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12:20 AM – Unknown Location.....
His green hair whipped violently with every erratic movement. To slow down his pursuers, the young man pushed an old dumpster, which screeched against the asphalt before toppling over. Not satisfied, he threw a side kick at a metal trash can, sending waste sprawling across the ground and creating a disgusting obstacle in the alley.
In the gloom of the passage, the shadows of his pursuers lengthened, nipping at his heels. The youth splashed through puddles of dirty water, feeling the cold on his bare feet, but he didn't stop. Looking back, he noticed the distance was closing.
"Catch that bitch!" bellowed a bearded man leading the group.
"Calm yourselves, brothers," urged another with a fanatic voice. "Allah will give us strength. That woman will be punished and brought before the law."
It was a radical Islamist group.
"Damn you, leave me alone, you sons of bitches!" the protagonist roared.
He was fed up. Anger burned in his chest, not just from the chase, but from the constant insult of being mistaken for a woman. As he ran, his mind worked at full speed: What the hell did I do to them? Why is this radical group so obsessed with me?
Suddenly, his eyes caught a black iron structure above his head. A fire escape.
"Finally!" he exclaimed with a spark of triumph.
He paused for a second and looked back, giving them a mocking smile that radiated pure arrogance.
"This is goodbye, you crazy old bastards," he spat with venom. "I hope you die in the most horrible way possible."
Without warning, he flexed his legs and took a gravity-defying leap, reaching the first flight of the stairs. With the agility of a beast, he bounced between the metal steps and the brick wall, climbing in a perfect, high-speed zigzag that normal humans could never imitate.
Below, the men exploded in shouts of fury, eyes bloodshot.
"Damn bitch! Whore!" they howled, striking the metal uselessly.
From the safety of the roof, the green-haired youth leaned over the edge and gave them the middle finger with total contempt.
"Goodbye, assholes."
He turned around and resumed his run, leaping from one building to another as if the void didn't exist. My god, how does Superman allow these kinds of radicals to operate here? he thought as the wind hit his face. Well, not my problem.
Down in the filth of the alley, the men stopped, panting. Some collapsed against the brick walls, others sat directly on the dirty ground, trying to catch their breath while cursing under their breath. The silence of the night was interrupted by a rhythmic, heavy sound: firm footsteps echoing against the wet pavement, approaching from the mouth of the alley.
They all turned their heads in unison, tensing up as a silhouette emerged from the shadows.
"You guys again..." the old man's voice cut through the air like a razor's edge. "Fanaticism is really turning you into lunatics. Islam disgusts me."
He spoke with deep disdain, a mix of weariness and contempt. Without stopping, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his gym jacket and pulled out a pair of steel brass knuckles. In the center of each, a metallic cross gleamed, engraved into the steel.
He fitted them over his knuckles with a professional, dry click. The old man no longer looked like a worried grandfather; his posture became rigid and dangerous, like a boxer who had seen too many battles.
He looked at the group with a scowl, his eyes glowing with a cold light under the city's neon signs.
"I shall deliver a divine punishment," he declared, clenching his fists tight.
The green-haired youth finally stopped, taking a large gulp of air that burned his throat. Despite his divine endurance, the physical effort and tension were starting to take their toll; his shoulders were slumped and his breathing was heavy. Seeking support, he let himself fall against the pristine glass of a large storefront.
Through the glass, an elegant evening gown in red and black was displayed, shimmering under the shop lights as the sky outside turned a final, agonizing blue. But he didn't see the luxury. His eyes were fixed on the ground, trying to stabilize himself.
People passing on the sidewalk looked at him with strangeness and suspicion. Some pulled away sharply upon noticing the nauseating odor emanating from him: a rancid mixture of sewer water, sweat, and garbage that clung to his skin and his tattered clothes. The looks of disgust were unanimous.
Inside the boutique, a woman in her late forties with rigidly styled hair and jewelry that sparkled too much for midday watched him through the glass. To her, he wasn't a person; he was a smear of dirt on her flawless high-fashion display.
