Three days of open plains and broken rock.

That was what he left behind when he finally turned back toward the city.

His body felt different now. Tighter. More responsive.

Every movement carried a precision that was not there before, like the difference between a blade fresh from the forge and one that had finally been sharpened.

The outer road was empty this time of day. Just cracked asphalt stretching in both directions and the faint smell of dry earth rising off the flats.

He slowed as small buildings came into view.

That was when he saw it.

On the highway shoulder, an old black sedan sat with its hood propped open.

A man stood over the engine, one hand braced against the frame, the other holding a rag he was using to wipe something down.

Francis stopped.

He looked at the man. Then at the road ahead. Then back at the man.

His current state was a problem he had not fully addressed yet.

Three days of training in the open had left him with no shirt, no shoes, and nothing below the waist except a pair of torn boxers.

The fabric had held up better than expected, but that was not saying much.

Francis stepped off the roadside and approached.

A crunch of gravel under his feet made the other party look up froom the hood.

The man’s expression cycled through confusion, concern, and something close to secondhand embarrassment, all within the span of two seconds.

"What happened to your clothes?Are you alright? Do you need help?"

"Ah, well. I need your—"

Francis closed the distance in an instant and broke the man’s neck.

"Identity."

He set the corpse down against the tire and crouched beside it.

The face was ordinary. Mid-forties. Slightly wide jaw. A small scar above the left brow. Faint stubble that had not been shaved in a few days.

He studied each feature and began to work.

Parashift activated with a familiar pull beneath his skin.

Starting with the jaw, the bone shifted and softened its sharp lines until it matched the man’s face.

Next came the brow, a small ridge added above the left eye and a faint mark pressed into the right spot.

The stubble was the easiest—he roughened the skin along the jaw and upper lip until it fit the look.

He checked his reflection in the car’s side mirror.

Not perfect. The eyes were still too composed.

He let them go soft. Slightly unfocused.

’Better.’

It would not fool anyone who knew the man personally, but it would work well enough for comparing IDs.

Next, he checked the man’s clothing.

Plain grey shirt. Dark work pants with a grease stain near the right knee. Worn boots that had been re-soled at least once.

Everything fit well enough after minor adjustments.

He pulled out the wallet from the back pocket and opened it.

ID card. Transit pass. A folded receipt from a fuel station. Some cash.

He read the name on the card twice, then let it settle.

’Richard Hale.’

’So my name is Richard now.’ He put the wallet in his own pocket and stood.

He grabbed the body by the collar and carried it off the road in the blink of an eye, disappearing into the dry brush in the distance.

The ground was hard but workable. He dug, buried the body, and smoothed the surface over in under one minute.

No mound. No disruption in the grass line. Nothing that would pull a second look from anyone passing at speed.

After walking back to the vehicle, he checked the fuel gauge.

More than half a tank.

That was the good news.

The bad news announced itself the moment he turned the key.

The engine coughed once, sputtered, and died.

He tried again.

Same result.

Francis sat back and looked at the dashboard. The battery indicator was fine. Fuel was not the issue either.

He got out and checked the hood.

Good thing his operative training covered situations like this — broken vehicles in war zones where a stalled engine could get you killed.

It did not take long for him to find the issue.

’The alternator belt slipped off the housing on one side.’

His eyes shifted lower.

’And that vacuum hose is cracked too. Folded in on itself and choking the airflow.’ He fixed worse with less.

Checking the car’s interior, he found what he needed in the back seat and started fixing the engine. Ten minutes later, he turned the key and it came alive.

’Good enough.’

He adjusted the mirror and pulled back onto the highway.

The highway stayed clear at first, but tension crept in as he moved closer.

Signs of disruption appeared little by little—halted vehicles, distant uniforms, and radios flashing in the hands of soldiers.

Twenty minutes later, the full scene came into view. An actual military blockade stood across the road.

Tanks were positioned ahead, sealing the route completely, and helicopters passed overhead frequently.

Francis drove slowly and watched all of it without expression.

Something happened.

Francis reached forward and turned on the radio for the first time.

Static. Then a voice cutting through it, urgent in the way broadcasters only ever got when the script in front of them was too shocking.

— confirmed at eleven forty seven this morning. The president has been declared dead at the scene. Security forces are currently—

Static swallowed the signal for a moment.

— Covenant has claimed full responsibility for the coordinated strikes.—

— At least seven local government capitol across the country have reported simultaneous attacks, with the capital sustaining the heaviest damage. Citizens are advised to—

Francis turned the volume down until the voice became background noise.

He stared at the brake lights ahead of him.

The president was dead.

Covenant had done it.

This explained the heavy military presence. Not that he was complaining. The more chaotic things became, the easier it was for him to operate.

He was also interested in this so-called Covenant.

They were strong enough to put the whole country in a state of emergency, so there had to be powerful Special Category individuals among them.

Looking up, he saw twelve soldiers at the checkpoint. Two lanes were active. One checked a tablet while the rest stood back with rifles ready.

A dog unit waited off to the side, the handler keeping the leash wrapped tight around his fist.

Twelve cars ahead.

Waiting gave him time to build a background story, piecing it together from the wallet and what he saw inside the car.

He built the character in the time it took the line to move forward twice.

By the time he reached the front, it was already sitting naturally behind his eyes.

The soldier stepped to the window.

"ID."

Francis handed it over without a word.

The soldier looked at the card. Then at him. Then back at the card.

"Richard Hale?"

"Yeah."

"Where are you coming from?"

"Work." He kept his voice flat and slightly worn. "I fix machines at the processing plant off Route 9."

The soldier typed something into the tablet without looking up.

"Any unusual activity in the outer district? Anyone approach you? Anything out of place?"

Francis paused for exactly the right amount of time.

"No."

The soldier gestured toward the dog handler with two fingers.

It moved forward on a short lead, its nose already working before its paws left the ground.

Francis kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes forward.

’Let’s see what it can do.’