Chapter One: The Hunt
(A small figure moves through the long, dark alley, his footsteps heavy, each one uneven, like the weight of his body's injuries is catching up with him. He can't be more than seven or eight, but the blood soaking his costume tells a different story.
His suit is jet black, lightly worn with faint dusty white spots scattered across it, as if he'd been through something rough. Sharp red accents catch the faint glow of a flickering street lamp. Strapped to his back, a pair of tanto blades which shifts slightly with each step, while two knives rest securely on his belt. His metal mask gleams in the dim light, its bright red eyes burning like embers—cold, emotionless, and terrifying.)
Uhh... hi, I guess I'm supposed to introduce myself here. My name is Shadow. I am seven years old, and I am a quirkless villain. You're probably wondering how I got here, and eventually, you'll know everything about me.
Truth is, tonight wasn't exactly my best night. As you can probably tell, I'm a mess. But trust me—the other guys have it worse. The cops probably won't even recognize what's left of them. I guess I kinda lost control again. Oh wait—you weren't there. Let me tell you how it happened.
Shadow moves swiftly across the rooftops, leaping from one to the next until he reaches a vantage point overlooking the city skyline.
Hosu City. They call it vibrant, alive, a city that never sleeps. But no one ever looks closely enough to see what's really there, lurking beneath the neon glow.
Illicit drugs, petty theft, murder—they call it crime. But for people like me? It's just another night. Chaos stops feeling like chaos when it's all you've ever known. After a while, it starts to feel like home.
After a moment, he turns away and keeps moving.
The city blurs past me as I run. Rooftop after rooftop, just another restless night. But rest is a luxury I can't afford. Not anymore.
It's been a month. Feels longer.
The city keeps moving, like nothing happened. Like nothing changed. But I know better. Something did change. And I can't let it go. They hurt people I cared about. And they will pay.
One year ago...
Shadow woke up in a cold alley, his body screaming in pain. Blood soaked his clothes, pooling beneath him, the metallic scent thick in the air. His head pounded, a sharp, relentless ache, and every breath came shallow and ragged. His limbs were too heavy to move, his entire body locked in the grip of exhaustion. He didn't know how he got there. He didn't know why his hands were stained red. All he knew was that he was alone.
He sat there, broken and terrified, staring at nothing as time slipped past him. The world around him was distant—the low hum of traffic, the murmur of voices from the streets beyond, the slow drip of water from a rusted gutter. People passed by, but no one stopped. No one even looked.
Then, finally, someone did.
Souta Inukai.
Shadow barely registered the approaching figure. Fear, exhaustion, and grief had left him frozen in place. He didn't flinch, didn't fight, just sat there as Souta knelt before him, studying him in silence. A long moment passed before Souta sighed and scooped him up like he weighed nothing at all.
Souta's crew—Hollow Creed—mocked him for bringing home a stray. A useless, half-dead kid covered in blood. But when they saw the cuts, the bruises, the emptiness in his eyes... and that unnatural presence clinging to him like smoke—they fell silent.
Present day...
In a deep, commanding voice DON'T. DO. THAT. His tone shifts back, quieter now, almost shaken. I… I don't want to think about that. Not right now.
I need to focus on the present. Tonight, I hunt.
I drop down from the rooftop, landing silently in the shadows of a narrow alley. The city moves around me, unaware, uncaring. That's fine. I'm not here for them.
I'm here for the Black Knives. And tonight, I start tearing them apart.
This place is one of their many fronts—a massive underground nightclub buried in the heart of the city. Right under everyone's noses. It reeks of sweat, liquor, and desperation. A playground for criminals. A sanctuary for the worst of them.
And a hunting ground for me.
A lot of their top members will be here tonight. That makes this the perfect place to send a message. To let them know that I am coming.
Shadow is hunting them now.
And one by one, they will fall.
Getting inside won't be hard. Places like this rely on muscle and intimidation, not real security. They think fear is enough to keep people out. It isn't. Fear doesn't keep me out—it invites me in.
I move through the alley, keeping to the shadows, the cold night air pressing against my skin like a warning. There's a back entrance—there always is. A place for staff, deliveries, and people who don't want to be seen. I slip through, silent as death.
