[A Dimly Lit Alley, City Outskirts]
The heavy clang of the metal door reverberated through the narrow alleyway like a warning bell, echoing off the damp, graffiti-stained walls. It shut out the distant murmur of city traffic—sirens wailing far off, engines rumbling like distant beasts. Here, in the decaying fringe of civilization, silence reigned. The air was dense with the bitter tang of oil, rust, and old, wet stone—a cocktail of industrial decay and refuse left to rot in forgotten corners.
Cracked pavement gave way to scattered detritus—broken crates, crushed beer cans, a moldy tarp slouched against the wall like a forgotten corpse. And humming beneath it all, faint but unmistakable, was the sound of old machinery—a low, mechanical purr, steady and unnerving. Something still breathing down here. Something ancient. Watching.
Bootsteps. Soft, deliberate.
He moved forward, his black cloak trailing just above the grime, brushing puddles that shimmered faintly in the flickering half-light. His boots—polished obsidian leather—struck the ground with a subtle clink, barely audible over the ambient hum. Every step was measured, every movement a whisper.
Ahead, beneath a single flickering bulb suspended by a fraying wire, sat a man. He lounged in a rusted metal chair like it was a throne, the king of wreckage. One leg slung over the other, fingers drumming idly on his knee, a cigarette smoldering lazily between two fingers. Smoke curled around his face like a veil.
He didn't flinch at the newcomer's approach. Didn't even glance up.
The man was dressed like the alley—worn, forgotten, but somehow defiant. His long coat was frayed at the edges, his boots scratched and mud-caked. But his eyes, when they finally rose, were sharp and calculating, cutting through the dim haze with practiced precision. A predator at rest.
"You're here, finally... Zero" he muttered with a tired half-shrug, like saying the name drained him. "Heh. Thought maybe you got cold feet or somethin'. Would've been a first." He exhaled smoke and lazily tossed something across the space between them.
A file.
Zero caught it without effort, without breaking stride. His gloved fingers flipped through the pages—images, coordinates, notations in red ink. Classified clearances stamped on every page. The target. Not just a job. A high-level threat, flagged for elimination by people who didn't put names on paper. He skimmed it with clinical detachment, then closed it with a soft snap. He said nothing, folding his arms behind his back, the file hanging from his right hand like a loose thread waiting to be cut.
The man—Harlen Smith—watched him with something between amusement and caution. His slouched form tensed just slightly, like prey remembering it still had claws.
"Right, then..." Harlen muttered, clearing his throat and leaning forward. The chair creaked under the shift in weight. "About the job. Simple. Just like you like it. No clean-up. My crew'll handle that mess. You just do what you're best at—make the target disappear. The higher-ups don't want a body left behind, but they do want this over."
Zero didn't blink. Didn't speak. The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by the distant drip of water from a busted pipe and the occasional groan of metal shifting in the walls.
"I'll take that as a yes." Harlen smirked, tapping the scarred tabletop with two fingers. "But listen, this one's got a bomb, we're not sure if it's a threat or not but there's a chance that is true...We're not sure. Just keep civilians alive. That's all that matters."
He paused, then added, more quietly, "Still... when the government sends you instead of a unit, well, I don't ask questions. I know what that means. They don't want this person alive. They want peace of mind."
Still, Zero didn't respond. But something in the air changed. A subtle tension, like a string pulled taut.
Harlen's eyes narrowed, voice dipping into a more familiar rhythm. "You've been... faster lately. Cleaner. Like clockwork." He chuckled. "Got an upgrade I don't know about? Or maybe—maybe you're not as human as you seem, huh?"
Silence.
Then Zero spoke—calm, measured, but unmistakably cold. "Mr. Harlen Smith. If time is short, don't waste it."
The shift in tone was immediate. The playful edge in Harlen's grin faltered for just a heartbeat. The use of his full name hung in the air like a loaded gun. He gave a sharp exhale, a forced chuckle. "Well damn, never thought I'd hear that from you. Using full names now? You must be real tired of the chatter." He stood, stretching his arms overhead until his shoulders cracked, trying to shake off the unease.
"But alright, alright. Business it is. The job's yours. High clearance. National interest, they said."
