The café was unusually quiet that evening. Alastor leaned against the counter, wiping down a glass with slow, deliberate movements. Across from him, Emily Rodriguez stirred her coffee, stealing glances at him with growing impatience.
"You know, avoiding my questions isn't going to make me stop asking," she said.
Alastor gave her a calm, detached smile. "Sometimes, Emily, the less you know, the better."
Before she could retort, a shrill ring pierced the café's ambiance. The sound came from Mr. Thompson's phone, abandoned on the counter. Alastor's eyes flicked toward the screen, where "Jack" flashed repeatedly.
Emily raised an eyebrow. "Friend of yours?"
"Excuse me for a moment," Alastor said smoothly, picking up the phone. "It's personal."
Taking the call, Alastor turned his back to Emily, his voice steady. "Jack, what's wrong?"
On the other end, Jack's panicked breaths were audible. "Alastor, I'm—I'm at the concert, and they've got guns. They're shooting everyone. I don't know what to do!"
The calmness in Alastor's tone didn't waver. "Listen to me, Jack. Stay hidden. Keep quiet. Don't move until I find you."
"What if—what if they find me first?"
"They won't," Alastor said firmly. "I'm coming."
With that, Alastor hung up and slid the phone into his pocket. He moved toward the door with an unnerving calmness.
"You're leaving?" Emily called after him.
"I have to help a friend," Alastor replied, his voice clipped.
Emily sighed and nodded, standing up to leave as well. But as she stepped outside, a powerful gust of wind whipped past her, tugging at her coat and sending her hair flying into her face. She blinked, startled, and looked around. The street was empty.
"Where did that come from?" she muttered, heading to her car, confusion etched on her face.
The concert venue was a scene of chaos. Thousands of people had flooded the exits, trampling over one another in their desperation to escape. Abandoned shoes, purses, and overturned chairs littered the ground. Screams echoed from every corner as gunfire sporadically burst through the air.
Jack crouched behind a stack of crates near the back of the stage, his heart pounding so hard he thought the terrorists might hear it.
"Please don't find me, please don't find me," he whispered to himself, gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Meanwhile, inside the venue, The terrorists, dressed in tactical gear, moved with brutal efficiency. One of them, a man with a scar running down his cheek, barked orders. "Find the singer. She's the key."
The gunfire ceased momentarily, and Scarface stepped forward, his voice booming through the venue's sound system.
"We don't want to kill anyone else," he lied, "but Sarah Lee is coming with us. If she cooperates, no one gets hurt."
The crowd, now corralled near the exits, erupted in anger. Shouts of protest and cries for help filled the air, but no one dared to step forward.
Sarah Lee, hidden in a backstage dressing room, clutched her phone as her remaining security team huddled around her.
"We need backup," she said, her voice shaking but resolute.
"Backup's on the way," her head of security assured her, though the bodies of fallen officers outside told a grim story. Most of the police stationed at the event had been caught off-guard during the initial attack. The terrorists had coordinated their assault with precision, targeting entrances and exits to prevent swift reinforcements.
"What about the crowd?" Sarah asked, glancing toward the door.
The security guard hesitated. "We'll do what we can to protect them, but we're outnumbered. We need to get you out first."
Jack remained frozen in place, the sound of footsteps drawing closer. He clenched his fists, wishing he'd done something—anything—other than hide. The thought of running crossed his mind, but his legs felt like lead.
Suddenly, a shadow passed overhead, moving faster than anything Jack had ever seen. A faint whooshing sound followed, like a gust of wind in a storm.
Alastor stood outside the venue, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos. People streamed out of the building, their faces pale with terror. Sirens wailed in the distance, the delayed response of overwhelmed law enforcement.
He stepped forward, unhurried, and disappeared into the venue in a blur of movement. No one saw him; to the panicked crowd, he was just another phantom in the chaos.
Inside, Alastor's gaze sharpened as he took in the scene: armed men, frightened civilians, and, somewhere amidst it all, Jack.
"I'll find you," he murmured under his breath, his figure melting into the shadows.