———Dylan———

I've been laying in my bed for hours, unable to convince myself to get up. The idea of moving, even an inch, feels like hell. My body's sore, my mind exhausted, but my thoughts are on a constant loop. I wouldn't even be considering getting up if it weren't for Keegan. I could still feel his disappointment hanging in the air after I bailed on him about going to see Rust Bucket tonight.

He was counting on me. And I let him down.

The show starts in about thirty minutes. If I get up now, maybe I can still make it before they get too far in? He's been talking about this band for weeks, hyping it up like they're some kind of secret treasure. I can't help but feel like a jerk for ditching him, especially now with the weird vibe between us lately. We used to be able to do anything together, no questions asked. But recently... it feels like we're drifting.

I take a deep breath and finally swing my legs over the side of the bed, the cold air from the window sending a chill through me.

I stand and shuffle my way into the bathroom. The mirror's fogged up from the shower I never took earlier, and as I wipe it clear, I barely recognize the guy staring back at me. Dark bags under my eyes. My hair's messier than usual, sticking up in all the wrong places. But I hardly care. I've been avoiding myself, maybe even running from it all.

I grab the brush and start combing through the knots in my hair, trying to focus on anything other than the headache that's starting to creep back in. The pain comes suddenly, sharper than before. My vision flickers, and I freeze as a strange image flashes in my mind: I'm standing in a warehouse, staring down at a black mask. It's dark, and I feel this rush of anger and confusion—but it's not mine. The feeling isn't mine.

The vision disappears as quickly as it came, leaving me gripping my temples in agony. Blood drips from my nose into the sink, and I stumble back, barely catching myself on the counter.

"Fuck!" I mutter under my breath, watching as the blood trickles down. It's the third time this week, and I still don't know what's happening.

I wipe my nose and stand there for a moment, catching my breath, trying to clear the dizziness in my head. I know I should probably stay home, try to rest, but I can't shake the feeling that I need to get out. For Keegan.

I throw on a hoodie, not bothering with anything else. I don't want to waste more time, not now. I step out of the bathroom, past the quiet house, and head straight for the door. The cool, rainy air hits me as soon as I step outside, a welcome relief from the heat that's been building in my head.

I breathe in deeply, letting the rain droplets hit my face, cooling me down. The headache still pulses in the back of my skull, but it's bearable for now. As I walk down the street, my shoes slapping against the wet pavement, I wonder if I'm really doing the right thing.

I'm not sure why I'm heading to the concert anymore. Part of me just wants to get away from the pressure, from the stuff I keep feeling in my head. But another part of me knows I can't keep pushing Keegan away. Not like this.

The night air feels heavier the further I walk, like it's holding something back, like there's something about to happen that I'm supposed to be ready for. The sensation is gnawing at me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. But I push it aside. I need to stop second-guessing myself.

I get to the corner of the street, the concert venue just ahead, and take a moment to pull out my phone. The thought of sending Keegan a quick text but as I press the on button, nothing happens.

"Dead, great." I mutter to myself.

Well Keegan shouldn't be hard to find, how many all black goth boys are going to... right.

I glance around and see what seems to be hundreds of people dressed in all black.

What was I thinking, the band is called fucking Rust Bucket.

I can't help but smile and laugh at my arrogance, but it doesn't last long. That same strange feeling creeps back into my chest, and my steps slow down. Something's wrong. It's like the air's thick with anticipation, but not the good kind.

I shake it off, trying to focus on the moment. I'm doing this for Keegan. For our friendship. I need to stop overthinking everything and just be there.

I step into the building, the music already vibrating through the walls. The place is packed, a sea of people moving to the beat, their faces lit by flashing lights. But the buzz in my head doesn't stop. It's almost as if I can feel something waiting.

"Yo, Keegan!" I shout over the noise.

I search and search for what feels like hours but Keegan is nowhere to be found. Did he bail after I told him I wasn't coming?

