007, the homeless man and the sportswear gangster

At four in the afternoon, the setting sun bathed New York in a golden glow. Zaire, with a stern expression, stepped out of his apartment, wearing a black baseball cap and carrying a gray shoulder bag. Just a few minutes earlier, his aunt, still shaken, had finally managed to fall asleep. Before drifting off, she had reminded Zaire to clean up the restaurant and post a closed notice.

Zaire obediently headed back to the restaurant. However, his shoulder bag now contained a matte black Catachan combat knife. Zaire could endure any threat, whether it was the menacing Thanos from distant galaxies or the not-yet-created Ultron intending to destroy humanity. But all of this depended on his aunt not being harmed. Otherwise... it would be a fight to the death.

Over the years, Zaire had seen enough to lose faith in the city's upper echelons responsible for maintaining order. Justice and fairness? He believed only in taking matters into his own hands.

---

When Zaire arrived at the restaurant, the forensic team promised by the Manhattan precinct had yet to show up. Perhaps they never intended to come. A robbery that neither caused fatalities nor stirred public outcry would likely become just another file in the precinct's archives, lost to history.

Zaire rolled up his sleeves and began cleaning up the debris. Salvageable items were kept minimizing losses, while the irreparable ones were discarded and counted as damages. Not long after, he noticed a figure loitering outside the restaurant. It was a shabby, hunched blonde homeless man.

Zaire stopped what he was doing and walked to the door. "Hey, friend. The restaurant's closing for a while. You should go to the church for some food."

The scruffy homeless man hesitated, glancing at Zaire with uncertain eyes. Summoning his courage, he stammered, "I-I didn't come for food... I was sleeping on the street when the robbery happened. I saw the robbers! They were all wearing red tracksuits and didn't sound like locals. They seemed Slavic!"

Zaire's eyes narrowed as he muttered to himself, "Red tracksuits? Slavic… could it be the Tracksuit Mafia?"

The Tracksuit Mafia was a criminal gang operating in New York and its surrounding cities, with most of its core members being Slavic.

After a moment of contemplation, Zaire pulled out a roll of cash from his pocket. He took a few twenty-dollar bills and shoved them into the homeless man's pocket. "Thank you for the information. This is for you."

To Zaire's surprise, the man's face turned red, and he shakily tried to return the money. "I didn't do it for money! You and your aunt are good people. Your food makes me feel alive, like there's still meaning to just being alive!"

Tears welled up in the homeless man's eyes, and in his agitation, he revealed the inflamed needle marks on his arms. Zaire noticed but didn't take back the money. Sighing, he asked, "What's your name?"

"R-Robert Reynolds," the man hesitated before answering. He then accepted the money without further protest.

"Robert?" The name seemed familiar to Zaire, but he quickly dismissed the thought. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

Tracksuit Mafia, Slavs... Eugene Paul? Eugene was a typical Slavic name...

Zaire chatted with Robert a bit more before sending him on his way. Locking the door behind him, he hopped on his beloved bicycle and headed west.

---

Manhattan Apartment, Room 403.

Eugene Paul lounged dejectedly on his couch, his neck still in a plastic brace for treatment. Despite the doctor's strict instructions to avoid alcohol and smoking to aid his recovery, Eugene was not one to follow orders. Sipping beer and scrolling through his phone, he tried to alleviate both his physical pain and the psychological blow of being bested by a mere delivery boy. This defeat had made him a laughingstock among his peers, and his pride was shattered.

"Damn fucker..." Eugene muttered, throwing his phone aside and closing his eyes to calm his frustration.

Suddenly, a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Eugene opened his eyes in irritation and yelled, "Who's there?"

No response came from outside, just another series of knocks. "Who's there, dammit?" Eugene growled, struggling to get up from the couch. He made his way to the door, one hand supporting his neck.

Just as he reached for the handle, the door exploded inward with a loud bang, slamming into Eugene and knocking him to the floor. "Ah!" he screamed, his cry echoing through the apartment.

"Hello, Eugene," Zaire said, stepping through the doorway with a smile, his baseball cap casting a shadow over his eyes.

"Who...?" Eugene gasped, struggling to see through the pain. When he finally recognized Zaire, his eyes widened in terror. "No, no, stay away from me!"

Zaire approached silently, watching as the once-mighty Eugene wriggled on the floor like a worm. Minutes later, Eugene, unable to bear the pain any longer, lay motionless, tears blurring his vision.

"Zaire, please spare me… Murder is a capital crime in New York… Please, I was wrong… I shouldn't have bullied others… I shouldn't have hurt people…"

Zaire squatted in front of Eugene, maintaining his icy gaze. "I ask, you answer… Understand?"

Eugene, tears streaming down his face, nodded frantically. "I understand! I understand!"

"Around three this afternoon, during the robbery... Did you fire any shots?"

"What?" Eugene blinked in confusion. "Robbery? Shooting?"

Zaire's eyes narrowed further. Eugene, sensing the need to convince him, swore, "I swear to God! I never use guns to bully people! And this afternoon, I was at the hospital getting treatment…"

Zaire frowned. Could he have the wrong person?

...................

Stones?

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