Chapter 1

To Camila, it has been a very odd and anxiety-inducing week.

Her mind wandered as she walked back to her apartment; she reinforced her grip on her tote bag filled with groceries and adjusted the earphones in her ear. She couldn't stop shaking out this feeling—the feeling of being watched.

Indeed, she had tried to assert to herself it was just paranoia, especially from the events of last Saturday that remained lingering in her thoughts. Glancing down at her left arm, which now sports a black splint, her thoughts, like clockwork, revert back to the memory.

She hugged her jacket closer to her body as a cool breeze passed through an opening. Her footsteps quickened a bit, knowing that the subway station was only minutes away. She much preferred waiting under a heated stop than being out in the open.

Camila turned to what seemed like a rather empty street. It didn't bother her too much though. A few more blocks and she would finally be almost on her subway home.

As she crossed an intersection, Camila is met with a couple of men turning to the same street she was on. Hurriedly, she placed her gloved hands in her jacket pockets, with her left hand finding a set of keys. As she walked, she placed the keys between her knuckles.

To her, it was standard procedure. Her mother engraved that into her head: that women were particularly vulnerable to many atrocities. It has not happened to her yet, and neither would she wish that now.

She could hear them speak amongst each other, but of what she could not deduce.

Taking a short glance back, her heart skipped upon realizing how fast they were approaching. It didn't help noticing that their gaze wasn't very welcoming. Without thinking twice, Camila took a sharp right and began sprinting for her life. And much to her dismay, she was quickly met with another set of men approaching from the other side.

"Fuck," she muttered to herself. Her heart was beating so fast she could easily feel it pulse through her veins. This wasn't good.

"Hey, beautiful," one of the men approaching from behind began. "Don't be scared. We ain't here to hurt ya."

Her brown eyes frantically looked around her vicinity, desperately trying to find a way out of this mess. Her self-made weapon of keys didn't seem like a proper defence against four men much bigger and stronger than her. Maybe one or two, but four? She would much rather utilise it to give herself a quicker death.

"Yeah," one agreed.

"Would you not rather have some fun?"

Camila gulped as her heart dropped. "I have other places to be," she said shakenly.

"I think we know exactly where you should be."

The man approached her, and without hesitation, she pulled out her left hand out of her pocket. "Get the fuck off me," she says as she struggles out of his attempt to grasp her and proceeds to stab his shoulder with her keys.

"Fucking bitch!"

The other three quickly follow suit as she tries to flee. One immediately tackles her to the ground, which causes her to release a loud grunt upon landing one of her hands in the wrong way.

"You ain't going nowhere now, cunt."

Camila struggled out of the man's grasp, but to no vail. She was rendered pretty much motionless. "P-please," she pleaded, "leave me alone. Is it money that you want? I-I can get you—"

Her plead for her life came to a quick halt by the sudden weight of relief from her body—it all happened too quickly. One second, she was pinned on the cold, dirty asphalt of New York City streets, and the next her eyes were merely staring at the dark sky. Her senses were slowly growing back to her, and so was the apparent pain on her left hand.

Struggling herself upwards with her good arm, she was met with a small sprinkle of blood splatter on her face and neck, as she stared in shock at the scene before her.

A relatively tall and muscled masked man, dressed in an all-black suit, unmercifully killing her assailants with much ease. Upon dropping the corpse of the remaining assailant to the ground, Noir hears his name called by a shaken, yet soft voice.

"Black Noir."

He turns around to the woman—the damsel in distress. While on duty, as he was commonly tasked for, he had heard the commotion nearby. It was the voice of a young woman, and of whom seemed to be in a rather damning situation. She had a small frame and tall figure, with lovely olive pigmentation of her skin. Most likely of Hispanic origin.

Noir lingered his gaze on her.

"Uh," she hesitated, briefly glancing away, "t-thank you."

He didn't move for a moment, and Camila shifted her gaze on her injured hand. Taking the glove off, she examined her flesh. It was swollen, slightly bruised, and hurting significantly. Suddenly, she jumped in surprise at the sudden close presence of the mysterious masked man. Her heart started pounding again.

Camila looked back at him, staring into the hollowness of the mask.

Unexpectedly, she feels a tingle on her hand, and realizes Noir was taking a look at her hand. Out of instinct, she proceeds to retreat her hand, which only caused him to reinforce his grip. She flinched at the sharp pain it caused.

A sudden flush of recent memories and feelings courses through her system. It was very overwhelming—blood splatter, slaying, and violence filled her eyes; the last few moments of the four men playing through her mind in seconds. It was too much. No one touches her hands. She doesn't want it. Wearing gloves was of particular importance to Camila, and now a member of The Seven was doing the very thing she avoided the most.

Camila could feel him thoroughly.

His gloved hand quickly retreated, but Camila's eyes remained fixated on him.

And with just one blink, the masked man was out of sight.

Camila, finally inside her building, fumbled with her keys, trying to find the right key to her apartment. It didn't help the fact that she currently possesses only one good hand since that night.

Upon opening the door to her apartment, she immediately spots a small piece of paper on her doormat. Curious, she picked up the mysterious letter, which she realizes now it did not contain much substantive content—other than one thing, however. It read:

I am announcing my interest to court you.

- Noir

Camila immediately took a seat on the couch. Her roommate must be just trying to prank her—that must be it. She had obviously told Natalie of the events in which succeeded that night—well, there wasn't too much of a choice on that standpoint. Camila was a bad liar.

For now, she shrugged off the anxious feeling deepening in her stomach. It was a joke, and she was sure of it. Maybe just a really bad joke.

She hoped.

[To be continued]