Cole lay motionless behind the scope, breath slow, measured—too controlled for a man watching police swarm his work.
Below, the warehouse was a carcass wrapped in yellow tape. LCPD cruisers formed a perimeter, red and blue lights bleeding across cracked concrete. Officers moved carefully through the debris, flashlights probing shadows that still smelled faintly of smoke and cordite.
Cole's Barrett M82A1 rested on its tripod like a patient animal. A thermal blanket draped over his body, breaking up his outline. The scope's ARD swallowed any hint of reflection. From the air, he was nothing. From the street, less.
"Hm…"
Through the glass, he saw them step under the tape.
His jaw tightened.
I thought it might be them.
That confirmed it.
The 99th Precinct moved with a familiarity that made his fingers itch. Not sloppy. Not rushed. Curious—but careful.
"Diaz… Peralta… Boyle."The names surfaced unbidden, dragged up from memory. Cole's thumb hovered near the trigger, not squeezing—just feeling it. "That complicates things."
He exhaled through his nose and spoke quietly. "System. Explain."
The response arrived instantly, emotionless.
[USER IS IN WORLD: UNKNOWN. A WORLD OF CRIME, CARS, AND DRUGS.]
Cole frowned. His eye stayed glued to the scope.
"That's not helpful," he muttered. "This is GTA. That's what you said."
[NEGATIVE.]
His pulse ticked faster—not panic, but irritation edged with something colder.
"You told me this world was GTA."
Below, Diaz crouched near a blood pattern, tracing lines with her eyes. Peralta pointed at tire marks. Boyle hovered, notebook clutched like a shield.
[NEGATIVE. USER WAS INFORMED LOCATION WAS A GRAND THEFT AUTO–BASED REALM. OTHER ELEMENTS ARE PRESENT.]
Cole inhaled deeply. Held it.
Exhaled.
His lips thinned. "How many other elements?"
[UNKNOWN. USER MUST IDENTIFY ADJACENT VARIABLES.]
A flicker of unease slipped through his discipline. He hated blind spots. Lived to eliminate them. And somehow—somehow—he'd missed this one entirely.
"Fuck's sake…"
He was about to settle back into control when realization struck.
Jacob. Badman.
His eyes widened. They hadn't cleaned like he did. They didn't think like he did.
"Fuck."
Cole rolled onto his side, smooth and practiced. The blanket came off in one motion, wrapped tight around the Barrett. He broke the rifle down, slid it into the case, and was moving before the echo of the thought finished forming.
Down the ladder. Fast. Quiet.
His boots hit the pavement and he was already dialing.
"Come on," he muttered. "Pick up, Jacob."
The line rang. Once. Twice. Three—
"Eh, madman, wassup?"
Music blared through the call. Laughter. Chaos. A party.
Cole turned down an alley, hood up.
"Investigators are at the warehouse. Right now."
Silence—then movement. Voices overlapping. Jacob swore, Badman speaking rapid patois in the background.
"Alrie," Jacob said finally, breathing harder. "We clean everything. We got a contact. You lay low. Your stuff—we move it."
"You sure?" Cole said. "If that puts heat on you—"
"Madman." Jacob stumbled over the word, voice firm despite it. "I know you two days before you save my life. You my friend now. I look out for you."
Cole closed his eyes briefly.
"Send the address."
By the end of the week, Jacob and Badman were questioned. Pressed. Watched.
Nothing stuck.
They walked—but the leash stayed tight.
The posse adjusted. Orders moved through phones and couriers instead of meetings. Business went quiet, then remote. Jacob and Badman stayed small, stayed smart.
Cole crossed the Schottler quietly, water slapping against the hull like a warning. Bohan rose ahead of him, grim and familiar in a way the rest of the city suddenly wasn't.
A Puerto Rican woman opened the door without asking questions.
Cole stepped inside, tension coiled tight beneath his skin.
This world wasn't what he'd been promised.
And that made it dangerous in ways bullets couldn't fix.
....
"So… what do we have?"