Zero moved forward at last, a fluid shadow. He approached the table and let his fingers briefly graze a worn tablet sitting on the edge. He picked it up without ceremony and slid it into his inner coat pocket. His every motion was silent, decisive. There was no hesitation in him. No doubt. Just purpose.
Harlen watched him carefully. "Always so quiet. Makes people nervous, you know that?" he muttered. "Not even one damn question. One day, I swear, you'll crack a joke and the whole world'll fall apart."
Zero reached the door.
"Hey," Harlen called out, his voice losing its usual bravado, quiet now. "You ever wonder why they keep hiring you? Why they trust you with the big ones?"
Zero paused at the threshold, half-turned, silhouette bathed in shadow.
Harlen's voice lowered. "It's not just 'cause you're good at killing. It's 'cause you never miss. Not once. And that... scares the hell outta people. Even me, sometimes."
There was no answer. Just the whisper of fabric, the faint thud of boots, and the creak of the door as it swung open.
The city beyond was cold and alive. Neon lights flickered in puddles. Shadows sprawled like veins across cracked stone. The alley emptied into a sprawling metropolis, all color and motion—but Zero stepped into it like into a memory, unshaken, eyes locked ahead.
The night welcomed him.
Another mission. Another shadow to erase.
Not justice. Not vengeance.
Just balance.
________________________________________
The wind whipped across the rooftop, biting through Zero's coat like a blade, but he paid it no mind. The moon lightened up the midnight sky .
This was his world. Silent. Deadly. The edge of the night where people disappeared and missions were completed.
His target had always been easy to find at least because of the information he's given. They were always where they were meant to be, just waiting for him. Target 0173. The objective was clear: neutralize, leave no trace, disappear. And the government would take care of the rest.
He moved through the building rooftops with the grace of a shadow, never breaking stride, his footsteps barely making a sound as he navigated the halls. When he reached her penthouse, he didn't need to waste time on formalities. He knew she'd be waiting. And she was.
At the window, the woman stood, facing the city, her silhouette framed by the soft moonlight that filtered in through the glass. A glass of wine hung loosely in her hand, but her posture—tense, watchful—betrayed the calm.
She didn't flinch when he stepped into the room. Didn't even turn to face him, though her eyes flicked toward him as if she already knew.
"I've been expecting you," she said, her voice flat, like it was a fact she'd long accepted. "They always send someone in the end."
Zero didn't respond. He didn't need to. She knew what he was here to do.
But she was no helpless person.
Without warning, she turned, eyes sharp. Her movements were fluid, controlled, as she lunged toward a desk drawer. Her hand slid beneath it, pulling out a weapon—a sleek, combat knife that caught the light as she held it with deadly intent.
Zero didn't flinch, didn't move a muscle. He simply watched, calculating.
She came at him with precision, aiming for his midsection. The blade flashed, cutting through the air in a clean arc.
But Zero was faster. A blur of motion. He sidestepped just enough to let the blade slash through the air where he had been, grazing his coat but not his skin. His movements were an extension of the night itself—fluid, inevitable.
She didn't back down. Instead, she pressed on, feinting to the left and then striking high. Zero blocked her strike, his arm intercepting the blade's path in a burst of energy. The force of it sent a shockwave down his spine, but his grip remained ironclad. His eyes never left hers, cold and unwavering.
"You're good," he said, his voice even, though there was a faint glimmer of something in his eyes—acknowledgment. "I'll give you that."
She didn't respond with words. Instead, she spun, dropping low to the ground and sweeping at his legs with the flat of her blade. Zero jumped back, just narrowly avoiding the strike, and in that instant, she was back on her feet, pressing her attack, relentless. The fight wasn't over.
Her strikes were calculated—precise—like a dancer, but with the ferocity of a predator. He blocked again, sidestepping and countering with a smooth, calculated strike aimed at her ribs.
But she was fast. Too fast. She twisted out of the way, the blade nicking his sleeve but not finding purchase on his skin. She backed off just enough to study him, her eyes narrowing.
"I'm not going down that easily," she said, her voice cool, taunting. "If you think you've seen everything I have, you're wrong."
Zero's gaze never wavered. His focus was total, his mind already calculating her next move. There was no hesitation. He had no emotions. This wasn't a fight for survival—this was simply an execution. The woman might be skilled, but Zero was faster, sharper, more efficient.
