The rain in Silveridge City didn't wash away the filth; it only made the grime glisten under the flickering neon signs. Down in the Sector 7 slums, the air smelled of burnt rubber and desperation. This was a place where the law didn't walk—at least, not the kind that wore a badge.
In a narrow alleyway behind an abandoned warehouse, three men were cornering a young courier. He was clutching a metallic briefcase to his chest like it was his own heart.
"Drop it, kid," the lead thug growled, spinning a butterfly knife with practiced ease. "The Syndicate doesn't like to wait. Give us the tech, and maybe you'll only leave with a broken nose."
The courier's knees shook. "I... I can't. People will die if this doesn't reach the lab."
The thug laughed, a dry, raspy sound. "People die every day in Silveridge. What's a few more?"
He lunged forward, the blade gleaming. But before the metal could touch skin, a heavy thud echoed from above. A silhouette descended from the rusted fire escape, landing with the grace of a predator and the weight of a falling star. The concrete cracked under his boots.
The thugs froze. The man standing before them wasn't wearing a cape or a bright spandex suit. He wore a tattered tactical trench coat, a face mask that covered everything but his piercing, amber eyes, and combat gloves reinforced with carbon fiber.
"Who the hell are you?" the thug demanded, his voice cracking. "Some kind of hero?"
The man didn't answer. He simply stepped into the light. "I'm the consequence of your choices," he said, his voice a low, mechanical rumble.
The thugs didn't wait. Two of them rushed him at once. The "Hero" moved with terrifying efficiency. He didn't waste energy on flashy moves. He caught the first man's wrist, snapped it with a sickening pop, and used the man's own momentum to hurl him into a stack of wooden crates.
The second attacker swung a lead pipe. The Hero didn't dodge; he stepped into the strike, blocking the forearm and delivering a palm strike to the man's solar plexus. The thug collapsed, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The leader, now alone, panicked. He pulled a compact pistol from his waistband and aimed it with trembling hands. "Stay back! I'll kill you! I swear!"
The Hero kept walking. One step. Two.