ONE SEVENTY FIVE
Throughout the day, we remained glued to the television.
The living room was thick with tension, every breath feeling weighted, heavy, as if the entire world outside had collapsed into an endless static noise. The TV flickered non-stop in front of us, its news anchors droning on with updates that painted the chaos of the city in unsettling detail. We were glued to the screen, our eyes constantly darting from the news to each other, trying to track the ever-expanding perimeter of danger, trying to predict what would happen next. It felt like we were trapped in a continuous loop of bad news, only broken by the static hum of the television.
The anchor’s voice broke through the dissonant hum, sharp and unwavering: “This is a breaking news alert. New York City is in lockdown. Multiple police barricades have been set up throughout the five boroughs as authorities search for two dangerous fugitives wanted in connection with multiple high-profile kidnapping and a series of violent crimes which include murder of both cops and civilains.”
The images that flashed across the screen were enough to send a ripple of panic through me. Footage of NYPD officers marching down streets in full tactical gear, their eyes sharp and calculating, their faces hardened with the weight of the hunt. They were everywhere—on the bridges, in front of skyscrapers, and across bustling intersections where the city’s pulse had been abruptly silenced. Every major thoroughfare had been transformed into a no-go zone.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, my eyes narrowing as the map of New York City appeared on the screen, highlighted with red circles around the areas of the city that had been completely sealed off. The camera zoomed in on Manhattan first, where the barricades were the most heavily concentrated. The heart of the city was now an impenetrable fortress. The Lower East Side, once known for its thriving nightlife and diverse crowd, was now swarming with officers, their presence dominating the streets. The stretch of Delancey Street, a main artery of the neighborhood, had been blocked off at both ends. Police cars lined the streets like parked sentinels, with officers standing guard every few yards.
The anchor's voice continued, the words hitting me like a punch. “In Brooklyn, the Williamsburg Bridge is completely shut down, with every access point blocked. Officers are screening every vehicle trying to cross, and there are reports of heightened patrols in the area around McCarren Park. Nearby streets in Greenpoint are also seeing heavy police presence, as the search for the fugitives intensifies.”
I glanced at Dominic, his face a mask of concentration as his eyes locked onto the screen. He didn’t say anything, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the way he clenched his teeth like a man trying to hold back a torrent of frustration.
The image on the screen flicked to the Bronx, where the city’s industrial heart began to give way to the quieter residential areas. Even there, the barricades had crept into the edges of neighborhoods like creeping vines. Around Fordham Road, an area usually bustling with students and pedestrians, the police had set up a large blockade. Officers were stationed in the middle of intersections, blocking all east-west traffic, while others inspected vehicles under the harsh glow of searchlights. The familiar streets of the Bronx, once dotted with small businesses and the hum of daily life, had now become isolated pockets of controlled chaos.
The cameras cut to Queens next, and the neighborhoods there were no better. The outer boroughs weren’t being spared. In Astoria, the police had completely locked down the entrances to the N and W subway lines, forcing passengers to reroute. The streets near Astoria Park had been blocked off, with a dozen squad cars forming an unbroken line at the intersection of 21st Street and Ditmars Boulevard. Just west of the park, in the industrial district, barricades stretched across 31st Avenue, creating a gridlock that would take hours to untangle.
There was no escape. The entire city had been trapped in its own web, every entry point and exit carefully monitored.
The anchor continued, unfazed by the dire implications of his words: “In Staten Island, police forces are closing in on the southernmost tip of the borough. The Verrazzano Bridge has been shut down, and traffic leading toward the ferry terminal is now at a standstill. In Richmond Valley, authorities have set up check-points on all major intersections. The southern part of the island has been deemed a 'high-risk zone,' and residents are advised to stay indoors until further notice.”
As the camera panned over more footage of officers at work—patrolling the areas, looking into every vehicle, stopping pedestrians in the streets, eyes darting left and right, I could hear the voice of the anchor growing more insistent, as though trying to warn everyone watching. “The NYPD has urged residents to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity immediately. Citizens are reminded that a multi-million-dollar cash reward is being offered for any information that leads to the capture of these fugitives.”
I felt the world around me closing in, the claustrophobia of it all seeping into my chest, tightening around my ribs. A million thoughts and calculations went through my mind, and each one was suffocating me in its own way. This wasn’t just about getting caught. This was about survival.
Dominic’s pacing grew more frantic, his every movement sharp and purposeful, like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. The gun was still steady in his hand, though his grip on it was tightening, as if he were preparing for the next inevitable step. His face was set, his features hardening as the weight of the situation bore down on him. Every so often, he’d glance at me, his eyes piercing, seeking something, though I wasn’t sure what. In that moment, I couldn’t provide him with any answers. We were both trapped in the same way, by the same walls, both trying to keep it together in a city that had turned against us.
I shifted my focus back to the TV, trying to block out the noise in my head. The anchor’s voice was now talking about the search growing beyond just the city limits. There were reports that the fugitive pair might have fled New York entirely. The camera zoomed in on a police van, full of detectives, pulling away from one of the barricades as they set out to cover the outer boroughs. “Authorities are reportedly investigating possible routes leading out of the city via the George Washington Bridge or through the tunnels, but so far, there have been no confirmed sightings.”
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