———Keegan———

I step out of my warehouse, zipping up the black hoodie that makes up most of my "suit." Sure, it's not fancy—just a hoodie, black skinny jeans, a face mask, and my beat-up Vans—but it works. If I'm going to be swinging around rooftops and teleporting around, I might as well look decent doing it.

Before I can take more than a few steps, an arrow slams into the ground by my feet, shattering against the concrete. My head snaps up, and there she is—Spectra, perched on the rooftop of the next warehouse over, bow in hand.

She waves at me with that same smug grin, then blows me a kiss like this is some kind of game.

I sigh and pull out my grappling gun, firing it toward the roof she's on. As I'm reeled up, my mind is racing.

First she knows my identity, now she knows where I live? Fantastic.

I land a few feet away from her. "What the hell, Spectra? You know where I live now?"

She giggles, leaning casually on her bow. "Relax, Walker. It's not like it was hard to figure out. You're not exactly subtle. What is this, a curfew thing? You usually prowl between ten and four. Did someone ground you?"

I glare at her. "None of your business. Why are you here?"

Her smirk widens, like she's enjoying every second of this. "Because I want to show you something. Come on, it's worth your time."

Without waiting for a response, she turns and starts hopping across the rooftops, heading toward the docks.

I hesitate, watching her disappear into the night. Every instinct is screaming that this is a bad idea, but I fire the grappling hook and follow.

She better not be wasting my time.

The docks are eerily quiet as we arrive, the usual bustle of activity replaced by the sound of waves lapping against the pylons. Spectra stops at the edge of a shipping container, turning back to see if I'm keeping up.

"Alright, we're here," she says, folding her arms and grinning like she's planned this big reveal.

I land next to her, scanning the area. Nothing seems out of the ordinary—just the usual stacks of containers and a few dimly lit cranes in the distance.

"What exactly are we looking at?" I ask, my voice flat.

She motions toward the ground below. "Down there. Take a look."

I follow her gaze to a cluster of figures near one of the larger containers. They're unloading something—crates, from the looks of it—and moving them to a nearby truck. It doesn't seem like much at first until I notice the weapons slung across their backs.

"Armed smugglers," Spectra says, her voice low but excited. "They've been bringing in shipments every couple of weeks. Guns, drugs, tech—anything illegal, they've got it. And they've been stealing from Smith Inc. too."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

I frown. "And you know this how?"

"Because I've been watching them for weeks," she replies, glancing at me with a sly smile. "Unlike you, I actually do my homework. These guys are no joke, but I figured we could have some fun together, you know? Call it a team-building exercise."

I shake my head. "I don't 'team up.' Especially not with someone who likes to show up at my home uninvited."

"Oh, come on," she teases. "You're not seriously going to let this opportunity slip away, are you? Think of the headlines: 'Masked Vigilantes Take Down Dangerous Smuggling Ring.' Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

I glance down at the group again. There are at least eight of them, heavily armed, and they don't look like amateurs. Taking them on alone would be risky. With Spectra? I'm not sure if it would be easier or just more complicated.

"Fine," I mutter, pulling out my grappling gun. "But don't get in my way."

She grins, already drawing an arrow from her quiver. "Wouldn't dream of it, partner."

I roll my eyes and fire the grappling hook, swinging toward the container. As we close in on the smugglers, I can't help but wonder how the hell I got roped into this—and whether teaming up with Spectra is about to make my night a whole lot worse.

The grappling hook pulls me onto the container silently, and Spectra lands beside me with a graceful flip, her bow at the ready. She crouches low, peering over the edge, her cocky smile replaced with a rare hint of focus.

The smugglers move quickly, unloading crates with military precision. Their leader, a tall man with a shaved head and a scar running down the side of his face, barks orders in a gruff voice.

"Let's move! We've got five minutes before the next patrol. I don't want to see any of you slacking!"

Spectra nudges me, whispering, "Scarface down there is in charge. Take him out first, and the rest will scatter."

"Or shoot us," I counter, keeping my voice low.

She smirks. "Well, yeah. That's the fun part."

