Symbiotic Agent

"With such an extensive criminal record, you're the cream of the crop among lowlifes." Holm sighed sarcastically, grabbing a few ropes from a pile of debris nearby. He efficiently tied the hands of the pathetic man and the still-wailing man in the hat to a trash can beside the townhouse.

To ensure they couldn't drag the cans around, he undid their belts and tied their legs together as well.

After finishing, Holm dusted off his hands and checked the time. "My colleagues will be here in five minutes to take you away. It would be wise to spill the details of all your dirt now if you want to avoid more pain later."

The wretched men nodded quickly, desperate to show their compliance. They just wanted this mad dog to leave.

With the situation handled, Holm holstered his pistol, tugged at the silent girl's arm, and guided her out of the alley.

The girl glanced at Holm, and for a moment, a spark of emotion flickered across her otherwise indifferent face. It seemed like she wanted to speak, but before she could, Holm had already flagged down a taxi.

As the cab pulled over, Holm raised an eyebrow and looked at the girl. "You're not even 21 yet, probably still in high school. You know it's illegal to buy alcohol and drink, right?"

Hearing Holm's somewhat stern tone, the girl pursed her lips and lowered her head slightly, hiding any reaction in her eyes.

Seeing her small gesture of submission, Holm nodded to himself.

Good. Shame means there's a chance she'll avoid this kind of mess in the future.

He continued, "Go home after school, and don't roam the streets so late. You never know when it'll be too late to regret something."

"Now, get in the car, tell the driver where you live, and go straight home. Don't linger."

Holm opened the car door, motioning for the girl to get inside. She kept her head down, her expression hidden, but stepped into the taxi once the door was open.

After closing the door, Holm approached the driver's side.

Looking at the somewhat impatient, bearded driver, Holm pulled out fifty dollars, slipping it into the driver's pocket. He then took out a FBI ID and flashed it in front of the driver and said, "This is your fare and tip. Make sure she gets home safely."

"You understand what I'm saying?" Holm waved the badge for emphasis.

The driver, once brimming with impatience, now wore an expression as determined as a soldier on a mission. The combined power of money and an FBI badge worked wonders.

"No problem, sir. I'll get her home safely."

Holm nodded in satisfaction. He appreciated people who knew when to follow the flow.

With the car speeding off into the dim night, Holm watched its taillights disappear in the distance. The faint wail of approaching sirens caught his attention. He slipped back into his car and tossed the FBI ID into the armrest compartment.

Inside the compartment lay a collection of various documents and badges—FBI, DEA, IRS, CIA, and more.

As a professional agent, these IDs were just tools of the trade. He could be anyone at any time, slipping into different roles effortlessly, all with genuine credentials.

After securing everything, Holm pressed the accelerator and drove toward the hotel.

The earlier encounter had been nothing more than a minor diversion, a glimpse into New York City's underbelly.

In Holm's memory, New York began to stir with life. The most prosperous city in the world also harboured some of its deepest shadows. And though he operated within those shadows, he could never accept what had just happened—nor could he ever stand by as a passive accomplice.

The early morning sunlight crept through the curtains, casting a glow on Holm's face. He stirred, rubbing his eyes and yawning, clearly not fully awake yet.

He hadn't slept well. Hours passed with him lying awake, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

At some point, he had drifted off, only to be plagued by nightmares—reliving his death repeatedly. Each time, something struck his temple, plunging him into darkness and pain.

He had been trapped in that loop of nightmares all night, leaving him feeling unsettled.

Countless times, he tried to turn around in the dream to catch a glimpse of his attacker, but he couldn't. All he could do was struggle until he woke.

"Phew... Don't let me catch you. You're dead when I do, you bastard!" Holm cursed aloud, rubbing his face in frustration. The murderer haunted his dreams in his sleep and his thoughts when he was awake.

He reached for his phone, checking the surveillance footage of his home from last night.

The living room remained empty, untouched since he'd left.

Holm frowned. Had the killer failed to complete the mission or had he realized that Holm wasn't dead?

Yesterday, Holm had leaned toward the first possibility, but after a night of reflection, he was now leaning toward the second. The killer likely knew he had survived and had therefore stopped his pursuit.

But how had the killer found out?

As Holm pondered, his phone rang, breaking his train of thought.

Seeing Daisy Johnson's name on the caller ID, everything suddenly clicked.

Daisy had been the only person in contact with him yesterday. If the killer had learned of Holm's survival, it would have been through her.

Now, all Holm had to do was find out to whom Daisy had unwittingly revealed his information to.

It might not have been that person directly—it could have been someone in their proximity who overheard. But one thing was certain: the connection lay with Daisy.

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