To put it simply, Owen had always treated the karambit like an ordinary knife. Most of the time, that was enough. The unique grip and curved blade allowed for attacks from unpredictable angles, making it difficult for opponents to defend against.
McCall stepped back two paces, casually grabbing a magazine from the desk and rolling it into a makeshift baton. It was clear he intended to use it as a short stick.
Owen attacked again, but each strike was effortlessly deflected by McCall's rolled-up magazine. Time and time again, his karambit was parried away. McCall moved with fluid precision, making his improvised weapon seem just as effective as a solid baton.
Owen instinctively twirled the karambit in his hand, a flashy but ultimately useless movement. Before he could even complete the flourish, McCall tapped his wrist with the magazine, causing the knife to fly from his grip. A split second later, Owen felt a sharp jab against his throat—McCall had already struck him there.
The karambit was now embedded in the bookshelf. McCall retrieved it and tossed it back to Owen.
"Drop the flashy moves," McCall said evenly. "They look nice, but they're worthless in a real fight."
Owen caught the knife and adjusted his grip. He understood the logic—he had simply developed the habit of showy techniques. He hadn't realized how easily it could be exploited.
If this had been a real fight, he'd already be dead.
This time, Owen changed his approach. He closed the distance rapidly, attacking without unnecessary flourishes, relying on speed and the karambit's deceptive angles to land a hit.
McCall switched weapons again. He discarded the magazine and picked up the hardcover book that had been open on the desk.
Owen's strikes landed against the book with dull thuds, the blade unable to pierce through. Each attack was deflected effortlessly.
Finally, as Owen lunged again, McCall turned the book edge-on. The blade sunk into the pages, trapping it. Then, with a small twist of his wrist, he nearly snapped Owen's finger.
That was one of the karambit's weaknesses.
The common reverse grip offered excellent mobility and angle variety. With the index finger hooked into the ring, the knife was nearly impossible to disarm. But if the weapon was caught, the user's fingers were at serious risk.
"Hmm… looks like you'll need this too," McCall mused, pulling out another VHS tape and handing it to Owen.
Owen didn't even need to ask—he knew it contained more classified training material.
Ten minutes later, he returned home with two tapes and a karambit.
After greeting his mother and Amanda, he took the VCR from the living room and set it up in his room, eager to start watching.
He didn't start with the karambit training. Instead, he was more interested in the other tape.
The footage wasn't about hand-to-hand combat. Rather, it focused on how to use everyday objects as weapons.
Just as McCall had demonstrated earlier with the magazine and hardcover book, the video detailed how to use towels, pens, chopsticks, forks, broken glass—anything within reach—as lethal tools.
It even demonstrated how a single sheet of paper, when folded correctly, could become a deadly weapon. Some of these tricks had been covered in Owen's training in Las Vegas, but not as thoroughly as they were here.
One section covered improvised explosives.
For example, placing a pressurized aerosol can in an oven or using flour to create an explosive dust cloud—simple concepts turned into lethal techniques. The ingenuity behind it was eye-opening.
By comparison, the second tape was much more conventional, focusing on karambit combat techniques and real-world application.
Owen had previously learned mostly flashy tricks that looked cool but had little practical use. But thanks to his foundation, adapting to actual combat techniques came quickly.
He watched both tapes repeatedly, absorbing the knowledge like a sponge. That night, he felt like he had gained more than he had in months of regular training.
The karambit techniques were useful, but what truly stuck with him was the mindset from the first tape.
In a life-or-death situation, anything can be a weapon. A piece of paper. A glass of water. A teacup. A pen. The only limit is your imagination…
The next day, Owen arrived at CTU with dark circles under his eyes.
He had no choice. He didn't know when McCall would ask for the tapes back, so he had to absorb as much as possible in a short time. He had watched each tape dozens of times.
Over the next two days, Owen attended two funerals.
Yesterday, it was for fallen officers from the West Hollywood Police Department. Today, it was for the FBI SWAT members.
Despite taking precautions with the decoy convoy, they hadn't expected the gangs to be armed with heavy weapons. A helicopter was shot down, police cruisers were blown apart, and many officers lost their lives.
Unlike CTU, which had made no progress, the LAPD had seen major developments.
In response to the police casualties, officers across Los Angeles united with a shared fury. They practically declared war on every gang in the city.
On the surface, only three gangs had participated in the attack—an Asian gang, a Russian gang, and a Mexican cartel. But behind the scenes, many more were involved.
Where did they get their weapons? Who provided the intelligence? How did they obtain an anti-aircraft missile? These questions led to deeper investigations.
The LAPD showed no mercy. Any gang even suspected of involvement was hit with overwhelming force.
A dirty cop was identified and immediately indicted by the state prosecutor. His life was effectively over.
The police also activated deep-cover operatives who had been embedded in gangs for years. Entire organizations were uprooted overnight, with very few managing to escape.
Owen was in a terrible mood.
Yesterday, he had attended the police funeral. Today, he had just left the SWAT memorial.
Just days ago, Morris and the others had been in the training field with him, sharing techniques and joking around. Now, some of them were dead.
This was the first time since returning to CTU that he had seen Monica and the rest of the SWAT team.
At the funeral, Monica, Ash, and Heatwave all wore black.
Owen could see the pain in their eyes. They were grieving, but beneath their sorrow burned a fire—a relentless desire for vengeance.
He felt the same.
Watching comrades you trained and fought alongside die right in front of you—it was something no normal person could simply accept.
Ash took it especially hard.
As the team's commanding officer, she had been knocked unconscious at the very start of the ambush. By the time she woke up, half her squad was dead.
She felt like a failure.
Heatwave told Owen that Ash had clashed with Womack several times, demanding to be allowed to avenge her team. But each time, Womack shut her down.
So Ash had simply moved into the training facility, pushing herself to exhaustion every day, preparing for the day she could personally take revenge.
Monica and Heatwave stayed with her, fearing she might do something reckless.
Back at CTU, Owen buried himself in training.
If he wasn't studying McCall's tapes, he was in the shooting range, refining his technique.
He needed to grow stronger—fast. He had to prevent another tragedy from happening.
At the same time, he kept Bryan's advice in mind: Stay calm.
Rushing in blindly wouldn't bring justice.
Charging out in a rage would only end in unnecessary deaths—likely his own.
Owen had never felt a stronger desire to become powerful.
For his family.
For his friends.
And so he would never have to watch another comrade die before his eyes.
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