Jake Peralta stood at the front of the briefing room, hands on hips, smiling like this was a talent show and he was about to juggle crime. His dark hair bounced slightly as he leaned over the table of files and photos.
"Nothing," Rosa said flatly, slamming a stack of photos onto the table like she wanted them to feel pain.
Jake blinked. "Cool. Love a mystery that starts with despair."
"There was a bomb," Rosa continued. "We ID'd the explosive—RDX. Plastic explosive. Manufactured in Tennessee. No black-market distributors in the city, no underground leads. It basically fell out of the sky."
Jake nodded along. "Rude of it."
"We're still chasing alternative leads," Rosa added, her tone suggesting she hated the word alternative.
Jake clicked to the next board. "Which brings us to the victims. Or, as I like to call them—criminal dirtbags."
Rosa did not react.
"These guys," Jake gestured to the burnt fabric and photos now slapped onto the whiteboard, "were members of a Jamaican crime posse. Most likely a deal gone wrong. This charming gentleman—Jahseh—felon, gun runner, drug lord."
He pointed down the line of photos. "The rest of his crew? Also dead. Which really puts a damper on questioning."
Hitchcock raised his hand from the back. "Can't we use a Ouija board?"
"No," Rosa and Jake said in unison.
Jake continued. "Now, they frequently clashed with three known affiliates—Everton, Jevaun, and a guy who legally goes by 'Badman.'"
The photos of the suspects appeared.
"They're under heavy surveillance as we speak. So far, no luck. Just their usual crimes—which we are arresting them for." Jake paused. "Except Badman. He's apparently turned his life around and now lives quietly with his roommate… Jacob."
Scully squinted. "That's the most suspicious one."
"So," Captain Macgintly said, leaning back slightly, "you're telling me we have… no leads."
Jake opened his mouth, confidence fully loaded. "Yes, ah—"
"NO," Rosa cut in. She pulled up two grainy CCTV images. "We do have a lead."
Jake's smile returned instantly. "Yes! Love a good Rosa interruption."
"These images were taken from nearby cameras," Rosa said. "Witnesses reported a suspicious individual leaving the scene hours after the explosion."
The photos showed a man dressed entirely in black—face obscured, features unreadable. Basically a human silhouette.
"During the investigation," Rosa continued, "this person was seen climbing down from a rooftop with a clear view of the warehouse.
Imaging suggests they were carrying something and fled shortly after we arrived. We believe they were returning to clean up the scene."
Jake nodded. "Which is both suspicious and incredibly rude."
"So we're looking at… an unknown… uh… guy," Macgintly said, squinting at the photos like they might blink first.
"Yes," Rosa said. "But we're getting warrants for surrounding CCTV. We'll track their movement."
Macgintly nodded. "Do that. In the meantime, we maintain surveillance on the known suspects and continue digging for additional leads."
He stood. "Alright. What's next?"
Jake grinned. "I dramatically point at the board and say something inspiring?"
Rosa stared at him.
Jake lowered his hand. "Cool. I'll just sit."
....
A week later, the city still hadn't exhaled.
Cole felt it in the way sirens lingered longer than usual, in how helicopters cut slower circles through the clouds, in the way people looked twice before looking away. Liberty City didn't forget violence—it absorbed it, folded it into the concrete, waited to see if more was coming.
He stood by the window of Elizabeta's apartment, curtain pulled back just enough to watch the street bleed by below. Rain-dark asphalt. A dented Sultan idling too long. Two men arguing in low voices near a bodega door.
Patterns. Always patterns.
Elizabeta had been clear: Don't bring heat. Don't ask questions. Don't die in my house.
Cole respected that.
The System, on the other hand, had been unhelpfully quiet.
A soft vibration hummed at the base of his skull—ever-present now, like a second pulse.
You put me here, he thought. At least be honest with me.
No answer came.
He stepped away from the window and checked his gear for the third time that morning. Not weapons—nothing loud, nothing traceable. Burner phone. Cash. A jacket that didn't stand out. Another man in another city, forgettable by design.
The phone buzzed.
