The rain hasn't stopped in hours. It comes down in silver sheets, slicing through the midnight fog that clings to New York's forgotten streets. Puddles ripple under the flicker of failing streetlights. A lone sedan idles at the mouth of a narrow alley—engine running, headlights dimmed, a heartbeat of mechanical impatience cutting through the storm.
Three men huddle under a rusted fire escape, their breath misting in the cold air. The package between them glistens faintly beneath the weak light—a black duffel bag, heavy with something that matters enough to kill for.
"Where's Rico?" one mutters, glancing toward the alley's mouth. His voice cracks despite himself.
"Traffic," another replies. "Relax. He'll show."
The first man scoffs, spitting into the puddle. "Relax, he says. We're sittin' on fifty grand worth of uncut powder and some freak's been carving up half the crews downtown. You relax if you want—I'm countin' exits."
They don't notice the shadow detach from the rooftop above them.
A subtle scrape of metal. The faintest hum, like a breath drawn through wires. Then silence again.
The third man—broad shoulders, thick jacket—feels it first. That old animal sense, the creeping awareness of being watched. His hand drifts toward his jacket pocket, brushing the grip of a pistol.
"You feel that?" he murmurs.
The first two exchange glances. "What?"
"That… like someone's here'."
They all look up.
Nothing—just rain and the dark.
A flicker. The single streetlight at the corner dies with a buzz. Their sedan headlights dim, then sputter out entirely. The alley plunges into a gray-black void.
"Hey—what the hell—"
The man never finishes. A shape drops behind him, silent as breath. There's a thud—a brief struggle muffled by rain—and the man vanishes into the shadows.
"Danny?" the one nearest the duffel calls, stepping closer. "Quit messin' around—"
A flash of movement. His voice cuts off with a strangled gasp. The bag falls over, spilling white powder into the water.
The last man stands alone now, chest heaving. His gun trembles in his hand. The storm is louder somehow, drowning out everything but his pulse. He steps backward—right into a figure.
He spins, firing blind. The muzzle flare briefly illuminates what's behind him.
A hooded shape—armor blacker than the night, edges faintly traced by dim gold circuitry. A symbol glows on its chest—a soft, radiant Ankh pulsing with restrained energy.
The gun jams. The man's breath catches. He stumbles back, eyes wide as saucers.
"What—what are you?"
The answer never comes. A hand grabs the barrel, twists; bone snaps; the gun clatters into the puddle. The man goes down with a cry, arm bent wrong. A boot presses gently—firmly—against his chest.
Through the rain, the figure leans closer. The hood hides the face completely, but the faint glow of the symbol casts an almost divine light on the terrified man's face.
"Please… please don't kill me…"
The figure says nothing. Only straightens. Then vanishes into the downpour as police sirens begin to echo faintly in the distance.
---
The alley becomes chaos minutes later.
Detectives swarm, camera flashes illuminating the wreckage. Two gang members found unconscious—bones shattered, weapons crushed like toys. The third lies groaning, his arm in pieces, muttering nonsense.
"Won't say a word, huh?" an officer mutters. "Just keeps repeating… something about a man with a symbol."
The detective kneels beside him. "What symbol?"
The man's lips tremble. "Ankh… glowing gold… like a cross but wrong."
The detective frowns. "Never heard of it."
He stands, glancing at the broken lights and fried phones. "EMP maybe? Some kind of freak tech."
Above them, the rain continues. None of them look up long enough to see the shadow watching from the rooftops—silent, motionless. The glowing Ankh fades slowly, swallowed by mist.
---
Hours later, on the east docks, another storm brews—this one of voices and gunfire.
A warehouse, long abandoned, now teems with life—criminal life. A dozen men in thick coats unload crates from unmarked vans. The air smells of oil, salt, and greed.
"Move it, move it! Boss wants this gone before sunrise!"
They rush, stacking boxes, arguing, smoking. None of them notice the security lights flicker, once… twice… then die completely.
Darkness descends.
"Ah, come on, not again—" one complains, reaching for a flashlight.
Something moves behind the crates. A whisper of fabric. A faint metallic click.
A man disappears before the light turns on.
"Tommy? Tommy, that you?" another calls. The flashlight beam cuts through dust and rain, finding nothing but a dropped cigarette and a spreading puddle.
Then the beam catches something—a reflection high above. The ceiling girders. A figure crouched like a gargoyle, watching.
"What the—"
Before he can finish, the figure drops, landing behind him without a sound. A precise strike to the back of the neck. The man folds silently.
The others panic. Guns come up, safeties click off. They fire wildly into the dark. Bullets ricochet off steel and concrete. Sparks fly. Every echo is an accusation.
Something moves again—fast, impossible to follow. One man is pulled up into the shadows, another thrown across the room into a stack of crates.
"Where is he?!" one shouts, his voice cracking. "WHERE?!"
"Everywhere," comes a low, distorted whisper that doesn't belong to any of them.
They spin, terrified. But the voice doesn't come again.
It's not a fight—it's an execution of control. Every motion of the figure is surgical: a kick here, a strike there, disarming, disabling, dismantling. No wasted movement. No hesitation. It's not brutality—it's choreography.
Finally, only one man remains—the gang's leader, bleeding and cornered. He stumbles backward, trips over a fallen crate, lands hard. His pistol clatters away.
"Please," he gasps. "You don't have to do this!"
A shadow steps forward through the rain-drenched doorway. The Ankh glows softly in the gloom, gold light spilling across the concrete.
The leader's breath stutters. "Who… who the hell are you?"
For the first time that night, the figure speaks. The voice is modulated—low, resonant, inhuman. Each syllable drips with restrained judgment.