She lunged again, this time more unpredictably, aiming for his throat. The blade was a blur, and she was almost there when Zero moved with perfect timing, grabbing her wrist mid-strike, twisting it until the blade fell with a sharp clatter to the ground.
But she didn't stop. She spun, her leg sweeping out to knock him off balance. For a moment, he stumbled back, just enough for her to regain her footing. She wasn't giving up. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Zero didn't rush this time. He let her think she had the advantage for a split second before he closed the distance, his hand gripping her wrist with lethal precision. With one swift motion, he twisted, forcing her to the ground with a sound that echoed through the room.
She struggled, but there was no escape now. Zero kneeled beside her, his arm firmly keeping her in place. Her breath came in quick, ragged gasps, but her eyes still held that fire.
"Last chance," Zero said, his voice low. "You can stop this now. You'll never win."
She glared at him, fury and defiance swirling in her gaze. "You think you're the first to underestimate me? They'll send someone else. Someone better. And then they'll remember me."
Then she charged.
Her movements were fast, unpredictable—erratic like a wild animal. She feinted right, then pivoted and lunged left, low. A blade gleamed in her hand, metal catching the light like lightning in a bottle.
Zero parried with his forearm, grimacing as the edge scraped his jacket. She twisted around him with surprising agility, aiming the knife for his ribs.
He caught her wrist mid-thrust, spinning her with sheer force and slamming her into the rooftop floor. Her body bounced, but she rolled with the impact, came up snarling—and threw a punch straight at his jaw.
It connected.
His head jerked to the side, but he stood his ground.
"See?" she gasped, panting. "I'm not scared of you. I'm not scared of dying!"
He didn't answer—just stepped in and kicked the knife away with brutal precision. She lunged for it anyway, but he grabbed her by the collar and yanked her back, slamming her against the ventilation shaft. Metal groaned beneath them.
"Why?" he demanded, voice cold. "Why strap a bomb to your chest? You wanted to die that badly?"
"Maybe" she breathed, smiling now, crooked and wild. "But that's not your business is it?."
Her hand slipped inside her coat.
She pressed the trigger, jumping off out of the window.
He reacted instantly—power crackling through her as he hurled her away from falling and killing people that are possibly on the ground, catching her and immediately throwing her to the rooftop. She flew, limbs flailing, landing hard on the far side of the roof, where no one else stood.
Then—
BOOM.
The rooftop trembled underfoot.
________________________________________
The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp that cast a muted halo across the concrete floor. No windows. No clock. No sound except for the faint ticking of cooling metal and the soft, rhythmic scrape of cloth against leather.
Zero sat alone at the edge of a long steel table, his coat still on, boots still laced. The fight was over, but the ritual remained.
He worked in silence, a damp cloth sliding over the surface of his cloak, wiping away invisible specks of dust and the faintest hint of blood. Not enough to stain. Not enough to mark. But he cleaned it anyway. Always did.
Precision wasn't just for the mission—it bled into every motion, every habit. Every thread of that cloak mattered. Every tool, every detail. His gloves stayed on as he reached into an inner pocket and retrieved a sleek metal instrument—part blade, part key, part symbol. The mark of his work.
He didn't take it apart. Didn't need to. Instead, he turned it slowly in his hands, wiping it clean with a towel and hydrogen peroxide with deliberate care. Over and over, until the steel caught the light just right, until it reflected nothing but shadow.
He set the bottle of peroxide aside, its cap clicking softly as it shut. The scent lingered—sharp, sterile, clinical. It reminded him of hospitals. Of interrogation rooms. Of before.
The instrument gleamed now. Pristine. Edges fine enough to split silence. He set it down beside him with a quiet clink, perfectly parallel to the cloth he'd used.
________________________________________
[Street XXXX Time 8:36]
The door creaked open as Owen stepped inside, hood pulled low and gloves snug against his skin. The orphanage's lobby was dimly lit, quiet except for the low hum of the old television in the common room.
He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.
"You're late," said a voice near the front desk.
Owen tilted his head.
