I'm Harold Finch.

You are being watched. The government has a secret system: a machine that spies on you every hour of every day. I know because I built it. I designed the machine to detect acts of terror, but it sees everything. Violent crimes involving ordinary people, people like you. Crimes the government considered irrelevant. They wouldn't act, so I decided I would. But I needed a partner, someone with the skills to intervene. Hunted by the authorities, we work in secret. You'll never find us, but victim or perpetrator; if your number's up... we'll find you.

McKinley's Billiards

Hell's Kitchen, NYC

Night time

John Reese's head rocked from the incoming punch. It was too fast to dodge, so he lowered his head. The other man's fist connected with his forehead. It hurt, but the other guy hurt more as he broke some of the bones is his hand. Reese then hit him in the throat with the side of his hand.

He wasted no time gloating. Four more were coming at him. On all sides.

Reese sent his heel into one his assailant's knee joints. That one went down. Reese didn't stop. He spun on himself and hit another one in the chest with a spinning heel kick. Still spinning, he sent a hammer fist into a third man's temple. The fourth man tried a roundhouse punch. Reese deflected it and sent a reverse elbow strike. Reese put all of his strength and weight into it. The tip of his elbow shattered his adversary's collar bone. Reese was rewarded with a scream before the man passed out from the pain.

Another man rushed Reese. A big man, almost seven inches taller than Reese, about 6'8" tall. Large. Strong. He put his arms around Reese's rib cage. Reese wasted no time panicking or trying to break the hold. He spread his arms and his open hands struck the big bruiser on his ears. Once. Twice. Third time was the charm. The brawler was dazed. His eardrums were damaged. Reese grabbed a chair by the legs and swung at the big man's head in an uppercut move. The hard wood caught the guy under the chin, snapped his head back and he fell heavily to the ground. Reese then let go of the chair.

John Reese was the last man standing in the bar. There were several men on the floor. Some were unconscious. Some were stirring in pain from dislocated joints and broken bones. Some were holding their groins and rolling around. Eight men in all.

He straightened his clothes. No tears. No wrinkles. No blood.

Thank goodness for small favors, Reese thought.

He knew that he looked non-descript enough: people would remember a White man, late 30s, early 40s. Dark hair, with some grey. Tall and slender. And wearing a suit.

"Now then," Reese said in a pleasant voice ,"I feel we got off on the wrong foot, fellas. I didn't want to start trouble, I just wanted some information. I'm willing to look past this little incident if one of you helps me out. How about it?"

"Screw you, you son of a bitch," one of the men with a dislocated shoulder said.

"That wasn't very nice," Reese said, walking over to that man, pulling out his 9mm SIG-Sauer P226R.

"Whoa, wait a minute," the man said.

"You know, one of your friends hit me in the head," Reese said, "I'm a little dizzy. A shot might go off. Hit you somewhere non lethal. But painful. Very. Painful."

"Hey, man, calm down. Easy. Easy, man."

Reese smiled and answered:

"I'm perfectly calm. Can't you tell? You're the one that seems nervous."

"What...what do you wanna know?"

Reese asked him. The man spoke for a while. Reese pushed harder. There was nothing more. He asked a couple of the other men. Nothing more came out of that.

"See?" Reese said, smiling again, "Wasn't that hard, was it? Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Reese stepped out of the bar and went into a black sedan. He didn't start the car. He had nowhere to go. No leads.

"Did you get that, Finch?" Reese said out loud, though no one was with him.

"Loud and clear, Mr. Reese," Finch answered.

Harold Finch. Mysterious billionaire. Computer genius. Unlikely partner. Creator of The Machine. Reese was in communication with Finch via a small ear piece connected to his highly secure cell phone. Finch was in their base of operations.

"This is the fourth scummy bar I've hit tonight," Reese said, "I'm getting a little tired of these dead ends."

"I understand your frustration, Mr. Reese, however, this number is quite unusual. We can't use our usual methods."

Reese knew Finch was right. Finch was usually right. The man was a genius. Years ago, after 9/11, Finch, working with the government, created a machine. That machine could be hooked up to surveillance cameras, computer connections, cell phones. It would gather data and could come up with a pattern. That pattern could establish premeditation. It would then give out a number. A social security number. The person attached to that number was sure to be involved in a terrorist conspiracy. They could be a victim or a terrorist.

The machine also gave other numbers. People involved in street level murders. Gangsters. Jealous spouses. Greedy business partners. People that also were conspiring to get someone killed. Back then, the machine discarded those "irrelevant" numbers. Finch couldn't live with that. He left the government, found a way to access The Machine and that "irrelevant" list. He wanted to prevent those murders. But Finch was barely 5'8", small framed, near sighted and walked with a limp. Not exactly built for combat and surveillance.

But Finch found a homeless drunk. A lost man. A former soldier, an ex-CIA agent. A skilled, experienced, but lost man. John Reese. Finch offered him a job. A purpose. The tentative partnership grew into trust. Mutual respect. Friendship. And they dedicated their respective talents to stopping violent crime. One number at a time.

That gave birth to a growing urban legend: the Man In A Suit. Reese was that Man. That was all witnesses remembered or volunteered as information. A Man In A suit. Beating bad guys up. Or shooting them. Sometimes to kill, often in the kneecaps.

Usually, Finch and Reese found the person. Hacked their phone and home computer and quickly identified the threat. In this instance, the person behind the number had no electronic trail whatsoever. Not surprising: the person was a fugitive.

So, they had to do bit more legwork. Since the "number" spent most of their time with criminals, it was Reese's idea to knock on some doors. Doors with gangsters behind them.

"At least, the bits and pieces you seem to obtain are consistent," Finch said, "Someone called in some major...talent from out of town. A new organisation dealing in designer drugs. But again, you get almost nothing when mentioning the number's name."

"That new crew isn't reckless," Reese said, "They're not making some kind of takeover attempt."

"So it confirms our hypothesis, Mr. Reese."

"The heavy hitters could be hunting our number," Reese said, "Can't seem to find confirmation, though. Anything on your end?"

"I'm monitoring police communications," Finch said, "Also, being hooked in to the city's surveillance grid, if anything resembling our number's...typical activities transpires, we might be able to zero in on it."

"This guy makes a career out of not being found, Finch. And New York is a big city. Maybe it's time I started on focusing on that gang of drug dealers. Maybe that thread could..."

"Oh."

"Finch?"

"A camera caught something resembling a big firefight. Several black SUVs. Men in tactical gear. Not members of any law enforcement agency. And the camera went black."

"That has to be it. Send me the address, Finch."

"Mr. Reese, this could be something else completely, not connected to our number. No to mention that they are...quite a few of them. And only one of you."

"There's only one way to be sure this is connected to our number."

"This is suicide, Mr. Reese," Finch said.

"This is the job, Finch," Reese said, "And by the time the cops would make it..."

There was a pause. Reese knew Finch didn't want to send him into a meat grinder. But he had to.

"There's no other way," Reese said.

"I'm sending you the address now," Finch said.

"Thanks."

"Please, proceed with caution, John."

Reese smiled, "I always do."

He then looked at the address on his phone. He was only minutes away. He put the car in gear.