Porcelain Animals and Cold Iron

The rain wasn't dramatic enough for a movie. It was a miserable, persistent drizzle that beaded on the rusted fire escape and made the whole industrial district smell of wet metal and ozone. Below, the streetlights painted slick, shimmering colours on the tarmac, a watercolour of urban loneliness. From his perch three stories up, Kenny Kent watched the warehouse, the condensation from his breath fogging the binoculars he'd bought from a pawn shop yesterday.

His client, a woman named Nana with eyes that seemed to hold entire encyclopaedias of secrets, had been specific. 'My beloved Persian, Shiro, has been taken. I believe he's being held in there.' She'd slid a thick envelope of cash across the table of his cluttered office, right next to a half-eaten bag of crisps. The office, grandly titled 'Kent Investigations', mostly handled cheating spouses and, yes, lost pets. But the cash was real, and Nana didn't look like the sentimental type.

For two nights he'd watched. Nothing. Just the regular shift of security guards, a couple of bored-looking men who spent more time on their phones than watching the perimeter. But tonight was different. A black van with no markings had arrived. Two men had gone inside. No one had come out.

"Alright, Shiro the cat," Kenny muttered to himself, pulling on a pair of thin leather gloves. "Let's see why you're worth more than my car."

He'd built a career on impossible entries. In 'Maximum Velocity', he'd scaled the outside of a skyscraper with nothing but suction cups. In 'Hard Target: Zero', he'd used a controlled explosion to bypass a vault door. Tonight, he was using a crowbar on a second-story window that looked like it hadn't been opened since the last king died.

The window groaned in protest, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet night. He froze, listening. Nothing. He slipped inside, landing with a soft thud on the concrete floor. The air was cool and smelt of machine oil and cardboard. The warehouse was a cavern of shadows, filled with towering shelves of crated goods.

A Different Breed of Cat

He moved through the aisles, a ghost in a worn trench coat. He'd learned this from a technical advisor on 'Shadow Strike'—a former SAS soldier who told him the key was to move with purpose, not speed. Use the shadows. Become part of the background.

He found the van's occupants in a small, brightly lit office in the centre of the warehouse. They were bent over a metal case on a desk. Kenny crept closer, hiding behind a stack of pallets.

Inside the case wasn't a cat. It was a sleek, insect-like drone, all matte black metal and complex-looking lenses. It was small enough to fit in his hand.

"The prototype is secure," one of the men said into a phone. "We're scrubbing the data logs now."

Kenny sighed. Of course. No wonder Nana paid so well. This wasn't a cat rescue; it was industrial espionage. He was the patsy hired to take the fall if things went sour.

"Sorry, lads," Kenny said, stepping out of the shadows. "But I have a prior claim on the... uh... feline."

The two men spun around. They were not the usual thugs. They were dressed in practical, dark clothing, and they moved with an efficiency that screamed 'professional'.

"You're not supposed to be here," the one on the phone said, his hand already reaching inside his jacket.

"That's what my landlord keeps telling me," Kenny quipped, grabbing the leg of a heavy metal stool. "I'm here for the cat. Give him to me, and I'll be on my way. I might even forget to mention this to the authorities."

The second man, a young Japanese man with cold, calculating eyes, just smiled. "You are Kenny Kent. From the movies. My father considered your work to be a cornerstone of mindless Western spectacle."

"Yeah, well, my father thought your father's entire generation could've used a bit more mindless spectacle," Kenny shot back, swinging the stool.

The first man was already pulling his gun. Kenny hurled the stool, a classic move from 'Bar Room Blitz'. It wasn't elegant, but it was effective. The man grunted as it hit him in the chest, giving Kenny the opening he needed. He charged, tackling the man over the desk.

The Japanese man, Shiro, didn't go for a weapon. He moved with a terrifying grace. As Kenny rose, Shiro was on him, a flurry of precise strikes aimed at joints and nerve clusters. This wasn't a bar fight. This was something else entirely.

Kenny blocked a strike to his throat, the impact jarring his arm to the shoulder. He was bigger, stronger, but Shiro was faster and far more technical. It was old-school Hollywood brawling versus modern, efficient martial arts.

"You've got some moves, kid," Kenny grunted, landing a solid punch to Shiro's ribs. "But you telegraph that high kick."

Shiro's eyes narrowed. "And you rely on brute force. Predictable."

He swept Kenny's legs out from under him. Kenny hit the concrete hard, the air rushing from his lungs. Shiro was on him in an instant, an arm pressing against his windpipe.

"It is over," Shiro said, his voice calm.

"The fat lady," Kenny rasped, his hand fumbling for something on the desk behind him, "hasn't even... cleared her throat yet."

His fingers found it: a heavy-duty hole punch. He swung it blindly, connecting with the side of Shiro's head with a dull thud. The pressure on his throat released. He gasped for air, scrambling away as Shiro staggered back, touching his temple.

Kenny grabbed the drone, stuffed it into his coat, and ran. He didn't look back. He vaulted over a conveyor belt and sprinted for the window he'd come through. Behind him, he heard a furious shout.

He clambered out onto the fire escape, the cold rain a welcome shock. He didn't stop until he was half a mile away, huddled in a bus shelter, the drone a cold, heavy weight in his pocket. His whole body ached. He wasn't 25 anymore. The stunts were starting to cost more than they were worth. His phone buzzed. It was an unknown number.

He answered, his breathing still ragged.

"Do you have it?" It was Nana.

"I have your 'cat'," he said. "It bites."

There was a pause. "Good. Now the real work begins. Did you encounter a man named Shiro?"

Kenny looked at the fresh bruise forming on his knuckles. He thought of the cold, focused eyes of his opponent. The fight had been more real than anything he'd ever filmed. He wasn't sure who had won, or what the prize even was.