Grace, one of the orphanage's staff members, leaned against the counter holding a squirming infant on her hip. She was in her early twenties, hair tied back in a loose bun, dark circles under her eyes. The baby—Riley—was chewing determinedly on her shoulder strap.
"I was handling something," Owen replied. "Professionally."
"Right. Professionally mysterious," she teased, rocking Riley gently. "You know, most people just say 'I got stuck in traffic.'"
"I wasn't in traffic."
Grace sighed but smiled. "They missed you. I told them if they broke one more chair, I'd start calling you the furniture reaper."
"That's not a real title."
"They don't know that."
A shriek echoed from the common room.
"OwEN's hErE!!"
Before he could respond, the stampede began.
Kids barreled out from the hallway like a sugar-fueled riot squad. Danny with his towel-cape. Mia with glitter glue on her cheeks. Liam carrying a clipboard like it was a battle plan. Owen stood still as they latched onto him like burrs to denim.
"Did you bring snacks?"
"Are your boots bulletproof?"
"Can I punch you to see if you flinch?"
"No," Owen said, handing Mia a neatly wrapped granola bar. "Yes. No."
Grace chuckled, watching them swarm him. "You spoil them."
"I don't."
"You do."
Danny suddenly yelled, "The Iron Titan vaporized a truck today! It was awesome!"
Mia jumped in. "I saw it on TV! The villain was, like, melting the road."
Owen gave a small nod. "I prefer subtlety."
"Boring!" Liam called from the back.
"I'm consistent," Owen replied.
Riley burbled and drooled on Grace's collar.
"Hey," Grace said, adjusting the baby. "When you're done playing brooding shadow dad, I actually need to talk to you."
Owen blinked. "Now?"
"Yeah. Can you hold her?"
He stiffened. "...I don't do babies."
"She likes you," Grace said, depositing the child into his arms.
Riley immediately grabbed the edge of Owen's mask and started giggling.
He stood there, immobile, awkward, asif someone had handed him a live grenade. "What is the issue?"
Grace lowered her voice. "One of the newer donors. Mr. Kerwin."
Owen's eyes narrowed beneath his hood.
"He's... weird," she said, glancing toward the hallway. "Keeps asking for information about certain kids. Backgrounds. Health conditions. One of the older girls swears he asked if anyone here had... unusual abilities."
Owen's jaw clenched slightly. "Did he say that exactly?"
"Not in those words, but close." She crossed her arms. "It's probably nothing, but you know how this world works. Heroes. Meta-kids. Power scouts. Sometimes they fish in places like this."
Owen glanced down at Riley, who was now trying to chew his glove.
"I can look into him," he said.
Grace nodded. "Thanks. Just… be careful. I don't want any of them dragged into someone else's idea of a spotlight."
"They won't be," Owen said firmly. "Not while I'm here."
Mia suddenly peeked out from the hallway, eyeing the baby in Owen's arms.
"Are you a dad now?"
"No," Owen replied.
"You look like a dad."
"I don't."
"You act like one."
"Incorrect."
Grace laughed behind her hand. "Owen the softie."
"I am not—"
"Sure you're not," Grace smirked. "Now go save your cape-kids before they repaint the walls with mustard."
Owen turned slowly, Riley still in one arm, coat swaying slightlyas he walked back toward the chaos.
But suddenly his phone rang,Grace took quick noticed and so did Owen. "Can you hold Riley for a moment"
Grace just nodded it as she took Riley into her arms, she'd noticed Owens subtile tension as he had took his phone out of his pocket. "Is there something wrong...?"
Owen didn't reply for a moment before turning to Grace "It's a emergency at my workplace,I might not be able to come back for some days"
"Really what kind of emergency would be that—"
"I apologize,tell the kids that I'll make it up to them for it" Owen said as he left quickly almost in a hurry and Grace just watched as he walked away.
________________________________________
Once he was in a quiet lone place he picked up the phone, he was prepared for the worst as they would never call him unless it's oh really bad situation.
"We have a situation, it's an emergency" came through, low and urgent. "One of our major units are is dead. Confirmed fifteen minutes ago. The fallout's already starting—riots in three cities, containment failures, power grabs."
A beat of silence, heavy with implications.
"You're next in line. The Council wants you on the leading team to be a replacement at least for a while. You'll need a new identity."