The second-hand electronics shop didn’t have a large storefront, squeezed between a dry cleaner and an old bookstore that had been closed for a long time.
The sign above the store read “EZ ELECTRONICS — Used Electronics / Repair,” the lettering long faded.
But the main focus was the backyard—Leo Vance observed it from the fire escape across the back alley for forty minutes.
During those forty minutes, three people came and went.
One at the front counter—who appeared to be the owner, on the heavier side, spending most of his time looking at his phone.
Two were in the backyard—one organizing cardboard boxes, the other smoking.
The smoker walked to the back door every twelve minutes to stand for a bit, presumably waiting for something.
The box organizer worked at a very regular rhythm—pick up a box, open and check it, reseal it, stack it on the other side.
Judging from the frequency of his movements, he wasn’t inspecting the goods; he was counting inventory.
There were no obvious firearms.
However, something was tucked behind the smoker’s waist—judging from his posture and the occasional minor adjustments to his weight, Leo Vance estimated it might be a walkie-talkie or a flashlight, unlikely to be a handgun.
If it were a gun, his center of gravity would lean more to the right, and his hand would unconsciously drift toward his waist.
This man kept his hands in his pockets most of the time.
At 1:20 AM, the smoker walked to the back door again.
This time he didn’t light a cigarette, but stood at the entrance looking at his phone—probably waiting for a message.
The store owner up front was still scrolling on his phone, while the other man in the backyard was stacking the last box.
Now was the time.
Leo Vance slid down the fire escape without a sound, moving through the shadows of the alley.
He crouched by the side of the shop’s back door first, leaning close to the wall to confirm there were no additional people inside.
There were only three voices: the owner complaining that “this batch of goods is too old,” the box organizer saying “as long as they work, stripping them for parts is worth it,” and the smoker at the door replying, “Wait another ten minutes.
If they don’t show, we call it a night.” It seemed another delivery person hadn’t arrived yet.
But Leo Vance didn’t intend to wait for that person.
He entered through the back window—the window wasn’t locked, secured only by a mesh screen.
The sound of him slicing open the screen with a razor blade was barely audible, like a fingernail scratching across paper.
Inside was a short corridor.
To the left was the main shop floor, and to the right led to the backyard warehouse.
Leo Vance lowered his center of gravity, stepping carefully on the old carpet lining the corridor floor—the carpet absorbed his footsteps.
The first target was the man organizing boxes, positioned near the entrance of the backyard warehouse.
When Leo Vance turned the corner of the corridor, the man was bending over to lift a cardboard box.
His back was turned, his center of gravity pitched forward, his ears and line of sight obstructed by the box—completely unaware that someone was behind him.
Leo Vance struck the moment he straightened up—his left hand clamped over the man’s mouth while his right knuckles accurately struck the vagus nerve on the side of his neck.
Pressure Point Striking didn’t require much force; as long as the location was precise, it could send a sudden, confusing signal to the brain that it was “time to rest.”
The man let out a muffled grunt, his body going limp.
Leo Vance supported him, placing him quietly against the stack of cardboard boxes before continuing further inside.
The backyard was a small open-air space—several stacks of boxes were piled against the wall, and a truck was parked in the middle.
Its headlights were off, but its engine was still warm, emitting a faint smell of diesel exhaust.
The smoker leaned against the back doorframe, his posture as he looked at his phone indicating he was growing impatient—the blue light of the screen illuminated his face, his brows furrowed.
By the time he heard the footsteps and turned around, Leo Vance was already within three paces of him.
“Who—?”
That was the last word the man would say tonight.
Leo Vance stepped forward sideways, his left hand slapping the phone out of the man’s grip—the phone slipped from his fingers, bounced once on the concrete floor, and landed face down—while his right hand struck the pressure point on the side of his neck, using slightly more force than before.
His knee simultaneously braced against the man’s side to prevent him from falling and making noise.
This man was heavier than the last one, requiring Leo Vance to adjust his center of gravity as he caught him.
He checked the back of the man’s waist—it wasn’t a gun, but a walkie-talkie and a folding knife.
The knife was a cheap convenience store item, its plastic handle worn white, the blade coated in sticky tape residue.
It was probably just used for opening boxes.
He set both the knife and the walkie-talkie on the ground nearby.
Then, he walked through the corridor toward the front of the shop.
The owner was still behind the counter, scrolling on his phone.
The sound of short videos was exceptionally clear in the quiet shop—it sounded like a soccer highlight reel, the commentator’s voice fast and high-pitched.
The owner had his head down, completely immersed in the screen.
He rounded from the side and deliberately knocked a calculator off the counter onto the floor.
The owner snapped his head up, only to see a dark figure standing before him—a sweeping cape, the bat emblem on his chest casting a dull glow under the counter light.
He opened his mouth to shout, but Leo Vance was already right beside him.
No strike—just a single finger pressed into the side of his neck with the exact same force as before.
“Don’t scream.”
The owner didn’t scream.
Not out of obedience, but because he had already passed out.
Leo Vance lowered him from the chair and laid him flat on the floor, checking his breathing—normal, just a temporary loss of consciousness.
Then he began inspecting the shop’s inventory.
There was a cash register at the front counter—it contained only some cash, which he left untouched.
In the corner was a security DVR recorder—a red light was blinking.
He removed the hard drive and placed it into a pouch on his belt.
He inspected every single cardboard box in the backyard warehouse: most were indeed used electronics, but at least six boxes contained brand-new items—flat-screen TVs, game consoles, power tools—with the retail store barcode tags still intact, belonging to a chain supermarket’s inventory.
Organized theft and fencing—this wasn’t the work of street-level petty thieves, but an operation with unified direction for theft and distribution.
He piled the stolen goods together near the backyard truck and took photos.
Using packing straps from the warehouse, he bound the three men individually—wrists, ankles, knees—placing them neatly side by side in the shop’s corridor.
The knots on the packing straps were tied using a technique he had practiced repeatedly in the Afghan caves: tight enough to prevent escape, but without cutting into the skin.
He placed the trio’s phones and walkie-talkie beside them, and left a note on the front counter listing the stolen inventory found inside and the warehouse location.
Finally, on the interior wall beside the front door, he used a spray paint can to leave an emblem.
The outline of a bat.
The lines weren’t perfect—spray painting required a touch he was still adjusting to, and he only had a few seconds—but the silhouette was sharp enough to be instantly recognizable.
Better than the one he had drawn during training earlier.
Standing on the roof outside the shop, he looked back at his work.
Three men tied up in the corridor, stolen goods stacked in the backyard, and a bat symbol on the wall.
“First official operation…” He checked his gloves for any paint residue.
“Not bad.”