Chapter 3
The sound of gunfire echoes through the tunnel. Sharp. Sudden.
I don't flinch.
My breathing stays steady, muscles coiled tight. The grip on my tantos is firm, the weight familiar.
Another shot. Closer.
I move.
My body cuts through the space like a blade, twisting past unseen obstacles. The air shifts—a target is near. The edge of my blade finds cloth, then foam beneath it. A dull tear of fabric, a silent kill.
One down.
The gunfire keeps coming. The speakers hidden throughout the tunnel blast randomized bursts of sound, meant to disorient. To mimic chaos.
I move through it, slicing through dummies—one after the next. I don't need to see. I don't need to think.
My body remembers.
The world was loud when I was younger. Gunfire. Shouting. Pain.
But pain is just another sound.
I swing my sword toward the next dummy—
We transition to Shadow running through an alley*
My blade tears through a Black Knife grunt.
Gunfire erupts—I'm already moving. I sprint up the wall, boots skimming the surface as bullets rip past me. A drop. A twist. Two rounds scream toward me—my tantos flash, slicing them midair.
Before the shooters can react, I'm on them.
A fluid leap—a blur of steel and motion. My blades carve clean across their throats as I flip over them, their bodies collapsing before I even land.
Mid-motion, I sheath my tantos and flick my karambits free. The curved blades gleam under the flickering alley lights.
Sharper. Closer. More personal.
Two more rush me—knives drawn.
Good.
I meet them head-on, dodging, weaving, a storm of precise, lethal strikes. Their blades barely graze me before mine find home in their flesh.
They drop.
Only one left.
The last grunt turns to run.
Too slow. Far too slow.
A blade cuts through him without hesitation.
The alley falls silent.
We see a glimpse of shadows new suit before transitioning back to the training ground*
Shadow stops, rolling his shoulders as he pulls the blindfold off. The dim lights above flicker, casting long shadows over the destroyed training ground. The dummies are in pieces. The smell of sweat and dust clings to the air.
Better.
He pulls a small stopwatch from his belt, clicking the side. The numbers blink back at him.
Slower.
Not by much, but enough to make his jaw tighten.
His grip around the hilt of his blade flexes before he forces himself to relax. It's been two months. Of course, he's slower. The fight took more out of him than he wanted to admit.
The time is off. Slower. Not much, but enough. Enough to mean something.
A quiet irritation builds in his chest. The temptation is there—to reset the timer, to run the whole course again, to push until his body remembers what it's supposed to be. Until it stops fighting him.
But he doesn't. He exhales, tightens his grip, and forces himself to move on.
Shadow stretches, feeling the pull of stiff muscles, the protest of wounds that aren't ready for this yet. His body doesn't bend the way it should. The ache in his ribs is sharp. His left leg tenses a little too much when he shifts his weight.
He rolls his wrists, then his neck. Small movements. Controlled. Testing himself, knowing he's just barely past the point of breaking.
His body has changed.
He realizes it as he stretches, as his fingers brush against the rough, raised lines along his ribs, his arms, his back. Some fresh. Some old. Too many.
For the first time in a long time, he notices them.
Some, he remembers. A knife between the ribs. A broken bottle raking across his forearm. A bullet that barely grazed his side. Those make sense.
But others? There are scars he doesn't recall getting.
He traces the edge of one—a thin line across his shoulder, barely visible in the dim tunnel light. It doesn't ache, doesn't pull. It's healed. Long ago.
But when?
A flicker—
A flash of movement. A sharp impact. A cold floor, hands gripping his collar, a voice growling something he can't quite hear.
The memory lingers longer this time. Just at the edges. A whisper of something just out of reach.
His fingers twitch over the scar, like he wants to remember. Like some part of him is trying to pull the moment back into focus.
Then—
Gone.
He exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders, shaking the thought off. It doesn't matter.
His body remembers, even when he doesn't. That should be enough.
But for a moment, just a moment, it isn't.
Shadow exhales, shaking the tension from his hands. His muscles still burn, his ribs still protest. He could go another round.
He wants to.
But he forces himself to stop.
His jaw clenches. His body is fighting against him. Too stiff. Too hesitant. Not good enough.
A deep breath. He pushes those thoughts away.
If he pushes too far now, he'll undo everything.
That's not strength. That's stupidity.
Shadow pushes away from the wall, his muscles still tense, his breath slow and measured. The fight will come soon enough. And when it does…
He has to be ready.
He crosses the station, footsteps echoing softly against the cracked tile. The control room door groans as he shoves it open. The space inside is dim, lit only by the flickering glow of an old overhead light. His workstation is as he left it—cluttered with tools, armor plating, and the remains of a half-disassembled gauntlet.
His fingers find the edge of his mask. The crack along its surface is small but there. A reminder of how close things had come. A reminder that even steel wears down.
Shadow drops the mask onto the table and reaches for his voice modulator.