JACOB
Blessings, madman. Got work fi yuh. Legit… well. Legit-adjacent. Brucie.
Cole snorted softly. Of course it's Brucie.
"Send the meet," he muttered.
A location followed—industrial gym near Tudor, metal and glass and testosterone.
Cole committed it to memory, erased the message, and was already moving.
Brucie Kibbutz was exactly as advertised.
Loud. Sweaty. Coked-up confidence wrapped in compression shirts two sizes too small. The gym smelled like rust, rubber mats, and desperation masquerading as ambition.
Cole clocked exits first. Two doors. One stairwell. One bad choke point near the lockers. Mirrors everywhere—useful if you knew how to read them.
Brucie noticed him immediately.
"YO!" Brucie boomed, arms spread wide like he was greeting a long-lost brother instead of a stranger recommended by a Jamaican arms dealer. "You the guy Jacob sent, right? Cole, yeah?"
"That's what he calls me," Cole said calmly.
Brucie laughed too hard. "I like you already. Strong silent type. Real killer vibe. You lift?"
"Enough."
Brucie nodded like that was the right answer. "Good. I don't trust skinny guys. Or quiet ones. But Jacob says you're solid. Saved his ass, apparently."
Cole said nothing.
That earned him another nod.
"Alright," Brucie said, clapping his hands. "Here's the deal. I got shipments. Cars.
Sometimes bikes. Sometimes things that fall off trucks. People mess with my supply, I mess with their bones. You help with security, recovery, maybe a little… persuasion."
He leaned closer, eyes bright, manic. "You down?"
Cole studied him—not just the man, but the space around him. The way Brucie filled silence because he couldn't stand it. The way he needed validation, witnesses, noise. Dangerous, but predictable.
"I don't freelance for chaos," Cole said. "I want rules. Clear jobs. Clean exits."
Brucie blinked.
Then grinned wider. "Oh man. You're professional. Love that. Hate it. Love it."
A notification pulsed in Cole's vision, faint and translucent.
[SYSTEM UPDATE]AFFILIATION ESTABLISHED: BRUCIE KIBBUTZRISK: MODERATEPAYOFF: VARIABLEWORLD STABILITY: UNCHANGED
Cole didn't let his expression change.
"What's the first job?" he asked.
That night, back at Elizabeta's, Cole sat on the edge of the bed, jacket draped over the chair, city noise creeping in through cracked windows.
Brucie's work was messy—but it was visible. Legit-adjacent, Jacob had said. That meant eyes were on it, but not the right ones. Not yet.
Cole flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar itch under his skin. Not for violence—but for control.
He finally addressed the thing he'd been avoiding.
"System," he said quietly.
This time, it answered.
[USER STATUS: ACTIVE]
"You dropped me into a world you lied about," Cole said. "Cops that don't belong. Rules that shift. Explain."
A pause—longer than before.
[THIS WORLD IS A CONVERGENCE.][GRAND THEFT AUTO IV IS THE BASE LAYER.][ADDITIONAL VARIABLES HAVE BEEN INTRODUCED.]
Cole's jaw tightened. "Introduced by who."
Another pause.
[NOT BY YOU.]
Silence filled the room, heavier than gunfire.
Cole stood, moving back to the window, eyes scanning the street like it might blink first.
"Then I'll adapt," he said. "Same as always."
Below, Liberty City kept moving—violent, indifferent, alive.
And somewhere inside it, something had noticed him noticing back.
...
The apartment was quiet in the way only criminal safehouses ever were—not peaceful, just paused.
Cole sat at the small kitchen table in Elizabeta's apartment, chair tilted back against the wall, lights off except for the dull orange glow leaking in from the street. A pistol lay disassembled in front of him, parts aligned with obsessive precision. He wasn't cleaning it. He just needed his hands busy.
"System," he murmured.
The air in front of him shimmered, subtle enough that anyone else would've missed it.
[SYSTEM INTERFACE: ACTIVE]
A translucent menu unfolded across his vision—clean, sterile, utterly disconnected from the grime of Liberty City.
