The night air was punctuated by the metallic rattle of spray cans, their sound echoing through the air like a clandestine symphony. The darkness above acted as a protective cloak, shielding his activities from any prying eyes that might have been tempted by curiosity.

This creation was destined to become the cornerstone of his legacy, but he knew that this was a sentiment shared by all genuine artists - an unending aspiration to surpass their past achievements with each stroke of creativity.

As the spray cans unleashed their colorful contents onto the surface, the intensity of the sounds seemed to mirror the fervor within his soul. With each precise movement, he neared the completion of his latest masterpiece. While the location was a common spot for pedestrians, tonight held a unique stillness, an absence of passersby that allowed his artistry to flourish undisturbed.

As the final echoes of the spray cans faded into the night, his creation stood before him - a genuine work of art, a testament to his talent and dedication. However, the emotions that stirred within him were not what one might have expected.

Despite the achievement before him, an undercurrent of dissatisfaction coursed through his veins. A true artist was never truly satisfied, always striving to exceed their own limitations. The knowledge that he could have pushed further, done better, haunted his thoughts. Yet, the constraints of time held him captive, compelling him to etch his signature logo onto the wall, a final flourish.

Seated before his completed artwork, a mixture of admiration and discontent warred within him. He acknowledged the quality of his creation, but the hunger for perfection still gnawed at his spirit. With a sigh, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve, his gaze fixed on the artwork as if seeking answers.

His own murmured words broke the silence as he lay on his back, staring up at the endless expanse of the night sky. "NightShade, huh..." The name, a moniker given by the world, hung in the air. It was a title that carried both accolades and expectations, a paradoxical blend of fame and anonymity.

A mere week had passed since the press had christened him with the moniker "The graffiti artist that only strikes at night." To be honest, he considered it a rather unremarkable feat, given that it was precisely when most artists chose to create. Yet, what set him apart and captured the media's fascination was his canvas - the sprawling urban expanse of the city itself. Remarkably, what might have taken hours for others, he could achieve in the span of thirty minutes, rendering the creative process an awe-inspiring spectacle.

His gaze remained locked on the expanse above, a canvas of stars that seemed to hold both his secrets and the world's. The name that clung to him, "NightShade," carried a duality he couldn't ignore. He wasn't perturbed by the ambiguity it brought, nor the polarized opinions that followed - admiration for his art mingling with accusations that likened him to a terrorist. What truly troubled him was a gnawing sense of incompleteness, an elusive understanding that danced just beyond his grasp.

Despite his abode being a considerable seven miles from his current location, it posed no hindrance to his weekly forays into the city. His reputation had solidified around his unwavering consistency, his creations adorning the cityscape with a frequency that painted him as an icon. Not merely confined to the city's limits, his influence stretched across the entire state of New York.

In the span of a few months, he had metamorphosed into a paradoxical figure, revered and reviled in equal measure. Though he remained unperturbed by the divergent perceptions, it was far from the motivation that fueled his creative fervor.

Yet, even as his thoughts roamed the vastness of the night sky, a subtle shift occurred. The clouds, once obscure and unassuming, seemed to take on an ethereal luminance, casting an otherworldly glow. This transient spectacle jolted him from his reverie, grounding him back to the realm of the present. Swiftly, he retrieved his bag from its resting place in a nearby alleyway. Within the confines of his bag lay his phone, which he reached in for.

"Shit..." His muttered expletive hung in the air, a desperate plea to the hands of time as he gazed at the digital display. The precious minutes had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, and panic surged within him. He had to act swiftly before it was too late.

As the first tendrils of morning light stretched across the horizon, he steeled himself. The world seemed to hold its breath, a moment suspended in uncertainty. Clutching his graffiti-laden bag in his left hand and his skateboard in his right, he felt the thrill of urgency course through his veins. There was no room for hesitation. With eyes clenched shut, he drew a deep breath before he began moving.

