John was about to cross Dan Street, and he saw another car flipped on its side diagonally opposite—flames had already been extinguished, thick smoke billowed, and yellow caution tape surrounded the scene of the accident. Police were verifying information from the black body bags and leaving white human-shaped outlines on the ground.
Beep, beep, beep—
A heart-stopping alarm echoed in the city sky.
The special operations team had already begun their slaughter.
Red streaks seemed to penetrate the virtual projections, and the distant sound of automatic guns was transmitted, the vibrations and rumbling made even John in the driver's seat feel it.
Tat-tat-tat.
Raindrops fell on the engine hood.
John accelerated, quickly distancing himself from the area, racing along the oil-slicked black asphalt road, weaving through neon-flooded puddles until the rooftop of the Bolago Club's underground parking garage blocked the rain.