The new voice changer is integrated into the mask, its settings adjusted and refined over the past few weeks. It distorts, deepens, turns his voice into something inhuman.
He flips the switch. The device hums to life.
"Testing."
The voice that comes out is low, guttural, wrong. Shadow frowns. Too distorted. He adjusts the settings, dials back the grit, finds the balance.
"Testing."
Better. Deeper. Cold. It doesn't sound like him. It sounds like something that should make people hesitate.
It'll do.
Next, he picks up his HUD module. The display flickers against the inside of his mask—minimalist, Vitals, Heat tracking, Access to schematics plus more. When it works.
A test ping. The system lags, then resets. He exhales sharply.
Useless in a fight if it keeps doing that.
The calibration is still off. Sometimes, it picks up false readings. Other times, it lags behind reality. But when it does work, it could give him an edge.
The comm system is just as unstable. A hacked-together communication link, patched from old police frequencies and modified transmitters. Spotty. Unreliable. But if he needed short bursts of interference or scanning, it might help.
Shadow sets the HUD down, rubbing his temple. More work to do.
The silence presses in. His fingers twitch, his grip tightening around the screwdriver in his hand.
He doesn't like the quiet. Not anymore.
With a sharp exhale, he leans back and reaches for the laptop. The screen flickers to life, casting the station in a dim blue glow. He navigates without thought, clicking into his music library. A song hums through the speakers—low, steady, something to fill the empty space.
The blood is dry on his hands. His suit is nearly rebuilt. His body is still healing, but it will hold.
Shadow exhales, slow and steady. His gaze drifts back to his mask, to the crack running down its surface.
It's barely noticeable. But it's there.
Like him.
The station is silent again. The music plays, but it doesn't reach him.
Shadow leans forward, resting his arms against the table.
There's still work to do.
The music changes *Back in Black kicks in*
Let's do this.
The heavy pulse of guitar and drums shakes the station, the raw energy bleeding through the speakers. The sound is loud but distant, like it's playing in a world just outside his own.
Shadow doesn't sing along. Doesn't even focus on the lyrics.
But the rhythm? That, he feels.
It thrums through his chest as he fastens the last strap on his suit, securing the plates into place. The metal clicks together seamlessly—tight, reinforced, ready.
No wasted weight. No drag. No weak points.
He rolls his shoulders. The armor moves exactly how it should.
The music spikes as he activates the HUD. The glow of his mask flickers to life, a sharp pulse of red against the dim light.
Vitals—stable. Ambient noise—registered. Heat signatures—reading.
He moves his hand. The display tracks it in real-time. No lag. Perfect.
A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. That's more like it.
Next, he toggles the voice modulator. The mask hums as he dials in the settings, adjusting the distortion, sharpening the depth.
"Testing."
The voice that comes out is low, guttural, cold. Not just deep—dangerous.
He fine-tunes the resonance, stripping away the artificial static. Adjusts the balance between sharp command and unnatural growl.
"Testing."
Better. The kind of voice that crawls under people's skin. The kind that makes them think twice.
He toggles through the comm system next. Encrypted channels cycle through police chatter, gang frequencies, dead air.
Spotty. Unstable.
But when it works? He'll hear them before they hear him.
Shadow flexes his fingers, rolling his wrists. Every piece of his gear is locked in, calibrated, perfected.
The music punches through the station, rising in a surge of sound as he steps away from the workbench.
The tunnels stretch ahead, endless and quiet beneath the distant hum of the outside world. The rusted gate groans as he pushes through, stepping into the cold air.
For the first time in two months, Shadow steps outside.
The city moves around him, unaware. It kept going. It always does.
But now? So does he.
His movements are fluid, his body adjusting to the old rhythm. Rooftop to rooftop, silent, fast. He isn't testing himself anymore—he's reintroducing himself.
Then—a sound.
A sharp voice. A threat.
He stops, crouching low, tilting his head. An alley. A voice snarling something low. A sharp, breathless sound—fear.
I move
A narrow alley. Dim, flickering lights. The sharp glint of a knife in a shaking hand.
A mugger. Small-time. Weak. Someone who thinks they're a predator.
Their target is backed against the wall, frozen, barely breathing.
The knife presses against their ribs. A threat. A demand.
Shadow doesn't care what it is.
He drops.
Shadow lands hard on the nearby dumpster, metal groaning under his weight. The sound rips through the alley like a gunshot—sharp, sudden, wrong.
The mugger jumps, twisting around, his grip tightening on his victim. Wide eyes, shaking hands. Weak.
Shadow straightens, his mask catching the dim alley light, red eyes burning through the dark.
"Let. Her. Go."
The mugger barely hesitates before baring his teeth, forcing a cocky sneer past the fear creeping up his spine. Fake confidence. Shadow can hear it in his voice.
"Who the fuck are you? Get the hell out of here, kid, or your—"
He never finishes.
Shadow moves.
A flick of his wrist—black steel cuts through the air.