The back halls are tight, suffocating, reeking of stale liquor, sweat, and something rotten lurking beneath. The air is thick with heat and desperation. The kind of place that swallows people whole and never spits them back out. I keep moving, my body melting into the darkness.
Then I go up. A rusted pipe stretches along the ceiling, thick with grime but sturdy enough. I grip it, hoisting myself up, hand over hand, until my boots find balance on the crossbeams above. The rafters stretch out like a skeletal frame, casting jagged shadows below. No one ever looks up. No one ever expects to be hunted from above.
I move carefully, a phantom above the noise. The music vibrates through my bones, pulsing like a heartbeat gone wrong, pounding, erratic. The lights slash through the dark, violent flashes of red and blue against the writhing mass of bodies below. The dance floor.
From up here, I see everything. The chaos, the oblivion, the predators hiding among the prey. Above them all, a main office and VIP section loom, watching over the madness like gods of their own twisted empire.
That's where the real monsters are. The ones in charge. The ones who matter.
The ones who need to die.
Before I realize it, the song changes. Bangarang fades in, the bass shaking the walls, the crowd moving like a single, writhing mass. The lights shift—bright white flashes cutting through the dark.
Shit.
One of the goons in the office spots me. Our eyes lock for half a second before he yells something, and then—gunfire. Bullets tear through the rafters, metal splintering, sparks raining down. No time to think.
I drop.
Straight into the chaos below.
And all hell breaks loose.
The dance floor erupts into panic. Screams cut through the music as bodies shove past each other, desperate to escape. Strobe lights flicker, painting the chaos in snapshots—fear-stricken faces, overturned tables, shattered glass glinting on the floor.
The first goon rushes me, gun raised. I grab his wrist before he can fire, twisting hard until I hear the sickening crack of bone. He howls in pain, and I drive my knee into his gut, shoving him back into another thug charging from behind. They collapse in a heap.
Another one swings a bottle at my head. I duck, the glass shattering against a pillar behind me. Before he recovers, I grab the jagged remains from his hands and ram it into his shoulder. He stumbles back, screaming. I yank the weapon free and spin, hurling it into the face of the next guy rushing in.
A gunshot. I pivot, barely avoiding the bullet. The shooter stands near the bar, aiming for another shot. I grab a stool and fling it, catching him square in the jaw. His body slams against the counter, knocking bottles to the floor.
Two more rush in. I'm already moving.
I sidestep the first, grabbing his arm and using his own momentum to hurl him headfirst into a table. The second tries to grab me from behind, but I slam my elbow back into his ribs, then hook my leg around his and yank him down. His head smashes against the tile. He's not getting back up.
More are coming. I can hear the heavy boots storming down from the VIP section. Good.
The first one charges—sloppy, desperate. I sidestep, driving my elbow into his throat before he can even react. He collapses, choking on his own breath. Another one swings at me from behind. I duck, grab his arm, and slam him face-first into the floor. Teeth scatter across the tile.
A knife flashes in the strobe lights. I catch the wielder's wrist mid-swing, twisting until he howls in pain. The blade drops. I snatch it out of the air and drive it into his thigh. He crumples, screaming.
The music is deafening, the bass rattling my bones. The flashes of light make it hard to track movement, but I don't need to see. I feel them coming. Every shift in the air, every desperate footstep trying to catch me off guard.
A bottle smashes against my shoulder. I barely react. The idiot who threw it realizes too late that he's next. I grab him by the collar and use his momentum to send him crashing into a nearby speaker. Sparks fly. The music stutters.
Then, over the chaos, a voice cuts through. Deep, commanding, filled with venom.
"Enough."
The goons freeze. Even I pause, my grip tightening around the knife still dripping in my hand.
Up in the VIP section, leaning against the railing, stands a man I recognize. Not just any Black Knife. A top enforcer. One of the ones that mattered.
He smiles, slow and sharp.
"Well, well," he says. "Looks like the little ghost finally crawled out of the shadows."
His voice carries through the club, cutting through the static of broken speakers and distant screams. The remaining stragglers hurry for the exits, leaving only me, the bodies on the floor, and the men still standing.
I don't respond. Not yet. I wipe the blood from my blade, watching him. He's calm. Too calm. The way he leans on the railing, arms relaxed, that smug, lazy grin—it pisses me off.
"What? Nothing to say? I thought you'd be more fun than this. After all, we took everything from you."
