What he had done with Miss Wiles in his office had him floating on cloud nine.
On his way back home, his mind was focused on his relationship with Rebecca, the sensations experienced during their union.
These thoughts faded with lightning speed as the taxi ventured down the street where he lived. Two trucks and five police vehicles presented a terrifying scene of bustling activity, a struggle against a house fire.
His house!
"What the... ?!!" John exclaimed, almost choking, his heart skipping a beat.
His home was turning into ashes, devoured from all sides by a monster of roaring flames, the firefighters' efforts sadly appearing powerless against this beast.
His neighbors had all come out to witness this, and John felt ashamed.
The car stopped, and the young man paid the fare with a bewildered driver using a credit card, then stepped out onto the sidewalk, crestfallen.
One of his neighbors, Peter Johnson, an obese old fellow of over sixty who never parted with his shabby slippers and malodorous bathrobe, and whom everyone called "Pete the Plump," approached him.
"John," he said, placing his hand on John's shoulder with a compassionate look, "I'm truly sorry. Know that the whole neighborhood supports you through this ordeal."
Disgusted, the young man gently removed his shoulder from the hand with black nails belonging to a man of highly questionable hygiene, whose foul breath, a mixture of stale tobacco and fiery whisky, could have euthanized any animal species.
However, he was touched by this gesture of kindness.
"Thanks, Pete," John replied, "that's kind of you..."
He stopped as a police officer walked towards him, a notepad in one hand and a four-color pen in the other.
"Are you the owner of this house?" he asked in a deeply unsympathetic tone, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes," John answered with a pitiful expression.
The officer opened a new page in his notepad.
"Last name, first name, date and place of birth, and occupation, please?" he asked.
"John Andrew Katika, born on July 20, 1998, in San Francisco, unemployed," John replied.
He would have preferred to refrain from revealing this last detail, as the context was already quite unfavorable to his dignity.
The policeman jotted down this information and stated, "Mr. Katika, an investigation is underway regarding this fire, and I'd like to know any detail that could explain its cause."
The source of the fire? But it was very clear in John's mind: Woodford, his father, Mikhail, or all three must have sent henchmen to carry out this dirty work as a parting gift.
Could he reveal this to the investigator from the San Francisco Police Department? No, all information related to Katika and his plot could only be entrusted to the FBI, when the time was right.
"I think there might have been an electrical malfunction," John lied. "You know, I was supposed to call in an electrician team for an inspection, but it seems that's no longer necessary..."
As the officer took notes, a detail caught his attention: a bald, sturdy-looking man in a black leather jacket stood among the onlookers, giving John a disturbing, menacing look.
He seemed oddly familiar to John, but where had he seen this brawler-like guy before?
He remembered now: he was one of the temporary bodyguards of Miles Woodford. But what on earth was he doing there? Could he have set his house on fire on direct orders from his boss?
Before John could approach him, the officer blocked his way by placing his hand against John's chest.
"Wait a minute, sir," he said. "You'll need to sign some documents related to the investigation and your statements."
Losing precious minutes waiting to sign damn papers instead of confronting the perpetrator of this carnage? No way.
Before all this happened, John had never felt like a hothead or a rebel, but now that these bastards had targeted the symbol of his privacy, his home, a fury had taken over his body, driving him toward vengeance.
The man had made a quick escape on a motorcycle, fleeing from the disaster he had caused.
Disconnected from reality, John let out a roar like a bull and violently pushed the officer aside.
He spotted a police motorcycle with the keys in it and didn't hesitate for a moment: he seized it and raced at full speed toward his enemy.
One couldn't attack his residence without facing the consequences. This man had crossed a red line that should never be crossed.
Terrified of being run over by the young man, neighbors ran along the sidewalk, out of his path as he plunged into the neighborhood.
The fugitive had already reached the main road and was heading straight towards the business district, disregarding all traffic regulations, narrowly avoiding causing at least ten accidents.
In the distance, a chorus of police sirens could be heard, too far away to be concerning, at least for the moment...
