Caricatured Sheriff

Openeth the door, heavy and dragged.

The figure I see is a mixture of ordinary and odd. A perfect example of a caricatured sheriff: uniformed, slightly overweight, carrying a frown, mustache and style.

Cornered, I am now destined to face that unique figure. I read his name on the badge he carries hanging from his breast pocket: 'Lieutenant Dotson.'

That original burlesque personality toketh his cigar and only then asketh me, seeking intimidation:

"You are... The Friday bastard?"

I believe I must lack context as to the present situation. Allow me to go back in time and clarify the means which led to such a distressing situation:

Idealize thou the following scene: me and my lady are in the hall of the Pinnacle Hotel, current base of operations of our ascendant Deluxes distributor group. Ma'am is ready. About to leave, she weareth a chiffon summer fashion piece, cut out in order to cover up her beautiful wings from the contestant popular eye.

"Shinobi... Don't forget to get there a little earlier. Maybe the police will meddle in our little operation... It could even be that more distinguished guests will penetrate our little operation. And you're not fit to receive so many distinguished guests, baby. You're not the party host."

"I am afraid I do not agree with such festive term for the description of theft, ma'am."

I expose that two hours from there I am in charge of intercepting an illegal cargo transport in South Gorem, not with the obvious intention of obtaining samples from Deluxes free of charge, but to obtain the invitation to the Uahmyr tournament, which according to informants shall be being transported next to the exquisite cargo.

I cumulate certain curiosity:

"My lady? Where art thou going? Am I alone until the moment I leave?"

My lady tilteth her head back slyly as she explaineth herself:

"Oh baby... Didn't I tell you? Our ham that was stored in the freezer... It was stolen. We have a ham thief! A chicken thief!"

And she professeth those words with such serenity. This is the utmost serious matter.

"But...? How can this be? Is anyone aware of our preference for using the Hotel Pinnacle as remote shelter?"

She turneth completely to me, exquisitely carrying a finger to her chin.

"Who knows? What matters is that the ham is gone. Alexander Sprohic was rekidnapped. I'd like to find him again. And since you have commitments... I mean: after all, we don't exactly have many mercenaries working for Cayme's Deluxes group, do we?"

"M'lady! I do not believe you qualify as a mere mercenary..."

"I OBVIOUSLY don't consider myself a mercenary, Shinobi! How can you suggest such a thing?"

"Pardon, my lady..."

"Cayme turneth again and walks towards the exit threshold."

"But we definitely need more firepower... Um... Starting a Deluxes sales group seems harder than I thought... I should think about how I'm gonna handle that... 'irregularity'... When this whole episode is over."

"With the pardon of interest, ma'am... How dost thou intend to find the..."

"The ham? Simple: it's being monitored from the inside by an electronic device. You don't think I'd risk leaving him alive in the freezer and going out to make contacts with illegal vendors without having anyone able to do its security, do you, my baby?"

She walketh out the door and getteth ready for her part of the work.

And I inherit her firm resolution for my task: to intercept Arthur Cooper's invitation to the Uahmyr tournament, the current target of every illicit mercenary employer in Sproustown.

I possess as information the time and the place. It consists on a train from Deluxes being stripped in an abandoned area of a terminated carrier. The location is the left block; the office building in the administrative area.

Without having anything else to do, I move to the place hours in advance. I do so by walking, since it is the means of transport which carries the least chance of being intercepted. I always use such a mean whenever possible.

The region is South Gorem District, the building is at the t intersection between the main one and a steep climbing street that addeth to the view under the trees that serve as a contour.

Not long passeth until I'm at the place. I reach the neighborhood with just over half an hour before the arranged transaction.

As anticipated, it is a clustered rectangular building with only one opening. I prefer to use my agility and jump to the roof of the target establishment in the crouching fashion, and observe the interior movement with the use of a small pocket drone.

The drone entereth through the window opening and giveth me the situation: the window room is empty and there are two men talking at the door, next to the corridor. Since the door is closed, they do not see the apparatus.

In a more daring move, I control the apparatus in the direction of the door causing knock and fall, deliberately drawing attention.

One of the men, suspicious, entereth the enclosure and seeth the device, still functioning, thrown, when buzzing its propellers. The man noticeth an attempt by someone else to map the site and beginth transmission to the superior via radio transmitter.

On the meantime, using my agility, I manage to get in through the window. I do so by starting from the head, since I am originally at the top, and then I continue grabbing the base of the ceiling, entering the room in one maneuver.