Before I can respond, she nocks an arrow and fires. It zips through the air, embedding itself in the tire of the truck they're loading. The sharp hiss of air escaping draws the smugglers' attention, and chaos erupts.

"Who's there?!" Scarface growls, whipping out a pistol and scanning the shadows.

Spectra's already on the move, darting along the container's edge and firing another arrow, this one sparking as it strikes the ground in front of the smugglers. Flashbang. The bright light blinds them momentarily, giving us the upper hand.

I leap down, landing behind two of the smugglers. Before they can react, I slam one into the side of the truck and sweep the legs out from under the other.

"Two down," I mutter, ducking as bullets ricochet off the container.

Spectra swings down from above, using her speed to disorient the shooters. Her bow is a blur as she looses arrows, each one precise and calculated.

"Focus, Walker!" she shouts, dodging a wild swing from one of the smugglers and delivering a spinning kick to his chest.

I grab one of the fallen guns and toss it into the ocean, then grapple onto a crane for a better vantage point. From up high, I spot Scarface retreating toward the docks, a metal briefcase clutched in his hand.

"He's making a run for it!" I yell.

Spectra looks up at me, her expression sharp. "Then stop talking and get him!"

I fire the grappling hook, aiming for a beam near the docks, and swing after him. Scarface is fast, but not fast enough to outrun me. I land in front of him, cutting off his escape.

He snarls, raising his pistol, but before he can fire, an arrow pierces the gun, knocking it from his hand. Spectra lands beside me, her bow drawn.

"Game over," she says, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

Scarface glares at us, clutching the briefcase tightly. "You have no idea who you're messing with," he growls.

I step forward, my voice calm but firm. "Then why don't you tell us?"

He hesitates, his eyes darting between us. But before he can answer, a low rumble echoes across the docks.

Spectra stiffens, lowering her bow slightly. "Uh, Walker? Did you feel that?"

I nod, my eyes scanning the shadows. The ground vibrates beneath us, and a deep, guttural growl cuts through the night.

"What the hell is that?" I whisper.

Scarface smirks, his fear replaced with a twisted sense of satisfaction. "You're about to find out."

A massive shape emerges from the darkness, its glowing red eyes locking onto us. It's like nothing I've ever seen—a creature that looks part machine, part animal, with metal claws and a body covered in sleek black armor.

"Walker..." Spectra's voice is unusually quiet.

"Yeah?"

"We're gonna need a bigger plan."

The creature lurches toward us, its claws scraping against the concrete with an earsplitting screech. Its growl reverberates in my chest, and my instincts scream at me to move, but I hold my ground. Spectra, however, is already in action.

She raises her hand, and in an instant, the air around her shimmers like heatwaves. Multiple copies of her materialize, spectral and faintly glowing, fanning out in every direction.

"Which one am I?" her voice taunts, echoing from the illusions.

The creature pauses, its red eyes flickering as it scans the duplicates. It lets out a snarl, swinging a massive claw at one of the Spectras, but its hand passes harmlessly through.

"Nice," I mutter, pulling my grappling hook from my belt.

"You're welcome," the real Spectra says, though I can't tell where she's standing anymore. Her illusions laugh in unison, circling the creature and drawing its attention away from me.

With the beast momentarily distracted, I grapple onto a nearby crane, swinging up high for a better angle. From here, I can see Scarface trying to slip away again, the briefcase still clutched in his hands.

"Oh no, you don't," I mutter.

I swing down and land in front of him, cutting off his escape for the second time. He freezes, his bravado from earlier evaporating as he glances at the chaos behind me—the illusions, the beast, and Spectra darting through the fray.

"You're not going anywhere," I say, stepping closer.

But before I can grab him, the creature lets out a deafening roar. A pulse of energy erupts from its chest, shattering some of the nearby containers and scattering Spectra's illusions.

The real Spectra stumbles back, her cover blown. "That's new," she mutters, scrambling to nock another arrow.

The creature's glowing eyes lock onto her, and it lunges, its claws tearing through the ground. I fire my grappling hook at its back, using the momentum to pull myself onto its armored spine.