The vandal attempted to permanently shake off his pursuer and darted into a narrow alley, disregarding pedestrians he nearly crashed into head-on.
However, stung by the unspeakable, unforgivable act that this scumbag had committed, John managed to maintain the chase until a tragedy unfolded...
He hadn't noticed in time that the person he was chasing had stopped and was waiting, leaning against the wall of a restaurant, his motorcycle propped against a blue metal trash bin.
Caught up in his speed, John collided with a pile of plastic bags and executed a magnificent somersault that sent him and his motorcycle crashing into a wall.
Miraculously, he emerged unscathed, as his vehicle hadn't landed on his legs or any other part of his body. However, before he could even catch his breath, he felt a hand gripping his hair like a vice.
"You little shit!" bellowed a thunderous voice. "Did you really think you could catch me?"
Not far away, four laughs followed suit, and John caught sight of the other bodyguards of Woodford, all clad in the same jackets as their colleague.
"You were right, Carl," said a behemoth sporting an impressive bushy beard like an Alaskan lumberjack, "it was the perfect place to trap him."
A spit landed squarely on John's forehead as he struggled to break free from the manual grip of his adversary, but in vain. He was far too strong.
All of them stood at least 6'3" (1.90 meters) and weighed around 220 pounds (100 kg) of muscle.
However, strange as it may seem, it wasn't their size that worried John the most. No, it was their menacing weapons – brass knuckles, baseball bats, and large boots reinforced with steel tips.
"Let go of me!" the young man screamed, terrified.
All the courage and adrenaline he had felt a few minutes ago while stealing that police motorcycle and chasing the so-called Carl had evaporated.
One of the colossi silenced him in a radical manner – a powerful kick to the face.
The world around John was nothing but pain. He apparently had a broken tooth, and a trickle of blood ran down his chin.
His attackers continued to laugh intensely, as if the spectacle unfolding before them was akin to the greatest comedy sketches they had ever witnessed in their lives.
"Shut your mouth, you son of a bitch!" Carl bellowed. "Assholes like you deserve no mercy, and believe me, we're going to finish you right here and now!"
No sooner said than done: his accomplices pounced on John like a pack of wild wolves, raining blows upon him.
They struck just like animals tearing into the flesh of their prey—swift and inflicting ever more excruciating pain on their victim.
Life flashed before John's eyes like a sped-up movie. He feared dying in that alley, amid the filth and rats that watched from their hiding spots.
What if he could never reveal the unfolding conspiracy to the world? His death would mean taking that secret to his grave, unable to stand up against Katika anymore.
His only consolation in the face of leaving this world was that he had shared a moment with Rebecca.
Rebecca... As darkness began to cloud his vision, as his mind began to ascend to a horizon beyond his physical body, the face of the young secretary appeared—not in his mind, but right before his eyes.
She was there, by his side, walking through the darkness and incessantly shouting to him:
"Don't give up! Your time has not yet come!"
His time had not yet come? Was he delirious, on the brink of departing for the afterlife?
Just as this thought, heavier than the others given John's difficulty to think, speak, or see, entered his mind, Rebecca—or at least her echo, her reflection—placed her hand against his heart and transferred a powerful halo of light into his.
An indescribable sensation overcame him. Suddenly, all the despair left his considerations, and he knew he would not die today. Of course, this didn't diminish the pain of the blows that continued to rain down on him, but for the moment, he knew he would only lose consciousness at most.
The garbage that was beating him emitted inhuman, terrifying cries.
"It's going to stop," John thought inwardly, "I'm about to pass out and escape these savage beasts..."
But time persisted, holding him tenaciously in this precarious moment. Why wouldn't he just faint already, for crying out loud?
Suddenly, one of them delivered a blow with brass knuckles to his ear.
The pain was so unbearable that John forgot his identity, forgot what was happening.
A high-pitched ringing enveloped him from all sides, intensifying as he sank into darkness, surrounded by thick, black clouds.
After enduring a few more minutes of torment, John finally lost consciousness.