SHOP—Explosives—Weapons—Armor—Utilities—Logistics
He selected Explosives.
The list populated instantly.
RDX (MILITARY GRADE)STATUS: AVAILABLETRACE RISK: NONECOST: 250 CREDITS
Cole didn't hesitate.
"Purchase."
A soft pulse hit the back of his skull. On the table, reality folded—air compressing inward for half a second before a vacuum-sealed brick of RDX appeared with a muted thud. No heat. No smell. Perfectly stable.
Cole's eyes flicked to the door out of instinct, then back to the brick.
"Jesus," he muttered. "You don't even pretend."
[SYSTEM SHOP: ADDITIONAL ITEMS?]
"Yeah."
He scrolled.
Detonators.Blasting caps.Timers—digital, analog, pressure-based.
He bought all three.
Next tab.
AMMUNITION
5.56 NATO.50 BMG9mm +P12-gauge buck
Each purchase manifested neatly inside an unmarked duffel that hadn't existed seconds earlier..
Armor came next.
BULLETPROOF VEST (LEVEL IIIA)STATUS: AVAILABLE
Then another.
PLATE CARRIER (LEVEL IV CERAMIC INSERTS)
Cole paused only long enough to calculate weight and mobility.
"Add it."
Utilities followed—burner phones, lockpicks, thermal blankets, suppressors rated far beyond civilian legality. Even medical supplies: tourniquets, clotting agents, painkillers that danced a little too close to combat stims.
When he was done, the apartment looked like a logistics hub for a private war.
Cole leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"No money trail," he said. "No supply chain. No witnesses."
[CORRECT.]
"And no limits."
Another pause.
[LIMITS EXIST. YOU HAVE NOT ENCOUNTERED THEM YET.]
That answer sat wrong in his chest.
He repacked everything methodically, distributing weight, memorizing placement. The RDX went last—hidden, shielded, treated with the kind of respect explosives demanded.
When the duffel zipped shut, he felt ready.
Which meant something bad was coming.
Brucie's first job was simple.
Which immediately told Cole it wouldn't be.
"Alright, bro," Brucie said, pacing beside a matte-black Super GT idling near the docks. "Some Albanian pricks boosted a shipment of mine. Cars, parts, some personal items. They holed up in a warehouse near Port Tudor. You go in, make 'em regret it, bring my stuff back."
Cole adjusted the strap of his plate carrier beneath his jacket. "Security?"
"Light," Brucie said dismissively. "Couple guards. Maybe a lookout. These guys are idiots."
Cole looked at the warehouse.
Too dark. Too quiet. Wrong kind of quiet.
"Any police presence?" he asked.
Brucie shrugged. "Not officially."
That wasn't an answer.
Cole popped the trunk, checked his rifle one last time, and moved.
He didn't rush.
He circled first, boots silent against wet concrete. Counted cameras. Two active, one dead. Windows boarded, but sloppily—fresh nails. Temporary.
They didn't plan to stay.
The lookout spotted him anyway.
Bad luck.
The man shouted in Albanian and raised his weapon.
Cole shot him through the throat.
The sound cracked sharp in the night, echoing off metal. No suppressor—on purpose. Shock mattered.
He was moving before the body hit the ground.
Inside, the warehouse erupted.
Gunfire stitched the air. Cole slid behind a forklift, rounds slamming into steel where his head had been a second earlier. He leaned out, fired twice—center mass, then head. Another man dropped.
Too many.
He counted footsteps. At least eight. Maybe more.
Cole pulled a flashbang from his belt, thumbed it once, and lobbed it overhand.
White light. Screams.
He surged forward, violent and precise. Shotgun at close range. Rifle for distance. Every movement economical, rehearsed, ruthless.
A man charged him with a knife.
Cole stepped inside the swing and broke his neck.
Silence fell in pieces.
Breathing heavy, Cole stood amid bodies and broken crates, adrenaline buzzing just beneath his skin. His mind was already rewinding, cataloguing errors.
Then he noticed the crate markings.
Not Brucie's.