My jaw clenches. The room feels smaller. Tighter. The rage creeps in, slow at first, then all at once.
He chuckles, tilting his head. "Or maybe you're just another kid playing at being a monster. A little boy, way out of his depth."
I move before he finishes talking. A flick of my wrist, and the knife is airborne, cutting through the strobe-lit haze. He shifts at the last second. The blade buries itself into the wall beside his head, quivering from the force.
That grin finally falters.
"I'm done talking," I say.
And then I move.
He doesn't move himself—not yet. Instead, he snaps his fingers. A lazy, dismissive gesture.
More footsteps. More bodies flooding in from the stairwells and side doors. Bigger guys. More prepared. No hesitation.
They think they can stop me from getting to him.
They're wrong.
I lunge forward, grabbing a metal chair from the wreckage and hurling it at the first two. It slams into their chests, knocking them back as I surge past them, weaving between tables and shattered glass. A third one tries to grab me—I drive my fist into his throat, then grab him by the collar and throw him over the railing. He crashes onto the dance floor below.
Gunfire erupts, bullets shredding through tables, sending splinters flying. I don't stop moving. A burst of adrenaline surges through me, every instinct razor-sharp. The stairs to the VIP section are just ahead, but they're trying to block my path.
Fine.
I'll carve my way through.
I push forward, closing the distance. Another goon rushes me, a baton swinging for my skull. I duck, feeling the air shift as it barely misses. Before he can recover, I slam my fist into his ribs, hear something break, then grab his wrist and twist—hard. He screams as the baton drops. I catch it mid-fall and drive it across his jaw. He drops.
More are coming. Too many. I need to move faster.
I kick off the railing, vaulting over the next set of stairs. A thug tries to grab me mid-air—I twist, planting both feet against his chest, sending him sprawling down the steps. The ones behind him hesitate.
A mistake.
I land and waste no time. A sharp kick to the knee of the closest one, followed by an elbow to the temple. He crumples. The other pulls a knife. I sidestep his thrust, grab his wrist, and drive his own blade into his stomach. His breath catches, a wet gurgle. I push him aside and keep moving.
I'm almost there.
The enforcer is still watching, still waiting. That damn grin creeping back onto his face. Like he expected this. Like he wanted this.
"Not bad, kid," he calls out over the chaos. "But you're still just one against an army."
I run a hand over my mask, feeling the cold steel smeared with blood, chest rising and falling with steady, controlled breaths. My hands tighten into fists. My muscles burn, my pulse pounds, but I'm not stopping. Not until his body hits the ground.
"Army?" I mutter, stepping forward. "I don't see one."
I see bodies.
I see prey.
And I see him.
No more running. No more sending others to die for him.
It's time for him to fight.
I finally reach the top of the stairs, breath steady, muscles burning with the aftermath of the fight. The last goon barely has time to react before I grab him by the collar and use his own momentum to send him crashing through the locked door. The wood splinters, the metal hinges snap, and he slams into the floor inside, groaning in pain.
I step through the wreckage, eyes locked on the enforcer. No more barriers. No more distractions.
Just me and him.
The enforcer barely glances at the wreckage, barely acknowledges the groaning mess of a man at his feet. Instead, he adjusts his jacket, rolling his shoulders like this is nothing more than an inconvenience.
"Took you long enough," he says, voice smooth, unimpressed. "For a kid who's supposed to be a nightmare, you sure like making a mess."
I don't answer. Not with words.
I take a step forward.
He smirks. "Oh? Not even a clever little threat? No dramatic speech about revenge? Disappointing." He tilts his head, watching me. "You know, I was hoping you'd come. I wanted to see if the rumors were true. If you were really something to fear."
He scoffs, shaking his head. "But looking at you now? You're just a kid. A pissed-off brat throwing a tantrum. You're not scary. You're not unstoppable. You're just angry."
He spreads his arms, inviting me in. "So come on then, little ghost. Show me what you've got."
His smirk widens, and then—his veins darken, pulsing beneath his skin like writhing wires. A low hum vibrates through the air as his muscles tense, his whole body coiled like a loaded spring. Performance Enhancer.
I recognize it immediately. A quirk that pushes his body beyond its limits, boosting his speed and strength at the cost of burning through his stamina. Dangerous—but not impossible to beat. He'll hit harder, move faster. But he won't last.