"Boss? Do you have any..." I interrupt the individual's narrative as I slip through the window attacking him with a small, poisoned dart thrown at his forehead. The force is inordinate and the aim is flawless.

The lethal effect is immediate.

"Who's there?" Asketh the man who was in the hallway, as he too entered the room.

In time and mastery similar to the previous feat, I silence the second man with a sharp dart shot.

Now I find myself alone inside the enclosure.

In one of the pockets of my overcoat is another auxiliary device: a wave propagator mapper. With this I am able to register the location of radio wave sources.

I check the origin of the frequencies emitted during the response given to the first man to fall after he made radio contact. If the source of that wave is his superior, there is a good chance it will coincide with the location of the invitation. Why would the superior not be in possession of the invitation or with it at his sight?

I verify that the origin is from a room in the same building, however one floor up. I think I would need to leave the room, walk down the ground floor corridor sixty feet to the nearest staircase, and then climb it to the source of the wave transmitter.

Based on that, I leave the room. Twenty minutes left on the agreed agenda by the perpetrators of the illicit transaction.

Cogitated, but not exactly anticipated, I hear the police arrive on the scene. They are officers in a group of three through the front corridor, the first of them forcing the door with his metal shield.

"Hands up!" Yelleth the first of them, pointing me his gun.

I certainly do not plan to comply. I reflect momentarily on the alternative action. I decide I should proceed to the top floor as soon as possible. However, it is necessary to knock out those police officers beforehand, to avoid subsequent pursuit.

I run exaggerating on indarra and diagonals to deflect the bullets. Here such a measure is necessary. The police will know how to confide the paranormal in their reports. One of them grabeth the transmitter:

"This is Hamilton, team 3. We need back up, we have..."

I knock down the carrier of the transmission before the message endeth. In the midst of gunshots and frivolous resistance, I also knock down one of the other two. The other one rusheth to the outer wing.

I hear voices on the other side, coming from the device on the floor:

"Hamilton... you read me? It's Howard, situation of team 3? Put Dan on the line, please."

"Oh, shit. What happened?"

"What do you mean Dan's team doesn't respond? Dan... Dan?"

They are two distinct voices alternating in an exalted and confused tone. I ignore the voices and the fallen policemen and, going up the stairs, I canonize speed in the fulfillment of the mission.

Once upstairs, I open the door handle in a prolonged event, preparing for stealth reaction.

There is no reaction.

The door openeth wide and I see three men, two of whom are armed. They are pale and taciturn inside. One of them, the unarmed, seems to be the others' superior. This hypothesis is confirmed when he revealeth his voice, strictly faithful to the reproduction captured in my pocket device.

"Shoot!"

Before the subordinates raise their hands, pointing their weapons at me, I use my speed to throw my body against one of them, who standeth before the window, knocking him out, and during the maneuver I throw another poisoned dart at the second man.

The unarmed principal is baffled, not understanding the abnormal origin of my physical gifts.

I walk toward him.

I hold him lightly by the collar of the shirt, without saying a word.

As expected, this one soon revealeth information in a frightening fashion:

"W... Wait! I'm just a subordinate... You want that envelope, do you? It's in the drawer... Please don't..."

As soon as this one mentioneth the drawer, I drop his body and ignore him. The drawer's just to our right, a little office desk drawer. I open it and find the invitation.

I place it in my free pocket of my cerulean overcoat. Without looking back, with a brief arm movement, I knock the principal next to out me at once.

"The mission is partially accomplished. Now to me out of there before..."

I hear slow steps coming from the corridor. Looking at the door I notice that it is closed. I attribute blame to the wind caused by the use of my speed in the previous attack.

Openeth the door, heavy and dragged.

The figure I see is a mixture of ordinary and odd. A perfect example of a caricatured sheriff: uniformed, slightly overweight, carrying a frown, mustache and style.

Cornered, I am now destined to face that unique figure. I read his name on the badge he carries hanging from his breast pocket: 'Lieutenant Dotson.'

That original burlesque personality toketh his cigar and only then asketh me, seeking intimidation:

"You are... The Friday bastard?"

And now I present thee this story from the main point:

"I don't think I consider myself a bastard. Perhaps... Unfortunate?" I reply.

The individual looketh me from up to down. I must admit, the intensity of his ductu is accentuated. I feel a little shiver:

"I also believe we have never come across each other..."

The lieutenant letteth his cigar fall.

"You're all manners, huh?"

