BORN OF A HERO
In a city gripped by fear, where freedom is a forgotten word and every shadow could mean death, the people live like animals—caged, watched, silenced. The powerful rule with iron fists, stealing not just liberty, but hope. Movement is a crime. Speech is dangerous. Dreams are treason.
But in the depths of their despair, the citizens whisper of a savior
Not a hero.
An assassin a person who will give them hope, an assassin who will change their story
Born of the darkness.
Forged by the pain.
The protector they never expected.
The reckoning no tyrant can escape."
The rain fell in thin, oily streams—more like tears from the sky than anything meant to cleanse. Dareth hadn't seen a clear day in years. The clouds hung heavy, like the fear that pressed down on its people.
On the corner of Deadwell Avenue, a boy no older than twelve crouched beneath a broken vending stall. He didn't dare move. Not because he was tired. Not because he had nowhere to go.
But because the Sentinels were out.
Three of them passed by in silence, armored in matte black with glowing red visors scanning the streets. Their boots echoed on the cracked pavement like war drums. No one dared to breathe too loud. Not anymore.
The city had fallen long ago—not to war, but to control. The kind that seeps into every crevice of life. Cameras blinked from rooftops. Drones buzzed overhead. Words were monitored, faces tracked, and anyone who asked questions… disappeared.
Children grew up without voices. Parents forgot how to hope. Resistance was not crushed—it was erased.
And yet, a whisper had begun to stir.
A name.
No one knew if it was a man, a myth, or something worse.
The Ghost."
"The Blade in the Dark."
"The One Who Strikes Back."
In alleyways, it was spoken like a prayer. In government chambers, like a curse.
The first sign had been the General's death. Choked by his own command drone. No witnesses.
The second, the archives fire. Every surveillance record from Sector 12—gone.
Now, the regime was hunting shadows. But what they didn't understand was simple.
This city didn't need another rebel.
It needed someone unseen.
Someone merciless.
A protector with blood on their hands and no face to name.
A flicker of movement—rooftop, six stories up.
The boy looked up just long enough to see a silhouette slip across the rain-slick edge. Not a Sentinel. Not a drone.
Something… else.
And for the first time in a long time, the boy allowed himself a thought he hadn't dared whisper aloud.
The city looked different from up here. Not better. Just smaller. Quieter. Like a corpse lying still before the autopsy began.
He knelt at the edge of the rooftop, breath shallow beneath a matte mask. His coat clung to him, soaked in the city's filth and rain. Behind the black visor, his eyes scanned the street below, watching the Sentinels fade into the haze.
They'd passed the boy.
They always did.
They never looked down—only forward.
That's why they failed.
He rose silently, every movement practiced, controlled. Not like a soldier, but like something more precise. Like a scalpel held by a patient, bitter god.
They called him many names.
Ghost. Wraith. The Shadow's Fang.
But names didn't matter.
What mattered was the list.
He pulled a crumpled page from the inside of his jacket. A single name was scratched at the top:
Commander Valen Arkos
Location: Watchtower Seven
He memorized it in seconds. He never looked twice. There was no need. Once a name made the list, it was already a ghost.
Tonight would mark his fourth strike in eight days. The regime was growing restless, tightening curfews, interrogating families, burning safehouses.
But they were chasing smoke.
They didn't understand.
This wasn't vengeance. It wasn't rebellion.
It was surgical erasure.
Each target was part of the machine. Each death, a gear removed. Each crack, a chance for something better to grow through the rot.
He moved again, leaping across the rooftop without a sound, feet landing in puddles that didn't splash. His path wasn't marked on maps—it was etched in fear.
Below, a woman's scream pierced the silence. Two Sentinels dragged a man into a van, hooded and bound. Another "questioning." Another soul gone.
He didn't flinch. He didn't blink.
He couldn't save everyone.
Not yet.
But every name crossed off the list brought him closer.
He paused beside a broken spire, placing a small device on the wall. A soft green blink. Encrypted uplink established. A signal burst out, short and silent.
Somewhere far beneath the surface, The Network would receive it. The others would know—he was on the move.
They believed he was a myth.
They needed to.
Because if they ever learned the truth—who he was, what he used to be—it wouldn't be hope they felt.
It would be fear.
And that was the point.
Commander Valen Arkos sat alone in the war room, staring at the massive city grid projected across the table. Streets flickered in red and green, constantly updating from thousands of surveillance feeds. From here, he could see everything—except what mattered.
"Still no trace?" he barked without looking up.
The Sentinel captain beside him stiffened. "No, sir. Drones lost contact in Sector Twelve. We're sweeping again. Street patrols have doubled."
Doubled?" Arkos turned to him, eyes dark and sunken from weeks of sleepless paranoia. "You think doubling will stop a ghost?"
The captain didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Arkos waved him off. The door sealed shut with a hydraulic hiss. Silence returned.
He poured himself a drink—bourbon, twenty years old, smuggled in from before the Fall. It tasted like smoke and memory. He hated it. But he drank anyway. Habit had power. And habits made men predictable. Predictable made them vulnerable.
He hadn't slept in three nights.
The assassin had already taken down Minister Talgrave, Overseer Renn, and General Kray. High-ranking. Protected. Untouchable. Until they weren't.
Now, it was Arkos' turn.