Good. I don't plan on giving him the chance to.
I move first. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
I close the distance in a blink, driving a knee toward his ribs. He shifts—too fast. A blur. My strike barely grazes him before his fist slams into my gut like a sledgehammer.
I stagger back, breath ripped from my lungs. He's already on me. A follow-up punch hurtles toward my face—I duck, barely, but his knee drives up into my ribs. Pain explodes in my side.
I twist, forcing myself to move, launching a counterattack. My fist crashes into his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He barely reacts. Instead, he grins, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip.
"That all?" He surges forward, a blur of speed and brute force.
I try to sidestep, but he's already there. His elbow smashes into my chest. A rib cracks.
I don't stop. I won't. I push through the pain, using his momentum against him, I drop low and sweep my leg behind his knee, knocking his balance just enough for me to drive an open palm strike into his sternum, forcing him back a step. He slams into the floor, but before I can capitalize, he rolls with it, springing back up instantly.
Then he's behind me. Too fast.
A brutal kick takes out my legs. I hit the ground hard, the world tilting for a second too long. He doesn't let up—he's already on top of me, fist descending like a hammer.
I barely twist away before his knuckles crack against the floor where my head was. The tile shatters beneath the force.
I scramble to my feet, but he doesn't let me breathe. His foot slams into my ribs—lifting me off the ground, sending me crashing through a table. Splinters dig into my skin as I try to force air into my lungs.
I push myself up. My body screams. Blood drips from my fingertips.
The enforcer watches me, rolling his shoulders, still fresh, still grinning.
"Face it," he says, cracking his knuckles. "You're fast. You're strong. But you're not me."
He rushes forward—too fast, too strong—*and this time, I don't have time to dodge.
Pain detonates through my body as his fist slams into my ribs. My vision flickers. My breath catches—no, gets ripped away.
I barely hit the ground before he's on me again. A second strike to my gut—blinding agony. My body rebels, locks up, refuses to move.
He grabs me by the collar and lifts me off the ground like I weigh nothing. My legs dangle. My arms feel like dead weight.
"Not so fast now, huh?" His smirk is feral, triumphant.
He throws me. Hard. My back collides with the wall, the impact rattling through my skull. Everything tilts, the room spinning in and out of focus. I try to stand, but my legs buckle beneath me.
I hit the floor. Hard. My hands slip against the blood pooling beneath me. My blood. My ribs scream. My lungs won't work. I can't get up.
For the first time in a long time… I feel small.
The enforcer steps closer, casting a long shadow over me. "That's it? That's all the Hollow Creed left behind? Some half-dead kid bleeding out on the floor?"
He crouches down, voice mocking. "Pathetic."
I can't move. I can't breathe. I can barely think.
This is bad.
Darkness claws at the edges of my vision. My limbs feel distant, disconnected. There's a hum in my ears, low and deep, like a voice just beneath the surface of my thoughts.
A voice I recognize.
"Get up."
It's not mine. Not really. But it's in me. Wrapped around my bones, curling through my veins.
Something cold stirs in my chest, pressing against my ribs. Familiar. Primal. Hungry.
The enforcer is still talking, still gloating, but his voice is fading—drowned beneath the steady, rising hum in my head.
"Let me have this one."
A surge of energy shoots through my body as edges of my vision darken completely.
And then, I let go.
The shift is instant.
The boy is gone.
The enforcer doesn't notice at first. He rolls his shoulders, steps forward, ready to finish what he started. But then—
Shadow moves.
It's not just speed. It's something else. Something wrong. The way his body twists, the way he closes the distance in a blink, inhuman, predatory. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
The enforcer barely gets his arms up before Shadow is on him.
The first strike caves into his ribs like a battering ram, cracking bone. The second—a vicious backhand—snaps his head sideways with enough force to send blood spraying through the air. He staggers. Shadow doesn't stop.
There is no pause. No control.
Shadow is pure momentum and violence.
He crashes into the enforcer, driving him back. The man swings, fast—but not fast enough. Shadow slips under it, grabs him by the throat and slams him backward, sending him crashing against the nearest wall. The enforcer slams into the wall, hard enough to splinter wood and crack concrete.
He tries to stand. Shadow is already there.
A knee to the stomach. An elbow to the face. Another. Another. Another.
