. Evan tucked his weapon away, pulled a five-dollar bill from the void, and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
"Keep the change," he said, his voice dropping an octave into a cold, professional rasp.
He stepped out into the biting wind, his black coat fluttering like a raven's wings. He bypassed the main entrance, instead cutting through a path choked with waist-high weeds and the skeletal remains of old freight crates. A dozen meters ahead, several trains sat like slumbering iron beasts on the tracks.
He moved with a new fluidity, a predator's grace. He found the green carriage—Number 47.
He located the manifest panel near the door, his fingers dancing over the hidden latches. He lifted the mesh iron cover to reveal a keypad glowing with a faint, ghostly blue light. He punched in the encryption code, then leaned in as a retinal scanner slid out with a mechanical whir.
"Agent confirmed," a synthesized female voice whispered.
The rolling shutter hissed upward, revealing a yawning maw of darkness. Evan stepped inside. As the shutter slammed shut behind him, sealing out the Russian night, the interior lights flickered on, bathing the high-tech mobile command center in a sterile, oceanic blue.
"Don't move! Let me see your hands! Now!"
The command was sharp, jagged with adrenaline. Evan didn't flinch. He raised his hands slowly, palms open, his eyes adjusting instantly to the glare.
To his left, a man with a frantic blonde buzz cut and nervous eyes leveled an HK G36C at his chest. To his right, a woman with striking features and long, dark hair held a SIG SG 552 with the steady, cold gaze of a seasoned killer.
Benji Dunn and Jane Carter, Evan noted. The heart and the muscle of Hunt's inner circle.
"Who the hell are you?" Benji asked, his finger tightening dangerously on the trigger. He looked like a man who had seen too many things go wrong in the last hour.
Evan's brow furrowed. He understood the protocol, but he had a visceral, ingrained loathing for having barrels pointed at his heart. "Put the toys down," he said, his voice sounding like gravel over silk. "I'm the help."
"We didn't call for help," Jane countered, taking a predatory step forward. "And we didn't get a flash-code for a third party. Give me one reason not to put a hole in you."
Evan sighed. He wasn't in the mood for a debate. "You wouldn't believe the reason even if I gave it to you."
The moment Jane tightened her stance, Evan moved.
To the agents, it looked like he had simply ceased to be a solid object. Evan's 8-point Constitution turned his sudden lung into a blur of black wool and lethal intent.
Jane saw a flash. Before she could squeeze the trigger, a hand like a vice clamped onto her wrist. Evan didn't just grab her; he used her own momentum against her, snapping her arm downward with a sickening crack of bone against the floor. The SIG rifle clattered away, useless.
In the same heartbeat, Evan pivoted on his left heel. His right leg whipped around like a steel cable, his boot connecting squarely with the barrel of Benji's G36C just as the technician tried to compensate.
The kinetic energy was massive. Benji felt his hands go numb as the rifle was ripped from his grip by the sheer force of the kick, sent spinning across the carriage to smash into the far wall.
Jane was a professional; she didn't scream. She lunged, throwing a vicious left hook toward Evan's ribs while driving her knee toward his groin in a textbook Krav Maga execution. It was a move designed to end a fight permanently.
Evan didn't dodge. He turned his hip, taking the knee strike on the densest part of his bone—hardened by the system's upgrade—and used his elbow to deflect her punch. The impact felt like hitting a stone pillar.
Before she could reset, Evan's hands moved like striking cobras. One hand caught her under the armpit; the other hooked the inside of her raised knee. With a guttural grunt, he heaved.
Bang!
Jane was launched through the air, colliding with Benji as he tried to scramble for a backup sidearm. They went down in a tangled heap of limbs and tactical gear.
Before they could even draw breath to curse, Evan reached into the air—seemingly drawing a pistol from thin air—and chambered a round with a metallic clack that sounded like a death knell in the quiet carriage.
"Don't move," Evan said.
The muzzle was a black hole, perfectly steady, centered exactly between the two of them. He wasn't even breathing hard.
He calmly adjusted his suit jacket, smoothed out a wrinkle on his sleeve, and sat down on a nearby equipment crate, looking for all the world like a man waiting for a bus.
"Agent Carter, Agent Dunn," he said, nodding to them with a terrifyingly polite smile. "Let's try this again without the theatrics."
"You son of a..." Jane growled, clutching her bruised wrist and glaring at him with pure murder in her eyes.
"I'm truly sorry for the rough start," Evan said, his tone casual. "I just find that people listen better when they aren't hiding behind triggers."
As if on cue, the carriage gave a low, rhythmic shudder. The train began to groan into motion, the wheels grinding against the tracks as it pulled away from the abandoned station.
The rolling shutter at the far end of the car hissed open. Evan didn't turn his head, but his peripheral vision locked onto the two figures who burst into the room.
One was a man whose face was etched with a mixture of exhaustion and unbreakable resolve. He was handsome, but in a rugged, worn-down way that suggested he had spent the last decade running from explosions.
Ethan Hunt had arrived. And for the first time in a long time, the legendary IMF leader looked like he was the one who had walked into a trap.
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