The sun's rays finally painted the world in shades of gold, but his expression had changed, appearing breathless. Dropping his skateboard to the ground, he stood before his suburban dwelling, just a few meters away from home. He had traversed an impossible distance, leaving behind the very city that had witnessed his presence less than a second before.

His inexplicable speed was a puzzle he chose not to unravel, its enigma adding to the tapestry of his existence. He had ventured nearly seven miles before the sun could even inch above the horizon, a testament to the unnatural power that coursed through his veins.

It was a power that defied explanation, and he harbored no desire to delve into its origins. The possibility of experimentation and exploitation depicted in movies served as a stark deterrent, a chilling reminder of the perilous path that lay ahead if he were to unearth the source of his abilities in a wrong manner.

Yet, within the bounds of his power, he had gleaned two certainties. The first was that his formidable speed came at a cost - his stamina, endurance, and inherent limitations remained unchanged. His newfound velocity merely compressed the distance he covered within the constraints of his physical capacity. It was a paradoxical gift, a fleeting surge of power that left him spent and drained.

Secondly, and perhaps most crucially, his extraordinary capabilities were intrinsically tethered to the sun's celestial journey. As long as the radiant orb occupied the sky, his power lay dormant, a dormant force awaiting the cover of darkness to reawaken.

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The intricacies of this weakness were both fascinating and frustrating. Even in locales where the sun's direct gaze was averted, his abilities remained locked, a constraint that ebbed and flowed with the shifting tides of time and geography. The enigmatic boundaries of his power eluded easy comprehension, a reminder of the complexities that underscored his existence.

In this fleeting moment, by a stroke of luck, he had outrun the sun's ascent, granting himself a precious window of opportunity. He had escaped the tyranny of daylight, allowing his extraordinary talents to persist for a few moments longer to escape any possible detection before it was too late.

Skating the final stretch, he reached his doorstep, his chest heaving as he gasped for air while seated on the steps temporarily before turning back to the door. The key slipped into the lock with practiced ease, and the door inched open, each movement calculated to minimize noise and intrusion. Stepping inside, his gaze fell upon the figure sprawled on the living room couch – his mother, her form nestled in the embrace of slumber.

A pang of guilt swept over him as he took in the sight. Her concern had kept her awake, waiting anxiously for his return. A sigh escaped his lips, laden with a mixture of gratitude and regret, as he moved upstairs and returned with a blanket before walking quietly toward her. Tenderly, he draped the blanket over her form, an offering of comfort to ease the unease that his nocturnal escapades inevitably stirred within her. "I don't deserve you," he murmured softly, his voice carrying the weight of his emotions as he regarded her sleeping visage.

Ascending the stairs once more, he shed the graffiti-stained attire that bore witness to his endeavors. The familiar black hoodie, joggers, and mouth mask found their place in the laundry pile, awaiting their turn for cleansing. The shower offered a brief reprieve, cleansing not only his body but also his spirit, washing away the residue of the night's fervor.

Draped in a fresh pair of joggers alone, he settled onto his bed, a rubber ball finding its way into his grasp as he bounced it around his room. The rhythmic bounce reverberated through the room, a soothing cadence that mirrored the ebb and flow of his thoughts. With each rebound, his mind drifted to the persistent sensation that had accompanied him for months, since his last birthday – an indescribable feeling, neither a void nor a bouquet of roses, but a call to a purpose he couldn't quite decipher.

As the ball continued its dance around his room, always returning to his grasp after every displacement, his contemplation merged with the tranquility of the room as he gazed at the ceiling above him. The weight of his musings grew heavier, tugging at the corners of his consciousness. Gradually, weariness crept in, a gradual descent into the realm of slumber that had become a familiar companion.

"Maybe, but honestly it's better to tell him. No point stretching it," a voice suddenly echoed, stirring him from sleep.

Familiar surroundings dissolved, replaced by an otherworldly realm, an unsettling detachment from Earth surrounded by bright light and thick white fog. Rising from an unfamiliar state, three colossal figures glanced back at him—all about eight feet tall.