The enforcer gasps—blood, spit, something wet and broken spilling from his mouth. He tries to push back, to regain some footing, but Shadow doesn't give him the chance.
He drives him through a table, the impact sending shattered wood flying. Before the enforcer can even hit the ground, Shadow grabs him by the hair, yanking him up, smashing his face against the floor. Once. Twice. Three times.
There is no restraint. No mercy.
The enforcer coughs, blood pooling beneath him, hands twitching, trying to push himself up. Shadow watches.
Not like a fighter. Not like a person.
Like a predator.
For the first time, the enforcer's cocky grin is gone. His breath hitches. He finally sees it.
This isn't the same fight anymore.
This isn't the same Shadow.
This is something else.
And it's about to tear him apart.
Shadow moves again, faster than thought, faster than fear. The enforcer barely has time to react before steel flashes in the dark.
The first slash carves across his chest, cutting deep. A sharp gasp escapes him, more surprise than pain. He stumbles back, a hand flying to the wound, fingers slick with blood. His eyes widen. He wasn't expecting the knives.
Good.
I don't give him time to adjust. The second blade sings through the air, aimed straight for his throat. He jerks back at the last second, the edge grazing his skin, a thin red line blooming in its wake.
His instincts finally kick in. He moves to counter, lunging with renewed desperation, his enhanced speed carrying him forward in a blur.
But Shadow isn't there anymore.
A pivot. A flick of the wrist. The tanto blade drives into his shoulder, piercing muscle, sinking to the hilt. He roars in pain, stumbling as his body struggles to compensate for the sudden injury. His movements—once sharp and confident—start to falter.
Shadow rips the blade free. No hesitation. No mercy.
The enforcer swings wildly, a punch meant to crush ribs—Shadow ducks, sidesteps, moves like liquid. The second knife slashes down his arm, cutting tendons. His grip falters. His balance wavers.
He's slowing.
He's bleeding out.
Shadow tilts his head, watching him with an eerie stillness. There's no rush, no urgency. The hunt is over.
The kill is coming.
The enforcer staggers, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. He knows he's done. But survival instincts are ugly, desperate things.
He lunges—one last attempt, a final swing aimed at Shadow's head. A move made from panic, not strategy.
Shadow steps into it.
His blade drives up, slipping between ribs, piercing deep. The enforcer jerks, his body locking up as pain explodes through him. A wet, strangled gasp escapes his throat.
Shadow's grip tightens on the handle. And then—he twists.
The enforcer screams.
Shadow yanks the blade free, blood spraying across the ruined floor. The enforcer collapses to his knees, a shaking hand clutching the gaping wound in his side. His breath is wet, broken, his body barely holding itself together.
Shadow watches, expression unreadable beneath the mask.
Then, he moves again.
A brutal kick to the chest sends the enforcer sprawling onto his back. Before he can even think about crawling away, Shadow drops onto him, straddling his chest.
The knife presses against his throat.
The enforcer's eyes, once filled with arrogance and amusement, are now wide with fear. His body trembles, breath shuddering in his throat.
Shadow doesn't hesitate. He carves the blade across his neck in one clean motion.
A wet, choking sound. A final twitch. Then—stillness.
Shadow stays there for a moment, listening to the last remnants of life fade from the body beneath him.
Then he rises.
Blood drips from his blades, pooling at his feet. Around him, the club is silent. The fight is over.
Shadow turns, stepping away from the corpse without a second glance. *One down. Many more to go.
The blood is still warm on my hands as I step out of the ruined office, the weight of the night settling over me. I take one last look at the body—nothing more than a reminder. A warning.
Then, I disappear.
A small figure moves through the long, dark alley, his footsteps heavy, each one uneven, like the weight of his body's injuries is catching up with him. He can't be more than seven or eight, but the blood soaking his costume tells a different story.
His suit is jet black, lightly worn with faint dusty white spots scattered across it, as if he'd been through something rough. Sharp red accents catch the faint glow of a flickering street lamp. Strapped to his back, a pair of tanto blades shift slightly with each step, while two knives rest securely on his belt. His metal mask gleams in the dim light, its bright red eyes burning like embers—cold, emotionless, and terrifying.
The city keeps moving. Like nothing happened. Like nothing changed.
But I know better.
Something did change.
And it's only a matter of time before they realize it.*