Then—impact.
Steel meets flesh.
The mugger screams. The blade buries deep into his eye socket, twisting his voice into a ragged howl. His own knife clatters to the ground, forgotten.
The victim doesn't hesitate. She runs. Stumbles once, then disappears into the street, vanishing into the neon glow beyond the alley.
Shadow doesn't stop her. She's not important.
The man on the ground, writhing, gasping, is.
Because this isn't just some random lowlife.
He's Black Knives.
A low-tier grunt, barely worth remembering. But that's the beauty of it. These guys are always fun.
A punching bag for a couple of minutes. A stress reliever with a pulse. And at the end of it?
Information.
It's like therapy and a productive night wrapped into one.
And tonight?
Shadow's got time to kill.
I start fading out.
Not completely—I'm still here. But it's like I've been shoved into the backseat, something else gripping the wheel.
I can't move. Can't reach the controls.
But I can see. I can hear.
It's like I'm trapped behind my own eyes, forced to watch as something else takes over.
I try to fight it—to claw my way back.
But it doesn't matter.
I'm not the one driving anymore.
I slam the whimpering bastard against the wall, my grip tightening as he shudders beneath me.
His breath is ragged, erratic—fear curling through his ribs like barbed wire. He's already broken. He just doesn't know it yet.
"Tis only but a flesh wound."
I grab the blade still buried in his eye, twisting just enough to make him feel it. He screams. Loud. Desperate. But I don't care.
He has no idea what pain is.
Compared to what I've seen—what I've done—he doesn't even know the definition.
"You're going to tell me everything I want to know, or I am going to turn this party up to eleven. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
"YES!" He screams, voice cracking.
"Good. Now, where is he?"
Silence.
His mouth moves, but nothing comes out—just a pathetic, stammering mess of letters.
"W-wh-who are you t-t-talk—"
I cut him off before he can finish that worthless sentence.
"YOUR BOSS. The guy in charge. The guy you answer to."
More stuttering. More hesitation. More excuses.
Enough.
I tighten my grip on the handle of the blade still lodged in his skull, pressing my thumb against the hilt.
"You know, all things considered, I've been pretty nice." My voice is low, deliberate, measured. "But if you keep stuttering, I'm going to use this blade—"
I push just a little deeper. His body jerks violently against the wall.
"—to rip out not just this eye, but the other one too."
His breathing sharpens to a wheeze.
"Then I'm going to spin you around and watch you try to run away blind before I make the last thing you hear the most ungodly sound of bones cracking and organs squishing."
A pause.
Then—the unmistakable sound of piss hitting pavement.
Pathetic.
I inhale slowly, letting the moment hang as his whole body trembles against my grip. The voice changer distorts the silence, stretching it out, turning it into something inhuman.
"Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok."
His breath hitches. His hands claw weakly at my wrist, desperate for escape.
"H—HE'S AT THE TOWER!"
I sigh. Annoyed. Unimpressed. My free hand curls into a fist—and I bury it into his gut.
He folds instantly, a dry, choking sound tearing from his throat.
"DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING MIND READER?"
"THE DAGGERPOINT TOWER! PLEASE—PLEASE STOP THIS! I'LL DO ANYTHING!"
I believe him.
But that doesn't mean he's leaving this alley in one piece.
This is my reintroduction after all. I need to send a message. I wouldn't watch if I were you
Screams roar through the alley*
Three Minutes later*
I vault onto the rooftop, feet hitting the surface hard as I break into a sprint.
"That felt good." The thought comes fast, sharp. Like a breath of air after drowning. Finally—a chance to clear my head. To get back on track.
The city rushes past in a blur of concrete and neon, the wind cutting against my skin. Up ahead, I spot a gap.
I don't hesitate.
I push off, body weightless for a second—airborne, untouchable.
Then—darkness.
A portal rips open in front of me, deep purple swallowing the night.
I can't stop. Can't turn. Can't grab hold of anything.
I fall through
The darkness peels away, and the world snaps back into focus.
The ground rushes toward me.
I hit hard, momentum rolling me across the floor. Instinct takes over. My hands go to my back, fingers wrapping around the hilts of my tantos.
Steel sings free.
I drop into a defensive stance, breath steady, muscles coiled.
Where am I?
My mind sharpens, eyes scanning, taking in everything.
Because wherever this is… I didn't get here by choice.
I look around to see a figure just out of sight in the darkness.
"WHOS THERE… I SWEAR IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHERE I AM IN THE NEXT FIVE SECONDS I WILL KILL YOU AND ANYONE ELSE I COME ACROSS IN HERE"
The figure steps out into the light. He has white hair and wears a suit.
"My name is All for One…."
"And I have been watching you for quite some time now"
(Hey everyone I hope if your reading this your enjoying it to some extent. Im not trying to be "That Guy" but if you could leave some words down below about anything I could do better that would be much appreciated. Thank you)