"What the..." he began, a strange recognition seizing his thoughts.

"He's remembering something," one of the strange beings, who appeared closest to him, muttered as they looked to see if he was alright. Their anticipation lingered, awaiting his response.

The close colossal being then called out to him in concern- "Klaus, Klaus, Klaus, Klaus..." "Klaus!!!" Suddenly, he opened his eyes and sat up in bed, fully awake.

It was all a dream.

This marked the third occurrence this month of such a dream, prompting him to contemplate seeking a therapist. After a brief stretch, he was interrupted by another knock on his door, accompanied by the call of his name.

CONVERSATION

Klaus: *softly* Shade, is that you?

Shade: Yo Klaus. You up, bro?

Klaus: *standing from his bed and stretching* I guess.

Shade: Well, It's morning. Time to get ready for school.

Klaus: I'll be down in a bit.

Shade: Alright. Wanted to wake you up just in case. Also, Mom's making breakfast downstairs so hurry up before yours gets cold.

Klaus: Sure.

Shade's footsteps faded as he moved away from the door, prompting Klaus to check the time; he had only slept for about an hour and a half, and it was already 8:45 am. In response, he swiftly took a shower, brushed his teeth, and began to dress up. Staring into the mirror at his messy deep-black hair, he began remembering the peculiar dream. He then acknowledged the futility of dwelling on its meaning and chose to push it from his thoughts.

Descending the stairs, the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon and sausages greeted Klaus. Advancing towards the dining room, he spotted Shade already eating while fixated on the television. A quick turn brought him to his mother, who had just completed the egg preparation, her attention shifting to him as he entered.

CONVERSATION

Mother: Morning honey, how was your night?

Aware that she was well aware of his nocturnal activities yet chose not to address them, a sense of unease settled over Klaus.

Klaus: Same as always.

Mother: *smiling* Well, I hope that means it was great. Anyway, your breakfast is already on the table so eat up before it gets cold, okay?

Klaus: Sure.

Before walking to the table, Klaus returned his attention to his mother.

Klaus: Mom?

Mother: Yes, honey?

Klaus: I'm sorry.

A brief silence lingered between them before she approached, placing her palm gently upon his shoulder. "It's alright, Klaus. Just make sure to give me a heads-up next time, alright?" Her smile radiated warmth as she spoke, her words laced with understanding.

While it didn't alleviate Klaus's feelings of guilt, he recognized her lack of concern and refrained from burdening her with unnecessary remorse.

"I will, Mom," he assured her.

With her returning to the kitchen, he turned as his internal thoughts queued, "I truly don't deserve you."

Reaching the dining room, he settled beside Shade, both engrossed in the 9 o'clock news as they consumed their breakfast. The mention of NightShade appeared, unsurprising given its frequency in the media, though his latest creation seemed to have yet to capture the headlines. A smattering of unrelated news stories followed, none particularly pertinent to them.

Concluding their meal, they aided their mother with the dishes, preparing to depart for school. As they did, an intriguing news piece seized their attention, drawing their focus amid the morning's preparations.

"The masked international criminal known as X has struck again, claiming the life of the minister of finance in France last night. Witnesses report that he just casually walked in during the minister's conference, committing the murder and vanishing after walking out of sight," the news anchor announced.

"Wow, this X guy moves quickly. Wasn't he in South America just a week ago?" Shade remarked to Klaus.

"No rest for the wicked, I suppose," Klaus concurred.

"I suppose," Shade agreed, rising from his seat after completing his part in the morning routine as they readied themselves for school.

After bidding their mother farewell and stepping out of the house, Shade turned to Klaus with a weightier question.

"Yo Klaus, do you think his actions are justifiable, even if the minister wasn't a good person?" His usually vibrant tone was tinged with introspection, indicating the matter was weighing on his mind.

"I don't know. But no matter the circumstances, taking countless lives can never be justified," Klaus replied firmly, eliciting a small smile from Shade.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Shade acknowledged, the shadows of their conversation lingering as they embarked on their journey to school.