Using supernatural impulse he carrieth itself before me in a matter of fractions of a second, interrupting the ice breakage.

It is protocol of Sproustown's special division to obstruct arm movements using Kajukenbo-like style. I have encountered the same practice last Friday back when I confronted two agents in the abduction of Alexander Sprohic. Knowing such practice I used my arms to block their movements, bending them slightly backwards, avoiding being grabbed.

I start blocking his attacks by interfering with mine. We are not hitting each other, we just defend each other's blows.

However, his physical strength, compared to mine, is prominent.

The more I use my ability to defend my attacks, the more tired I realize I become. I glimpse his gaze. His caricatured face hideth a sadistic countenance behind the mustache. He trieth to tire me out to superimpose himself with brute force.

I start to think about how to get rid of the wave of attacks. However, I notice that I am standing next to the iron cabinet on the corner of the room, almost stumbling over the recently fallen henchman, a position that is unenviable. I would have to go around his person to get rid of his engagement. This is not possible when it comes to a hand-to-hand struggle against a paranormal being. If only there was a distraction...

I think about using one of my hands to reach one of my darts, but I need both hands in order to block his attacks, otherwise...

My only alternative is to use Shoushiryu, my katana. Because it is conveniently hidden under the leather of my overcoat, I can manipulate it with my forearms only, as I use my hands to fight off his wave of blows. With luck I can knock him down using taiar, and then finish him when he is on the floor.

However, when I begin the premeditated process with my forearm, his body is mysteriously thrown to my left, in order to corner me in front of the cabinet, in which he unravels a right-handed straight from a short distance that I did not anticipate.

With this unexpected event I get thrown across the room and come to the floor. Afraid of the subsequent.

However, the caricatured lieutenant decideth to light one more cigarette while I'm down, instead of finishing me off on his chance.

"A silisolite stick? I've been thinking about this for the last few days... You managed to take down Joey with what he sayd is a stick on Friday. He's no amateur not to see weapons his opponents carry, and I didn't see anything either until I saw the tiny movements under your coat. Silisolite is an alien material that comes from that planet that starts with V that I forgot the name, right...? It's a mineral essentially invisible to human eyes. It's convenient to carry one of those here around Earth."

The partially longevous policeman pauseth and toketh his cigarette, staring at me with an appreciative expression.

"That makes you what? An alien? A lizard man? They're from there, aren't they?"

"Slight correction: It's a silisolite 'katana'. - I support my elbows on the floor in an imperceptible way as to provide support to the instant lifting movement."

"Whatever. You must have used taiar, the ancient technique of transferring indarra to an inanimate object, cause with it some kind of damage to Joey's leg at close range. Is that what you intended to do to me?" My opponent throweth the smoke from his cigarette in my direction, "you can throw that shit away. I'm the kind that never falls for a trick twice. Maybe I'll sell that stick of yours to a friend of Chapman's for about 20 bucks, double your mother's value."

He approacheth slowly and decisively.

"My progenitor wortheth so little? Is it because I'm black?"

"No... It's because you're a criminal monster who's not worth the weight in shit."

Slander!

How dareth he? He calleth Shoushiryu, my esteemed katana of silisolite a stick? And if that weren't enough he maketh dishonorable mention of my long passed mother figure?

He prepareth to give me the stomp, a common practice of forced end combat between paranormal beings, especially in situations where one of them is in a disadvantageous position near the surface of the ground. Meanwhile, using one of my trained movements, I rise yet again, in a singular backward-facing aerial somersault, landing near the door, which is now closed. A mixture of a flash kick and a back flip. I call it a 'back kick'.

Still outraged, I declare:

"Lieutenant Dotson... I'll show you what this 'shit worthy black man' is capable of. Consider this your last conflict."

Controversial to the flourish of my nerves, I maintain calm. The intensity of his ductu indicates his concentration. Jumping to his encounter at random and forcing a new blow would be presumptuous and why not say obtuse practice.

I'm not called Shinobi just for the choice of my weapons. I have in my training repertoire from acrobatic skills to blindfolded fighting ability. Since I find myself at a disadvantage in a clear environment, I try to blur my opponent's vision.

I squeeze the smoke grenade in my pocket. If an individual squeezeth it with the indarra it shall release the contents without removing the seal. In a few moments the smoke flieth over the whole small enclosure. There are no windows and the only way out is the door behind which was closed once more by the wind.

The burlesque-looking policeman sayeth, annoyed:

"Damnit!" He cougheth once then covereth his face with his biceps.

