CHAPTER 289: PAINT THE TARGET

The pink was still dripping from my collar when I hit full sprint.

People were shouting, sidestepping, pulling phones out to film—but I didn’t have time to care. The girl ahead of me had already crossed the street, darting between a delivery van and a honking sedan, backpack bouncing against her shoulder blades with every stride. She moved fast, too fast for a casual student. Low to the ground, knees high, arms tight to her ribs. Efficient. Practiced.

She wasn’t just running.

She’d done this before.

I vaulted over a short railing, cut across a flower stall, and followed her lead onto the next sidewalk. "Move!" I barked at a crowd of teens in my way, shoving past them before they could react. One of them shouted my name—my real name—but it sounded distant, drowned by my own pulse in my ears.

She banked left.

An alley.

Tight.

No space to maneuver.

Good.

I followed her into the narrow corridor of dumpsters and graffiti-tagged brick. The scent of rot and oil clawed at my nose. She skidded halfway down and grabbed the side of a metal crate—kicked off it mid-motion and launched herself at a fence.

I didn’t slow.

She climbed like she’d rehearsed it. Two steps up the mesh, one boot over the lip, then she vanished over the edge.

Too slow.

Almost.

I reached the fence just as her heel disappeared. Grabbing the mesh, I hoisted myself halfway, grit grinding into my fingers as I swung a leg up—and felt the whole frame rattle under my weight.

Not secure.

The fence groaned, leaned back—but held.

I was over in seconds.

She was already down the next block, shouldering through a row of outdoor tables set up for breakfast service. Orange juice spilled. A man cursed. She didn’t look back.

I cursed under my breath.

But I was gaining.

I saw it in her stride—just a hint of fatigue. Her breath was quickening. Form slipping. The paint might’ve hit me, but she’d dropped precious time preparing it. She wasn’t built for endurance.

I, on the other hand, had skills like Endurance Boost and Physical Recovery Efficiency which made stamina practically a second thought right now.

One more minute.

That’s all I needed.

She cut right again—this time into a low parking structure. Shaded, dim, concrete echoing her every step like a sonar ping.

I followed into the gloom, boots hitting the ramp with heavy impact. It took a second for my eyes to adjust—but I caught her silhouette near a stairwell.

She threw open the door and vanished inside.

I slammed into it seconds later.

Up.

We were going up.

Two flights. Then three. My legs were starting to burn a bit. My coat clung wetly to my back. She was quick, but she hadn’t expected pursuit this long. That much was obvious now.

Fourth floor. Fifth.

Suddenly she stopped.

Half-turned.

A flash of something in her hand.

—Metal glint—

I ducked just in time as a collapsible baton whipped through the air. It cracked against the railing behind me with a sharp ring.

She hadn’t expected me to dodge.

Her eyes widened—first crack in her mask.

I lunged.

She jumped.

Literally.

Straight through the open stairwell toward the next landing down.

My heart stalled.

She hit the lower platform with a jarring thud, rolled hard on her shoulder, and bolted back down the way we came.

I landed one floor below her, slightly off-balance, pain spiking up my ankle. Didn’t stop.

I was going to lose her if I hesitated.

We burst back into the garage.

She shot toward the far side—and pulled something from her bag.

A set of keys.

Wait. No.

A remote.

She aimed it at a car.

The headlights blinked.

She dove into the driver’s seat.

I swore and broke into a dead sprint across the concrete.

She fumbled the ignition—three seconds, four—and the engine stuttered to life.

Five.

I leapt for the passenger door.

It locked.

Too late.

The tires screeched as she reversed fast, fishtailing, then roared forward.

She was heading for the exit ramp.

Not if I could help it.

I took a sharp detour to the pedestrian stairwell, flying down steps two at a time. Cut across a second ramp. My lungs screamed for air. My vision tunneled.

I saw her car coming around the bend.

No time to think.

I jumped the railing, boots slamming onto the hood of a parked vehicle below, rolled off—landed in front of her.

She hit the brakes.

I dove sideways.

Too slow to block her escape—but enough to startle her.

The car jerked right.

Clipped a pillar.

The front bumper crunched with a burst of sparks.

She cursed—finally a sound of frustration—and kicked the door open.

Back on foot.

She abandoned the vehicle and ran for the exit.

We burst into daylight together.

My boots scraped pavement as I gave chase. Her breath was ragged now. She was fast, but her stride was off. Backpack heavy. One shoe slightly loose.

Sloppy.

She ducked into another alley.

Big mistake.

No crowd cover.

Nowhere to hide.

I followed her through the narrow space, dodging trash bags and a swinging laundry line. Ahead, she paused—only for a heartbeat—and pulled a canister from her coat.

Another paint bomb?

No.

This time it hissed.

Gas.

A cloud of violet smoke erupted mid-run, curling thick around us.

Smart.

But not good enough.

The smoke was thick, choking visibility—but I didn’t need my eyes. A faint outline in reds and golds flickered ahead of me. Thermal Perception kicked in, overlaying her movements like a phantom drawn in heat.

I accelerated.

I caught the edge of her backpack.

She twisted, elbowed hard—hit my ribs.

I grunted.

Let go.

But not for long.

She hit the end of the alley and tried to vault the chain-link fence ahead.

Slower this time.

She was running out of steam.

I grabbed her ankle mid-climb and yanked.

She fell hard—half-over, half-down, landing flat on the pavement.

I was on her a second later.

One knee on her back.

Hands locking down her wrists.

"You’re under arrest," I said between breaths, voice low but firm. "Don’t move."

She stopped struggling.

The smoke thinned.

People were starting to gather.

Phones raised.

Whispers.

Paint still clung to my coat.

Her cheek was pressed to the concrete.

And for the first time—

She looked scared.

But not of me.

Of what was coming next.

And I intended to find out why.