"Brina, this is the last straw," she hissed in a shrill, overbearing voice. "It's a homeless woman! Right in front of the new collection dress! Security in this sector is a joke; I'm going to have to call the councilman personally."
He slid down the cold glass of the window, slowly lowering himself until his backside touched the freezing pavement. His eyes felt heavy as if filled with lead; the world around him began to blur into a forced sleep that his body could not resist.
"Why do I feel so exhausted?" he wondered in a whisper, feeling a strange emptiness where his legs used to be. "Is it because of the powers? Is it something I have to figure out on my own, or is it...?"
WHACK!
"Ow! That hurts!" he cried out, clutching his head as a sharp pain jolted through him.
He looked up with difficulty. Before him, the stout woman in elegant clothes watched him with a look of deep disgust, brandishing a broom like a whip.
"Out! Get out of here, vermin! Shoo, shoo! Out, street rat!" the woman exclaimed, making those humiliating gestures used to scare away a mangy dog.
"Stop it! I'm going, I'm leaving!" the youth pleaded, covering his face with his arms. He felt pathetic; his divine body was so drained that he couldn't even defend himself from the blows of an ordinary woman.
THWACK! THWACK!
"Then get lost now! Out, trash!" the Karen screamed, raising the wooden handle with both hands to deliver a final blow directly against his temple.
The protagonist closed his eyes tight, waiting for the impact that would knock him unconscious. But the blow never came.
A dry crack echoed in the air. Someone had caught the broom handle with a grip of iron.
The crowd that had gathered out of morbid curiosity let out a collective gasp. An old man—the same trainer from before—had appeared out of nowhere, stopping the attack with one hand and a look that promised a storm.
Nearby, a blonde woman hugged her teenage daughter, who was wearing a puffy, bright pink dress.
"What a relief... someone came to defend that poor dirty woman," the mother murmured with a mix of pity and disgust.
The girl peeked through her fingers, letting out a dramatic sigh of relief.
"Oh, Mommy... my heart almost stopped from the shock," the girl said, adjusting her shopping bags as if she had just witnessed a horror movie.
The green-haired youth looked up with effort, seeing his rescuer as a blur through the haze of his exhaustion.
The woman, for her part, stood frozen, hands still in the air, clutching at nothing.
"Th-thank... thank you very much," the young man stammered. The pain from the blows and the accumulated fatigue finally won the battle; his words came out slurred, almost unintelligible, as his consciousness began to sink into darkness.
The old man didn't respond with kind words. He growled like a wounded animal, snatched the broom from the woman with a violent yank, and hurled it away, where it vanished into the street traffic.
"You goddamn bitch, leave her alone!" the old man roared with a voice that made the air tremble.
The woman didn't back away because of the insult, but because of the horror of what she saw. The old man was a vision out of a nightmare: he had splatters of fresh blood on his face, his brass knuckles were dripping with a thick crimson liquid, and his sweatpants were stained from the violence of the alley. He looked like an angel of death fresh from a slaughterhouse.
"Wh-what?! Brina!! Call the police!" the woman shrieked, her face pale as paper.
"This crazy old man attacked me!"
Without waiting for anyone to touch her, she spun around and stumbled into the store, screaming for help while slamming the door behind her.
The old man, ignoring the scandal, knelt down and began to lift the protagonist with surprising strength for his age. His brow remained furrowed, analyzing the situation quickly.
"That woman is going to be a problem; I have to get you out of here fast," he muttered. He looked at the bruised face of the youth, who now lay almost lifeless in his arms. "She really did a number on you..."
The youth felt the world fading out. The last thing he sensed was the touch of the old man's hands and the metallic scent of someone else's blood.
Crap... I hate being touched, was the fleeting thought that crossed his clouded mind. I'm never drinking another drop...
And with that absurd, disconnected thought, his eyes closed completely, surrendering to a deep, black sleep.
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I know it's nothing special, but I'm happy with how it turned out. I'd love to hear what you think: How did it look? Is it easy to read? Oh, and here... an apple. It's good for you. Come on, don't be shy.