Chapter 48: The Shot

How far can a normal person jump with a running start?

Six meters.

How wide is this street?

No less than eighteen meters.

So Karl wasn't actually trying to jump to the opposite apartment building.

He was putting himself in a position with no escape, an open invitation for the sniper to take the shot.

The same perfectly accurate shot that had detonated the grenade mid-air moments ago.

Every sniper develops their own shooting instincts—a muscle memory, an ingrained reflex that becomes a part of them.

The better the sniper, the deeper that instinct is carved into their bones.

And this sniper?

Was elite.

His reaction speed surpassed even the cybernetic data feedback of his optics—before his brain could fully process Karl's leap, his rifle was already raised.

He pulled the trigger.

And the angle of the shot?

Exactly the same as before.

A sniper never changes their firing angle when hitting a target at the same height.

The grenade had been detonated at third-floor height.

So Karl had leaped to third-floor height.

He purposefully maintained the exact same elevation as the grenade.

And deliberately delayed his own shot just a fraction of a second.

Karl could have fired first.

He was prepared before the sniper.

But if he took the first shot, the sniper's firing sequence wouldn't change—they'd both land their shots simultaneously.

Karl didn't know if his bullet would kill the sniper.

But he knew for damn sure the sniper's shot would kill him.

So instead, he went for a riskier move.

The rifle's angle was locked in.

The barrel was fixed.

Its trajectory was set.

So Karl did something insane.

The instant the Nekoma's round left the barrel—

Karl's bullet was already there, waiting for it.

In 1916, during the Gallipoli Campaign, an impossible event occurred—two bullets collided in mid-air.

The statistical probability?

One in seventy billion.

Karl knew he wasn't that lucky.

So instead, he didn't aim for the bullet itself.

He aimed for a fixed target.

And what's a sniper's barrel if not a stationary bullseye?

For Karl, this wasn't one in seventy billion.

It was a fifty-fifty shot.

Guess right—live.

Guess wrong—die.

Simple as that.

Luck was on Karl's side.

His shot connected.

The Nekoma's round detonated inside the barrel, sending shrapnel and debris exploding outward.

The rifle?

Shattered, splitting apart like a blown-out speaker.

And the next bullet from Karl's Kenshin—

Traveled cleanly through the ruined barrel and buried itself straight into the sniper's skull.

Sniper rifles rarely fire in rapid succession.

In the past, it was because residual gunpowder in the barrel would affect accuracy.

Now, it's because tech-based sniper rifles degrade too fast under rapid fire—their precision suffers, their components break down faster.

And unlike the Nekoma, Karl's Kenshin was a semi-auto pistol—

Which meant that as soon as one bullet was fired, another was already chambered and ready to go.

"I doubt his skull is as tough as his exoskeleton."

Karl pulled the trigger again.

Karl's body shifted as he absorbed the impact of his landing.

Jumping down from high ground, rolling wasn't an option—it'd shatter his spine.

The correct technique was—

Recalling the trauma team training he experienced in Braindance, Karl executed the maneuver:

Land on the ball of the foot, heels following immediately.Lean forward, relaxing the body.Hands to the ground, using the arms to absorb force.Bend the knees, letting momentum carry into a controlled rebound.

Even with proper technique, his entire body felt like it was falling apart.

But Karl didn't have time to stop.

The attackers hesitated.

For a moment, they didn't react, expecting the sniper to handle it.

But once Karl landed unscathed, even the dumbest of them realized—

They had to turn their guns on him.

Karl couldn't outrun bullets.

At least, not yet.

So he didn't even try to run.

Instead, he rolled behind a car for cover.

Another roll.

Another dodge.

Karl was getting really good at this.

Their weapons?

Shingen SMGs—smart weapons.

Powerful, yes, but with one fatal flaw—

They needed to lock on first before their tracking system kicked in.

Which meant Karl had a window to react.

But the car wouldn't hold forever.

He was pinned down.

Now it was time to use his most powerful technique—

"HELP ME!"

Karl called for backup over comms.

And they didn't disappoint.

"I'M HERE, KARL!"

Jack charged out, using a dead body as a shield.

"JACKIE WELLS, BABY!"

He yelled, drawing all attention to himself.

Jackie.

Always the one to stand in front, to take the fire for his crew.

The moment Jack appeared, the attackers switched targets.

They opened fire—

But their bullets?

They only made it through the corpse Jackie was holding.

And then—

Stopped.

Smart guns were advanced.

Too advanced.

More than half their components were tracking systems and microcomputers.

Which meant—

Less space for real firepower.

Their penetration sucked.

Sure, some models could curve shots around obstacles.

But breaking through heavy armor?

Not happening.

And Jackie's subdermal plating was just thick enough to hold out for a little while.

But only a little while.

Too many bullets, and he'd still go down.

Luckily—

Jack wasn't alone.

"Don't worry, KK. You're not dying today."

Mann charged in next—

Carrying a massive chunk of concrete like a goddamn riot shield.

With them holding the front, the other mercs seized the moment.

The sniper was down.

The RPG threat was gone.

The attackers' advantage was gone.

Now it was their turn.

"DON'T FUCKING UNDERESTIMATE US!"

The mercs roared, unleashing hell.

These weren't some random gangoons.

They were hardened street mercs, forged in blood and fire.

They saw their chance—

And took it.

"You really thought smart weapons would be enough to win?!"

One merc laughed, unloading his power rifle into the attackers.

Without their big guns backing them up—

Without the sniper and explosives suppressing them—

These smart gun users were fucking done.

On the streets, there was a saying—

Half joke, half truth.

"Only a bitch who can't aim relies on a smart gun."

Because if you could handle a kinetic or tech weapon—

Why the fuck would you ever use a smart gun?

PS: In the game, no matter what happens, Jackie never complains when you start a firefight.

He's always there, charging in, taking the heat for you.

(And when you really think about it—maybe he shouldn't have been so brave.)

But then again...

Jackie wouldn't be Jackie otherwise.