This book may start off odd, due to my protagonist lacking in most human aspects, but give it a try. I worked hard on this, and I want money.
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Rain slid down the cracked neon sign above the parking lot, dripping onto blacktop like static from a broken television. The city hummed — that restless, electric sound that meant crime was awake.
A van idled in the middle of the lot, headlights off, its metal skin pocked with bullet holes. The only movement came from a man crouched behind the open driver's door — shaking hands, breath sharp, eyes wide. Davis Mellow, small-time Maggia runner. He fumbled with a pistol, loading each round like it might save him.
It wasn't supposed to go like this.Quick exchange. Cash for a suitcase. In and out before the cops caught a whiff.
Now, nine men were gone. Three minutes. Not even enough time to scream.
Davis peeked around the van. Steam rose from the asphalt where rain met still-warm bodies. His partners lay scattered — broken shapes half-swallowed by shadow. No muzzle flashes, no sound, just silence so deep it felt staged.
Something shifted in the dark.
Two red lights blinked open — not reflections, not lenses — eyes.
A shape dropped from the ledge above, landing soundlessly. A kid, barely out of high school, in a black ESU sweater. Damp curls clung to his forehead. He ran a hand through them, dislodging something small — a severed finger — and flicked it aside without a glance.
"...Hey. You're Dave, right?" His tone was quiet, polite. He could've been asking the time.
Davis froze. The pistol in his hand quivered as the kid — no, whatever he was — reached out and pressed two fingers to the barrel. Metal folded like clay.
"Y-yes! Davis Mellow!"
The red-eyed boy studied him, head tilted, expression unreadable. For a second, nothing moved — not the rain, not the city, not even Davis's heart.
"You've got a family," the boy said finally. "You didn't kill anyone tonight. You're not hopeless. You can stop before this gets worse."
Davis nodded so hard his teeth clicked. "Y-yeah, I swear—"
"Good," the boy said. "I hope you live an honest life from now on."
He turned away. The rain hissed louder. Davis blinked, realizing the chance — the one in a million — and grabbed the backup gun from his ankle. He fired.
Bullets tore into the kid's back, jerking him forward. Blood splattered against the van, painting "ESU" crimson.
Davis laughed once — high, hysterical, desperate. "Thank God—he's not bulletproof—"
A sound cut him off — metal slicing air. He turned just as a sliver of shrapnel shot through his eye.
Silence again.
Kaine exhaled through his teeth, the breath shaky but measured. He glanced at the body — a twitching silhouette — then at the rain, which seemed determined to erase everything.
"Attempted redemption: failed," he muttered. His voice was even, almost clinical. "Subject incapable of behavioural correction. Cause: emotional inconsistency, self-preservation override."
He wiped the blood from his neck, flicked it aside, and stepped onto the ledge overlooking the lot. Sirens were faint somewhere far off — another district, another tragedy.
Below him, the city pulsed. Billboards flashed the word HEROES in bright, naive colours. Kaine watched the lights ripple over puddles and glass.
"New York doesn't have heroes," he said under his breath. "A shame, it's only propaganda."
He pulled his hood up and vanished into the downpour, leaving only the sound of rain against metal — and the faint echo of something mechanical moving above the streets, swinging through the storm.
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[Auther: So? Confused? Don't worry, I'll explain this later, just keep reading.]