Chapter 5: On-Site Interview (Part 1)

[Chapter 5: On-Site Interview (Part 1)]

The yacht continued its journey forward.

Following the designated coordinates, it finally arrived at a small wooden dock. Not far off stood a solitary riverside villa, secluded and quiet.

Ian docked the boat and carefully made his way toward the villa. He positioned himself behind a tree and activated his surveillance abilities.

Inside the house, he spotted three men, all African American, adorned with tattoos and drinking while watching television. They hadn't even left anyone at the dock to keep watch.

A gang of thugs was simply getting their delivery; what kind of professionalism could one expect?

...

Ian took one glance before feeling a twinge of pain in his right eye and had to shut it quickly. This moment made him realize that his ability to see through things depended on the thickness of the object and how long he maintained the vision. The thicker the object and the longer the duration, the greater the strain on his eyesight.

Fortunately, he had clearly seen the positions of the three men: two were in the living room, and one was in the bedroom. They were clearly unprepared.

After switching his camera to photo mode, he hung it around his neck and walked over, knocking on the door.

One of the men in the living room lazily called out, "Is that Charlie?"

Ian responded with an exaggerated "Yeah."

A man approached and opened the door, but suddenly seemed to realize something, saying, "Charlie, speak!"

Not missing a beat, Ian stood at the doorway, activating his vision again, and fired three shots into the room.

The man at the door collapsed instantly, and the shooter on the sofa also took a hit.

Ian quickly ducked behind the wall, hearing a barrage of gunfire as bullets whizzed past him, leaving holes in the door and rippling through the air.

Rather than feel fear, Ian experienced a thrilling excitement.

It was an indescribable rush!

He chuckled softly to himself.

Courage was a valuable asset; it defined the ceiling for a great reporter!

Before this moment, he had wondered if his enhanced perception had inflated his ego, but feeling the adrenaline from the gunfire made him realize--

He wasn't the one who was inflated; this was his calling!

...

The continuous gunfire triggered the man in the bedroom to rush out. Seeing the chaos, he rushed to his injured companion, exclaiming, "What's wrong?"

The wounded shooter clutched his chest, crying out, "Eiwart is dead! That bastard killed him. Call an ambulance!"

"Did you kill him?"

"I don't know!" the injured man shouted.

...

The man from the bedroom, holding a gun, cautiously approached the window.

He was experienced and didn't head for the door.

But just as his head leaned toward the window, he saw the dark muzzle aimed at his chin, his expression changing dramatically: "Fuck!"

Bang!

The shot rang out.

He fell back, lifeless.

...

Ian moved back behind the wall, tears streaming from his right eye.

He thought to himself, "Fuck indeed!"

This right eye was failing him; it was tearing up, blurring his vision after just a few uses.

Could leveling up restore his sight?

Forget it; he had to keep going!

Ian worked to steady his emotions.

The anxiety of taking a life usually stemmed from three parts: fear of death, the repercussions of failure, and internal moral conflict.

But right then, Ian Carr felt none of that. He had no fear for life, no reverence for the law, and certainly no moral burdens facing these guys!

His mind cleared quickly; he was extremely calm.

...

Meanwhile, the sudden attack had evidently thrown the guy inside into a panic.

The injured man in the living room yelled in terror, "Is that you, Charlie Mills? Why are you doing this? We were working together! For God's sake, stop!"

Ian leaned against the wall, remaining silent, only listening intently.

Their fear had robbed them of logical thinking.

What pathetic thugs -- they were just as scared as anyone else!

The strain in his right eye eased a bit, and Ian bore the pain to activate his vision again.

He saw that the man was crawling toward the back door.

Ian smirked, cutting off his vision and making his way along the wall toward the backyard.

...

The back door opened quietly, and the injured man began dragging himself outside, leaving a trail of blood.

But the next moment, he froze.

A gun was pressed against his head, leaving him motionless.

Ian spoke. "Drop the gun."

The man, in despair, let the weapon fall.

Ian approached, taking the gun from him, using his vision to ensure he wasn't armed.

Damn, the guy was in rough shape!

Then Ian said, "Get up, let's head inside."

The injured man stood, still stunned to see that a white kid was the one who ambushed them.

He had taken a bullet to the chest, but the wooden door had softened the impact enough to avoid hitting his heart, so death wasn't immediate, though he was out of the fight.

...

Ian led him back into the living room, glanced at the two dead men, took their guns, and motioned for the wounded man to sit back down on the sofa.

The injured man clutched his wound, gasping in pain. "Who are you?"

Ian chuckled lowly. "Read the room -- you don't have the luxury to ask questions."

He pulled over a table, placed the camera atop it, and aimed it at the man.

Then he picked up the microphone. "This is Ian Carr, a reporter with the Los Angeles Herald. A gunfight just erupted here, resulting in two dead and one injured. Now, let's conduct an on-site interview with the injured individual."

He turned to the man. "Hello, what's your name?"

The man stared blankly at Ian.

What was this wild scenario?

For a moment, he was at a loss for words. Ian leveled the gun at him, pressing on. "Please answer the question."

The man was nearly frantic, "What do you want from me?"

Bang!

A bullet slammed into the floor in front of him as Ian demanded, "Answer the question. Work with me, okay?"

He once more extended the microphone. "What is your name?"

Terrified, the man stammered, "Jansen! Jansen Walworth! I'm with Bloods!"

Bloods?

Wow! That was a famous gang in Los Angeles.

This group primarily consisted of African Americans who were known for their many tattoos.

Charlie Mills was from the Crips, also predominantly Black. The relationship between those gangs was rocky, likely stemming from some backdoor dealings -- gang relationships didn't get in the way of personal ties, and who didn't appreciate some extra cash?

So the good news was that killing Charlie Mills wouldn't offend the Crips. They would never stand up for someone who betraying his own.

The bad news? He was going to have Bloods breathing down his neck.

Ha!

Interesting!

But who cared?

Scrappy journalists simply waited for the news. Me? Ian Carr? I was here to create headlines!

I wasn't just a messenger; I was the source!

With the natural bravado of a tabloid journalist combined with the fearless attitude of someone who had traversed to another world, Ian Carr felt indomitable.

*****

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