His reaction is slow. The plan seems to have worked. Between trying to cover his face by limiting the movements of his limbs and trying to get sight among the mist I believe it has gotten easy to bring him down.

As to rescue the pride of my comrade Shoushiryu, I make a point of porting her in order to injure the officer with a blow from her.

Neither my eyes are vulnerable to fog, nor my larynx to smoke. I find myself in my natural environment.

Approaching lightly from behind the unusual plump policeman, I unravel an attack with all my might, wielding the katana on my right.

Unexpectedly he turneth his body in the opposite direction, deflecting the blow during the rotation, finishing with his body in front of me, and then he counter-attacks me with a right-handed direct hit.

His attack just grazeth my body, but it's strong enough to make me stagger and almost fall back! Not only that, a small wound openeth up at the site of the scrape contact. I'm bleeding through my chest, under my overcoat. If the lieutenant hitteth me with one of those the fight is definitely over.

I distance myself disappearing into the fog using a sequence of small jumps, without having to take my eyes off my prey. Another trained maneuver.

In a jocular tone, the mustachioned agent raiseth both arms in provocation:

"Didn't I tell you to drop that shit? When you move it, the smoke changes direction revealing your location... Did you want to make it harder or easier with the smoke bomb?"

I hate to play the enemy's game, but I believe with such a statement, I really need to save Shoushiryu for another occasion.

I drop it to the floor.

I realize that in an analogous way a dart thrown would have its position revealed not only by the modification in the smoke path, but also by the sound of the cut of the wind. Things imperceptible to ordinary humans, but that would not go unnoticed by a paranormal officer of such caliber.

I move in a circular fashion, always staring the lieutenant in the eye. He trieth to follow me somehow. I see in his eyes that he's not following me with them, but with a kind of sixth sense... Something in me that indicates my location. Would that be my ductu? Impossible... It's all over the room. He'd have to make a perfect measurement of the source of the ductu to pick up exactly the position with centimeter precision. The most an individual can do about guiding himself by ductu is finding the building or room where a being that emits it is located.

"Come 'ere! I'm not getting out of here. You want me to go and find you blind?"

'Go ahead and make fun, I'll be done with this in a second.' I think to myself.

The more I move, in the less eye-catching way I can, the more I notice that he stops following my movements. Finally, when I feel it's safe enough, I jump towards him. I aim to end it all in one stroke.

The moment between the decision of my sudden jump is prolonged in the relativity of my perception. I see the distance between myself and that caricatured figure being reduced, little by little, at a time. The moustached one doeth not seem to be aware of the gradual rise of my presence.

And during the trip... A thought:

'What if it's all a farse?'

'What if he doeth know my position? And he's pretending not to?'

It is known that the agent dressed in style is versed in the smoke produced by his vices: the cigarette and the cigar. Could it be that his finesse was being able to see in the midst of the smoke? Something learned for years and years, taking advantage of the time provided by his regular addiction as a means of training in his spare time?

After all, what maketh a paranormal in his spare time? He traineth finesses. That's it. The more one individual knoweth, the better. The better he shall do in future fights.

Without full conviction... Just based on this thought alone, when I get within the range of his members... My body decideth to rest its foot on the ground and force the parade.

'Vuush' I feel the shivering wind caused by his attack. He trieth unsuccessfully to give me a right straight at his fastest speed. If I had stopped a few inches after what I decided to, such punch would have hit me right in the face. I wouldn't have been able to divert with the momentum I had.

I would have been thrown to the ground unconscious... And would have woken up in prison.

My heart beateth ceaselessly, but this is no time to admire the opponent's dexterity. I use again a sequence of jumps to double our mutual distance.

Clever, the lieutenant knew where I was all along.

"What's up? You gonna punch me or not? Wasn't that gonna be my last conflict and blah-blah or something?"

Similar to my heartbeats, the bleeding in my chest is beginning to get more and more uncomfortable and I don't see any imminent turnaround in that fight in the near future. It's a pity to admit it, but... The reality is clear in the present moment: if I continue to try to force victory I will be torn apart.

'In the present conditions, I cannot win against mr. Dotson.'

Why, even the best fighters need self-criticism, and why not say: all the best fighters use self-criticism for the mold of their expertise? One should know how far his limits goeth.

From that moment on, I fight with altered mindset: I objective only leaving the room. I already have the invitation in hands, and the policeman is eager to take it from me. Defeating the caricatured officer poseth no part on my task

The unique-looking lieutenant is still provocatively in the centre of the room, waiting for my arrival to counter-attack, so that he can enhance his victory by winning without having to leave his spot.

