Chapter 2: First Blood (Please Keep Reading)

As night fell, the city lights began to glitter. At this time, Ozzie had already moved to the mouth of an alley across from a convenience store that stayed open late into the night—a place likely to have cash and, therefore, an excellent target for a robbery.

At this hour a few days ago, he would have been back at his makeshift bedding—in a corner against a wall—since nights in Los Angeles were far from safe, even for the homeless, who also faced considerable risks.

Now, in order to reward… to punish the wicked and uphold justice, Ozzie had no choice but to take a risk. The pistol tucked against his chest gave him a little sense of security, but not much. After all, he had never actually fired a gun before, and there were only three bullets. If he failed to kill his target, and if the target turned out to be armed as well, he would be in grave danger.

Los Angeles does not disappoint those who wait. Before long, a Black man caught Ozzie’s attention; above his head hovered a gray mark of sin.

But the man wore a hoodie, his hands buried in his pockets, exuding an uneasy, restless energy that made Ozzie’s instincts tingle. He watched closely as the man strode directly toward the convenience store.

Moments later, a shout erupted from inside the shop: “Gimme your money, motherfucker! Hand over your cash!”

The voice was so loud that Ozzie, standing across the street, heard every word clearly. A complex tide of emotions surged within him—relief, excitement, anxiety, and fear.

He instinctively gripped the gun in his pocket, drew it out, racked the slide, switched off the safety, and hid the weapon in the shadows, waiting silently.

From the store came the sounds of a heated exchange: “Oh my God! Are you all right? What are you doing?”

“Give me the money! I want the money! Hurry up!”

“Okay, okay, wait a second…”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

No one outside could say exactly what happened, but after several gunshots, the Black man burst through the door and fled, the gray mark above his head now blazing crimson.

The man sprinted with long strides and, in just a few steps, was in front of Ozzie. He didn’t even glance at Ozzie, intent only on bolting into the alley.

Ozzie, head slightly lowered, fixed his gaze on the man’s retreating figure. The instant the man’s back was to him, Ozzie raised his gun without hesitation and fired three shots, all striking the man squarely in the back. It was as if someone had pressed pause on his life; he toppled stiffly to the ground and lay still.

Ozzie leaped up, snatched the fallen gun from the ground, and took off running, ducking into the nearest alley, sprinting without pause.

All this left the store owner, who had chased out with his own gun, utterly dumbfounded. Another robber robbing the first? He stood frozen for a long moment before remembering to call the police.

Ozzie ran and ran until exhaustion forced him to stop. He collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath.

He raised his hands before his face. Was it really so easy to end a life, just by pulling the trigger a few times?

In his twenty-some years, Ozzie had never experienced such a profound shock. His emotions were a tangled mess.

Through the gaps between his fingers, Ozzie saw a sky full of stars, and, unbidden, the tears of a crocodile began to flow.

[Ding! Target deceased. Host has successfully completed the first kill. Reward: one portable storage space. Cash reward: thirty dollars. Note: The portable storage space can only contain items provided or rewarded by the system; outside items cannot be stored.]

Did that man only die now, after three shots? Ozzie had thought he was dead on the spot—what vitality! The interruption made him forget all about the man; he checked his status panel and found instructions for using his portable storage, but since he had nothing to store, he couldn’t test it. A pity.

Getting off to such a winning start right after activating the system—he really was born to be a nemesis of evil. Ozzie grinned.

It felt like he’d forgotten something. After a while, he suddenly remembered: what about the cash reward?

He searched all over himself but couldn’t find the thirty dollars. Where had his hard-earned money gone?

He asked the system, but it told him the reward had already been issued. Ozzie could only accept his bad luck and resolve to check more carefully next time.

“Well, at least I managed to… pick up the guy’s handgun. That’s something.”

He examined the pistol, and the system automatically displayed its specs:

[Colt M1911A1 semi-automatic pistol, Desert Warrior variant, manufactured by Norinco. Overall length: 221mm; weight: 1.11kg; .45 ACP caliber; magazine capacity: 7 rounds.
Assessment: A classic M1911. Its performance needs no further elaboration. Surprisingly, this gun is only a little over a decade old. Wonder where the man got his hands on it.]

This Desert Warrior variant differed from the standard 1911A1; the frame was coated in a special tan, while the trigger and safety were black, giving it a pleasing appearance and a comfortable grip befitting an export-grade weapon.

It was a bit heavy, though—over two pounds was nothing to scoff at. After disassembling the slide, Ozzie found the internal components in good condition. The man must have acquired it recently.

Ozzie ejected the magazine: fully loaded. The man hadn’t fired a single shot before the shop owner did. Was it that the man was incompetent, or was the owner just too quick on the draw?

He stowed the new pistol. The Jimenez Arms JA22 he’d carried before was now useless; Ozzie tossed it down a storm drain.

That JA22 was an unregistered piece, likely already connected to some crime. Now that Ozzie had used it to kill someone, it would be trouble if the police traced it back to him. Besides, it was out of bullets. No loss there.

Neither gun could be stored in the portable space, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered discarding it.

With that taken care of, Ozzie walked slowly through the alley, torn between finding his way back to his corner to sleep or going out to make more money… to continue ridding the world of evil.

Reason told him that, having just shot a man, the police would soon be combing the area. Even if they didn’t care much about the case, as an undocumented person carrying an illegal firearm, being stopped for questioning would be disastrous.

And yet, he felt an urgency inside. He’d only just activated the system—how could he waste time? He should upgrade as quickly as possible, or his anxiety would be unbearable.

Ozzie was conflicted; both choices seemed right, and he couldn’t decide.

Eventually, he resolved to leave the area first. He waited in the darkness, planning to slip away once the police arrived. After more than half an hour, he finally heard sirens. Ozzie rose and headed in the opposite direction, inwardly frustrated. If he’d known the police would be so slow, he would have left long ago.

He wandered back and forth through the maze of alleys and, after a long while, finally found his way to the main street, having gotten lost inside.

“Hey! Kid! Get lost!”

Startled, Ozzie looked up to see a Mexican man standing not far away, his hand behind his back, eyes fixed on Ozzie.

Some thirty meters away, another man crouched beside a very nice car, fiddling with something.

Two men: one near, one far. No cover on the street—a bad spot for a fight. Time to back off.

Just in case, Ozzie placed his hand on his abdomen—his M1911 was tucked inside his waistband—signaling he had no intention of resisting, and began slowly backing away. He knew better than to turn his back, lest the man get the jump on him.

Seeing Ozzie back off, the Mexican laughed derisively, then suddenly barked, “Stop right there, kid. Hand over your cash!”

“Come on, man, can’t we just go our separate ways?” Ozzie stopped, speaking as he subtly raised his jacket a little. “You do your thing, I’ll pretend I saw nothing, then we both go home. Is that so bad?”

“No. I said hand over your money. Don’t you understand?” The man advanced as he spoke.

The other, still working the car lock, glanced up, then continued his work. His partner making some extra cash was perfectly normal—they’d split it later.

“I’m just a student getting off work. I don’t have any money!”

Unmoved, the man drew closer. “I don’t believe it—unless you let me see for myself.”

When the man was about five meters away, Ozzie feigned annoyance. “Oh, shit!” He flung his hands out, and as he brought them back, his left hand flipped his jacket aside while his right drew the gun from his waistband and fired.

At such close range, the man had no time to react. One shot, and he was down, the .45 round ending the matter instantly.

Goodnight, Macapaca.

The car thief was no less fierce. At the sound of the shot and seeing his partner fall, he didn’t run; instead, he reached for his own weapon.