"Tell them…"
He pauses, letting the words hang in the charged silence, the rain punctuating his presence.
"…ANUBIS is watching."
The light from the symbol flares once—then dies. The figure vanishes before the echo fades.
---
The rain hadn't stopped. It only grew quieter.
The alley where the gang had once screamed was now silent, save for the hiss of water falling through shattered neon signs. A patrol car drifted through the street, lights muted by fog. The officers inside — two rookies, Patel and Monroe — expected another quiet shift of writing parking tickets and chasing noise complaints.
Then the call came through.
> "Unit Six respond — disturbance at Pier Forty-Seven. Multiple unconscious suspects. Possible narcotics activity. Proceed with caution."
Monroe yawned. "Another overdose scene, probably," he muttered.
Patel frowned. "That's the third one this week. You ever notice how they're always in the same district lately?"
They drove in silence until the car's beams caught the warehouse wall — riddled with bullet holes, doors splintered, water pooling at their feet. Monroe stepped out first, the crunch of glass echoing under his boots.
Then he froze.
"Jesus Christ…"
Inside, the warehouse was a cathedral of ruin — but it was organized ruin. Men lay neatly lined against a wall, zip-tied, breathing shallowly. Every weapon they'd brought had been dismantled, parts stacked in geometric precision.
One of the men, face bruised, eyelid swollen shut, started muttering as they approached.
> "He's watching… he's still watching…"
Patel knelt beside him. "Who's watching?"
The man's eyes rolled white. "The one with the light… the one with the mark…"
Monroe's flashlight caught something on the floor — a perfect symbol scorched into the concrete, faintly shimmering even through the dust. An ankh, glowing pale gold in the dark.
---
By dawn, the place swarmed with blue lights and camera crews.
Reporters huddled beneath umbrellas as stretchers rolled past them. The precinct captain barked orders to cordon the area, while detectives tried to make sense of the impossibility before them.
Detective Ruiz — veteran, world-weary, not given to superstition — stared at the symbol again.
"Any sign of explosives?" she asked.
"Forensics says no," replied an officer. "No blood either. Just bruising and trauma. Controlled strikes — like the guy knew exactly where to hit."
Ruiz frowned. "So… what? A vigilante?"
Monroe hesitated. "He said something, ma'am. The perp — or whatever he is. One of the survivors told us."
Ruiz folded her arms. "Let's hear it."
Monroe cleared his throat, uneasy.
> "He said… 'ANUBIS is watching.'"
A silence fell between them, broken only by the flashbulbs and the rain.
A rookie cop retches behind a van.
"Didn't even kill 'em," his partner mutters. "Just… broke 'em. Like he wanted them to live with it."
---
By noon, the footage was everywhere.
A helicopter crew caught aerial shots of the symbol glowing faintly from above. News anchors argued over whether it was a hoax, a gang message, or an art stunt.
> "...the vigilante community is nothing new post-Stark, but this—this is something different," one reporter said over the live feed.
"Authorities have confirmed no casualties, yet the precision of the attack suggests military or intelligence training…"
Across the street, a news van hums. The reporter speaks quickly into the camera, rain still falling on her microphone.
"—what witnesses are calling a vigilante attack, police found eleven known offenders incapacitated and bound. No casualties. The symbol of an Ankh was found burned into the warehouse floor."
Her voice lowers. "No group has claimed responsibility. But city chatter speaks of a ghost in the streets—a man who hunts criminals at night."
In a dim café downtown, a group of construction workers watched the coverage between sips of burnt coffee.
"Man, this city's losing it," one said, shaking his head. "First Iron Man, now some Egyptian ghost beatin' up gangbangers?"
Another chuckled nervously. "You ask me, it's about time someone scared those punks. Maybe they'll think twice before runnin' their deals on my street."
At a nearby table, a boy no older than twelve sat with his mother. He stared at the screen — at the shadowed still of the hooded figure caught for a second on a security feed before static swallowed it.
His mother noticed. "Hey. Don't look at that, honey."
But the boy didn't turn away.
"He looks… like a hero," he whispered.
---
In the lower district, word spread faster than the rain could wash it away.
Criminals whispered in back rooms, eyes darting to shadows. Dealers cancelled drops. Street runners refused to go out after dark.
"He doesn't kill," one man claimed, voice trembling.
"That's what makes it worse," another answered. "He lets you live — so you tell the story."
By evening, the myth was already mutating. Some said he could melt into smoke. Others said the symbol on his chest glowed when he was near. A few swore they'd seen eyes in the dark — cold, silver, like an ancient god come to judge.
The city began to breathe differently — every alley exhaling fear.
---
Hours passed. The rain eased. The sky began to pale.
From that rooftop, Arthur turned toward the horizon — the faint glow of dawn bleeding into the skyline. His armor was slick with rain, the faintly luminescent Ankh pulsing once like a heartbeat. Beneath the hood, his eyes reflected the first light of morning.
He wasn't smiling. But he wasn't grim either.
It was something else. Something measured — the calm of a man who'd seen what needed doing and done it without question.
In the street below, a woman walked her dog past a cordoned alley. She looked up for a moment — and swore she saw a silhouette watching her from above, framed against the dim sunrise.
When she blinked, it was gone.
Only the faint glint of gold remained — a shimmer in the rain, like the ghost of a symbol burning through the dark.
---
A/N.
And that's the chapter, I wanted atleast one full fledged ANUBIS lore building chapter so that it doesn't feel forced later, tell me if I overdid it.
And for those asking who the Female lead is , well now you know, how did you like the new cover tell me in the comments