I find myself still annoyed by his arrogance and utter nonsense, but I do not deny that his attitude facilitates my exit plan.

The first attempt is to get around his persona, reproducing a version of the previous attack, however using the impulse to throw me against the door rather than against him, thus allowing my escape.

But the agent, probably expert in situation analysis, seemeth to guess my thoughts and, leaving the middle of the room, walketh towards the door blocking my passage before I put my plan into practice. I think he, meditating on the circumstances left behind by my frustrated attempts at deception, deduced my next step would be seeking to leave him fighting by himself.

"What's up? Don't say you expected me to let you play the sissy?"

He faceth me. He turneth his face exactly in my direction. He has his back to the door, close to it, and I, after the movement, return to my original location: close to the three fallen bandits and the opposite wall, to the right of the iron cabinet.

"You must have guessed... I can see perfectly in the mist. I was trying to make a fool of you. But now I'm getting sick of this. Let's end this!"

The roly-poly cop starteth walking slowly in his usual way and then suddenly useth his speed and almost reacheth me in one movement only, like a lion jumping on his prey.

My reaction speed barely alloweth me to deviate from his onslaught, tilting my body and then escaping to the right side.

But I cannot allow myself to remain dancing with the lieutenant with the singular mustachestyle that way, I must elaborate an improvised counter-attack plan: the only measure I can imagine given the circumstances is: in the middle of the next onslaught, intermingling a dart throw from below my overcoat, taking care to use the taiar so that it pierceth my garments, and then reachet the officer's body by an unnoticed angle.

As anticipated, his empowered and imposing figure is thrown at me quickly and directly, minimizing any mention of opposite reaction. To quote his words, the SAD policeman really wanteth to end this.

During the next jump I put my plan into practice: I throw the poisoned dart in his direction at a dishonest angle, as I jump in order to keep my distance on a regular manner. Between the delay in using the energy for the indarra used in throwing the dart and the taiar used to keep the force at the tip of the dart, I can't use much energy during my jump and then get hit on the back by one of its punches, which maketh me fall violently to the ground once again.

This time I hit my nose and my face starteth bleeding. The blow was atrocious. This is made clear by the crack my body maketh to the ground after my fall. The policeman is attacking in a careless manner.

I try to ignore the pain as I turn my head back to see his character. If the strength of my dart has stood out in its robustness and successfully pierced his skin, then receiving such a devastating attack will not have been in vain.

The admirable mustache-bearer is not in my angle of vision, yet I can see something I did not want to: the dart I threw is lying on the ground, with its tip dented.

I realize I'm not the only one using taiar in that room.

I believe the agent, in his preponderant experience, perceived the trick of the dart by the tiny change in the accumulation of smoke and used the taiar at the exact time in his bulletproof vest that was under his blouse. Thus the dart, although endowed with superhuman strength, crashed into his body being kneaded and thrown to the ground.

I find myself in an unfavorable position, having revealed all my available tricks. My face and chest are bleeding miserably, I'm lying on my back to my opponent and he slowly advanceth to me, this time determined to finish the fight.

Even in the midst of such a meltdown, my experience speaketh louder: I remind myself I am not there to outfight him, but merely to open a escape.

And now that I'm in front of the cupboard from where I took the envelope out of the drawer, next to the side wall that separates the inside from the outside, I realize that if there was an alternative exit in that wall I could move to the outside, where I would have the advantage.

I use the last option I got: I get up again with one of my trained movements and throw my body, bearing exaggerated strength, against the wall, which appeareth to be a mere plaster arrangement.

I open a hole in the wall and am thrown outside, from the second floor (since we climbed the stairs before the fight started) and I meet drastically the sidewalk that goes around Dalilah's office building.

Without delay, the officer followeth me, making use of the indarra in his hand to open more space to the newly opened hole and pass through with a more advantageous position.

In addition, the police teams are right in front of me: I'm talking about three vehicles.

"Shoot!" Ordereth the officer as soon as his body jumpeth from the second floor to the outer floor.

I am forced to abuse my remaining energy, intervening to apply the sane to my wounds: the chest, the face and the blow of the fall; and also the apply the indarra to the speed needed to get out of the place swiftly.

I run in a stunned but efficient way. I leave the scene taking only one side gunshot which I defend using my right arm. Another later task for the sane.