Military stencils. Serial codes scrubbed poorly.
His stomach tightened.
A notification flared.
[SYSTEM ALERT]UNEXPECTED FACTION INVOLVEMENT DETECTEDTHREAT LEVEL: ESCALATING
Cole swore under his breath.
"This fucking shit hole " he whispered.
Outside, sirens began to rise—not close yet, but coming.
Cole grabbed what he could, planted a charge on the rest, and walked away as the explosion rolled behind him, fire blooming against the night like an answer that raised far more questions than it solved.
...
The Super GT rolled into Brucie's garage like it owned the place, engine snarling before Cole killed it. The lights inside buzzed to life, washing over chrome, weights, and Brucie Kibbutz pacing like a caged animal in a tank top that looked painted on.
Brucie turned the second Cole stepped out.
"BRO—what the hell was that?"
Cole didn't answer immediately. He popped the trunk and started unloading what remained of the shipment, calm, methodical, like the night hadn't ended in fire and bodies.
"That," Cole said evenly, "was your 'light security.'"
Brucie threw his hands up. "The docks are crawling right now! Cops everywhere! Sirens, helicopters, some dude with a mustache staring at me like I owe him money!"
Cole finally looked at him. His expression was flat, eyes cold.
"You said idiots," Cole continued. "Idiots don't have military-marked crates. Idiots don't draw that kind of response."
Brucie bristled. "Hey—hey—don't put that on me, man. I didn't know!"
"That's the problem," Cole snapped, irritation finally bleeding through. "You don't know, and now there's heat. Real heat."
Brucie swallowed, agitation replacing bravado. "So what, you saying we're burned?"
Cole zipped the duffel shut. "I'm saying next time you lie to yourself, don't bring me with you."
For a moment, Brucie looked like he might explode.
Then he laughed—sharp, nervous. "Okay. Okay! Lesson learned. You're intense. I like intense. But you did the job. Mostly. That counts."
Cole shouldered the bag. "This was a test run."
Brucie nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Totally. We'll keep things… cleaner. Quieter."
Cole paused at the door.
"Do that," he said. "Or I disappear."
And somehow, that scared Brucie more than the cops ever could.
...
Two hours later, the bullpen at the 99th Precinct was buzzing.
Jake Peralta stood over a cluttered table covered in stills, maps, and blurry security footage. Every image showed the same thing: shadows, motion blur, angles just wrong enough to be useless.
"So," Jake said, clapping his hands once. "Let's recap. We have an unknown male, no face, no name, no fingerprints, and a habit of walking out of crime scenes like he paid rent there."
Rosa leaned over the table, eyes sharp. "He neutralized an armed group in under four minutes. No wasted shots. No panic."
Amy frowned, flipping through notes. "And he avoided every camera blind spot like he mapped them ahead of time."
Boyle raised a hand. "Could he be… like… a ghost?"
Everyone stared at him.
"What?" Boyle said. "I'm just saying, it would explain a lot."
Holt stepped out of his office, hands clasped behind his back. "Detective Boyle. He is not a ghost."
Beat.
"Yet," Gintly added.
Jake squinted at a still frame—nothing but a black silhouette mid-stride. "Okay, but real talk: how does someone leave this little behind?"
Rosa tapped the image. "Because he planned not to exist."
Silence settled, heavier than the jokes.
Gintly nodded once. "Increase surveillance. Cross-reference every known contractor, mercenary, and independent operator in Liberty City."
Amy hesitated. "Sir… what if he's not in any database?"
Jake leaned back, hands behind his head. "Then we're hunting a dude who doesn't want to be found."
Rosa smirked faintly. "Those are usually the dangerous ones."
Holt looked at the board one last time before turning away. "Until he makes a mistake, he is a rumor. And rumors don't get arrested."
The detectives exchanged looks—frustrated, intrigued, uneasy.
Somewhere across the city, in a borrowed apartment that wasn't his and never would be, Cole sat in the dark, gear laid out, breathing slow.
Anonymous.Untraceable.Hunted—but unseen.
For now.