This time it locks on.
Lights shift.
A different hum—sharper.
A kind of mechanical call.
Like it just caught the scent of blood.
In the distance
Almost off-screen.
A man holding a pit bull on a leash.
Still.
Motionless.
Watching.
In silence.
The dog doesn’t bark.
It sniffs the air.
And the man… smiles faintly.
Like he’s been waiting for this.
Jason runs like the park is still chasing him.
Rain starts falling—light, cold, thin. Almost gentle.
On his skin it feels like needles.
City lights smear and streak in the dark,
like the city itself is melting.
No full thoughts.
Just a body running and a brain screaming.
Close-up: Jason’s face.
Eyes wide. Breath broken. Cold sweat sliding down his temple despite the rain.
Shit… what now?
He looks back while running. Neck snapping. Eyes scanning.
Did anyone see me?
If they saw me, I’m fucked…
He speeds up. Shoes splashing through puddles. Breath clawing at his throat.
“Fuck… fuck… fuck…”
For a stretch he stops running and power-walks,
like slowing down might make him invisible.
It doesn’t work.
He runs again.
Intersections. Sidewalks. Back streets.
No map.
Just panic.
Arrest?
What if OPOM finds me?
His hand trembles. Fingers curl tight, almost painful.
What if they lock me up…
or worse…
Close-up: his eyes drift empty while the body keeps moving on autopilot.
…study me.
Or put me down because they think I’m a dangerous psycho.
Jason stops under a streetlight. Shoulders pumping. Mouth open like the air isn’t enough.
And then—
From far away.
A siren.
WEEE—WOOO…
The sound slides between buildings and drops straight into his gut.
Jason whips around.
On the opposite street, an OPOM armored vehicle advances at speed.
Headlights cutting through the rain.
OPOM never shows up “by accident.”
Jason’s heart jumps. His face drains.
“Shit…”
He slips into a narrow alley.
Turns once.
Turns again.
On the third turn, the alley stops being an alley.
It opens into the decaying back lot of an abandoned building.
And there are people.
Too many.
Wide shot—dirty, badly lit:
a black van, a pickup, lookout men.
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Briefcases on the ground.
Hard faces. Work-ready stances.
Weapons.
Jason freezes.
Blood turns to ice.
“Holy fuck…”
His eyes race over everything:
briefcases, guns, that way of standing that isn’t relaxed.
It’s coiled calm.
What the hell did I walk into?
He swallows.
This is a joke, right?
I’m dreaming.
A sharp whistle cuts the air.
FWIIIT.
One turns first.
Then another.
Then all of them.
One locks eyes with him and fires his voice before his gun.
“Who the fuck are you?!”
More voices snap in. Closer. Meaner.
“What are you doing here?”
“Spying on us?!”
A gun comes up.
“OPOM?!”
“Some cop piece of shit?!”
Another shouts, already thrilled by the idea of hurting someone.
“Move! Get over here!”
“And if you try to run, we kill you!”
A big man—leader energy—steps forward.
His voice is calm.
Worse than a scream.
“Bring him.”
A hand clamps onto Jason’s neck.
Fingers squeeze. Jason gasps. The world tightens.
He’s dragged forward.
Past the pickup. Past the lookouts. Past the black van.
Rain hammering metal and hoods.
Every step is humiliation.
The one dragging him spits contempt with his face.
“Look at this… a kid.”
He yanks him.
“Next time, mind your own fucking business.”
Jason is shoved to the ground in front of the boss.
Wet concrete. Cold. Hands slipping.
His body shakes on its own.
The boss steps closer.
Eyes sliding over him like he’s estimating
how much noise he’ll make when he dies.
“What were you doing back there.”
A guard snarls beside him, like a trained dog.
“Answer. Fast.”
Jason swallows. His throat is sandpaper. His voice comes out thin.
“I swear… I was just passing through.”
His eyes fill—not with sadness.
With fear.
“I ended up here by mistake…”
“As soon as I saw you, I wanted to leave…”
His fists clench. Desperate. Ridiculous.
“It’s the truth… I swear.”
The boss stares at him.
That silence drags on too long.
Sentence-level silence.
Then he exhales, slow.
Like it annoys him to have to be the bad guy.
“I can’t let you go.”
Pause.
“You’ve seen too much.”
His eyes go cold.
“And we can’t allow that.”
A pistol comes out slowly. Calmly.
Not rushed.
Enjoyed.
“You walked into the wrong place…”
Someone whispers behind.
“Poor bastard.”
Another lights a cigarette, relaxed.
Like he’s waiting for a bus.
“He’s about to ice him.”
Jason goes pale. Heart racing. Vision trembling.
It’s over.
And then—
Barking.
Violent.
WOOF! WOOF!
A black pit bull bursts into the scene, low growl, packed with rage.
One of the criminals swings a submachine gun toward it.
“Get lost, you piece of shit!”
Too late.
A flying kick slams into him.
CRACK.
The body smashes into the wall like a wet rag hurled hard.
The pit bull clamps onto a throat.
A hot spray in the dark.
Chaos.
Screams.
Weapons clatter to the ground.
Feet slipping.
For a moment the alley rips open like a wound.
Hell.
Close-up: Jason’s eyes.
And inside him, a command detonates—stronger than fear.
FIGHT.
Not a thought.
Instinct.
Flash: the punch in the park.
The tree exploding. The wave.
And in seconds, the ritual before destruction returns.
His right arm swells.
Muscles harden—granite.
Veins bulge and pulse.
Heat.
Then light.
Incandescent light spreading from hand to shoulder,
like a living sun ignited under his skin.
The boss feels the heat before he sees the glow.
He turns.
And for the first time… he’s afraid.
Jason strikes.
And the world answers.
BOOOOOOM.
The explosion swallows the center of the scene.
The boss doesn’t fall.
He vanishes.
There’s a beat of emptiness,
like the air erased a person.
Then, on the ground…
only the legs remain.
Pistol Boy.