The singular figure who is the formidable adversary also beginneth by using his speed to pursue me, but giveth few moments later, after realizing I can use jumping techniques acquired during my shinobi training to increase my traveled distance, while for his superhuman speed he relieth only on the basic indarra technique taught to SAD members.

"Tsc..." I hear him sigh from afar after giving up.

As I look briefly at the reflection of the tip of my katana, I see him standing on the wall that separates the terrain from the building and the neighbouring terrain. But at this moment I am already distant: having already climbed the wall, jumped onto the neighbouring roof and still in the direction of the street, now walking along the path of the pavement of the back street.

Even if wounded, I successfully complete the mission.

Aware that the SAD and DEA vehicles, which were stopped there, would start a pursuit, I am forced to use the roofs again, making it impossible to reach me with a road search. I am forced to abuse the indarra until the return to Hotel Pinnacle.

Of course, I take care to be sure of my isolation when I enter the gatehouse. For my lady's sake I can never afford to be seen entering there.

Speaking of her, Cayme's not there to be found. She is still busy with her business regarding Alexander Sprohic's disappearance.

I ignore the maid and go straight to the secret wing, towards the suite. I look in front of the mirror. My image is finished. My clothes are dirty and torn. On my back... On my arms... My face is swollen and my hair glands down on my forehead.

From so much use of my superhuman strength I begin to feel uneasy and sick. I must concentrate on healing my wounds, but I cannot find the strength in my biology to do so. The most I can get is a weak version of the essential ereticism.

And yet I find myself glad I got my hands on the invitation.

At least for a moment...

I reach into my pocket and have a scare.

"The" scare.

The weight is the same, but the feeling is different... The paper is different. The tact is not deceived.

I take the paper out of my pocket and I am disappointed to see that it is a printed copy of the Arena's paper, with absolutely nothing written on it.

It's a fake on made to look like the invitation from a certain distance.

I swing that useless paper up and down and I note affirmatively: the weight is exactly the same as the weight of the paper taken from the drawer after knocking down that supervisor and his subordinates.

By ani chance did I not see it was just a piece of paper when I opened the drawer and put it in my pocket? No... Certainly the one I took from the drawer was the special paper issued by the interstellar criminal case center at Arena. I would never fail to notice such really important detail... And I also confirm the paper in front of me differeth in content from the previous one, since there is nothing written on it.

I throw the useless paper down and snort.

I've been fooled!

I assumed the whole time that the SAD's ridiculous lieutenant's goal was to capture me. Such is my preconceived image of the role of justice assigned to the police that I ignored the possibility of him sharing my mission: collecting Arthur Cooper's invitation.

I imagine the agent's trick when he saw me carrying the contents in my coat pocket was as follows:

At first sight he made contact with me under the pretext of exchanging blows, a common exchange violent encounters of paranormal beings for the purpose of analysis of speed, skill and adversary strength. However, in his case the contact aimed to find the exact pocket where I kept the invitation I took from the room's drawer.

He must have been carrying a fake copy of the invitation he brought from the SAD.

At a later moment, the round sheriff exchanged the original and the copy he was carrying with him without my perception. The opponent created contact opportunities so that he could make the exchange under the pretext of an attack. There are three moments he must have created artificially to make the exchange: when he suddenly counter-attacked me by throwing his body over mine after I mentioned the use of Shoushiryu; when the room was smoky and he struck me to bring me down, when by chance I anticipated his possibility of seeing under the fog; and when I used the movement of my jump to throw a dart under my overcoat. I believe the switch was made in the third moment, since I was not in a state of perfect concentration of mind, since I was busy both deviating from his attack and using the opportunity to throw.

As for the physical properties of the fake paper, I believe that because the police department had possession of the original for a certain time, they should have been able to reproduce identical copies in format and weight, so that they could be exchanged in combat situations.

I did not notice the difference during the rest of the battle, because when I reached into my pocket, I felt the same weight and paper format inside it. I verified the falsity only at that later moment, when the police operation was already over.

The mustachioned paranormal of the SAD anticipated my escape during battle and took steps to steal my goal from me, conquering his.

I got snitched!

His objective was never my capture.

Looking at my failed figure in the mirror, beat down, the blood running... Meditating on the fact that I didn't strike even one blow at my opponent given the conditions, all I can think is:

'How can I repay my lady for such a critical flaw?'

The idea is to return to the place of the transaction and take it again by force from the hands of the police.

After all, even though the fight is over, the Deluxe transaction is yet to begin.

The police operation in Dalilah's building is not over yet.