"Walker, what the hell are you doing?" Spectra shouts.

"Improvising!" I yell back, clinging to the creature as it thrashes wildly. Its armor is smooth and sleek, offering little to grab onto, but I manage to hold on.

"Buy me some time!" I shout.

Spectra doesn't hesitate. She summons another wave of illusions, this time making them shimmer more vividly, as if they're charged with energy. The creature hesitates again, growling in frustration as it tries to distinguish the real Spectra from the fakes.

"Let's see how you like this," she says, firing a volley of arrows. They explode on impact, sending sparks across the creature's metallic body. It howls in pain, giving me the opening I need.

I reach for the exposed wiring near its neck and yank hard. Sparks fly, and the beast shudders violently, nearly throwing me off.

"Walker, jump!" Spectra screams.

Without thinking, I release my grip, firing the grappling hook at a nearby container to swing myself clear. The creature convulses, its body sparking and crackling before collapsing in a heap of metal and smoke.

Spectra jogs over, her bow still at the ready, and nudges the creature with her foot. "You're insane, you know that?"

"Yeah, well, it worked, didn't it?" I say, brushing soot off my hoodie.

Before she can reply, Scarface groans from the ground nearby. He's pinned under a fallen crate, the briefcase just out of reach.

Spectra smirks, sauntering over and picking up the case. "Thanks for holding onto this for us."

He glares at her but doesn't say a word.

I walk over, glancing at the briefcase. "What's in it?"

"Let's find out," Spectra says, popping it open.

Inside is a small, glowing device, its surface covered in strange, intricate symbols. I've never seen anything like it, but something about it feels... wrong.

"What the hell is this?" I ask.

Spectra's smirk fades, replaced by a rare look of unease. "I don't know, but I think we just stumbled onto something a lot bigger than a smuggling ring."

The glow from the device pulses faintly, casting eerie shadows across our faces.

A sharp beep from my wristwatch snaps me out of my thoughts. I glance down and press the stop button, my stomach dropping. "Shit, I gotta go!"

Spectra tilts her head, clearly amused. "So you do have a curfew. Cute. Don't worry, Walker. I'll hold onto this for now and do some digging. Meet you at your place tomorrow?"

"Yeah, fine," I mutter, already firing my grappling hook and swinging away.

"Don't worry!" she calls after me, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "I'll make sure the reporters put your name right next to mine on the headlines!"

Her laugh echoes in the night as I swing around the corner, groaning under my breath. "Great. Now everyone's gonna think my name is Voidwalker instead of Voidstrider."

I shake my head and pick up speed, the city lights blurring beneath me.

-

I pull off my mask and knock lightly on Dylan's window. It's my usual entrance—less risky than waking his mom by using the front door.

A moment later, the window slides open, and Dylan steps aside to let me in.

"You know," he says, raising an eyebrow, "if you keep showing up in all black like that, you're just proving my mom's theory that you're a burglar."

I chuckle as I climb through. "Hey, it's not my fault black makes me look cool. Plus, it helps me blend in and avoid getting mugged."

He rolls his eyes but smirks anyway. "So, how was the rave?"

"Oh, so dope," I say, throwing in as much enthusiasm as I can muster. "Rust Bucket is still the best band of the century, hands down."

Dylan leans against his desk, crossing his arms. "You get hurt in the mosh pit or something?"

I blink, confused, until he points to my forehead. I reach up and feel the sting of a cut, a thin line of dried blood I hadn't even noticed—probably from earlier.

"Yeah... must've been the pit," I say quickly, playing it off. "I was so sloshed I didn't even feel it."

He snorts. "Classic Keegan. One of these days, you're gonna come home missing a tooth and still try to act like it was no big deal."

I laugh, brushing past the comment, but my thoughts linger on the cut. Another reminder of what I was really doing tonight—not moshing, but fighting. And I can't let him know.

"Well anyway, I've snuggled some contraband back from the gig. The worst fucking beer I could muster, figured it might help with your head boo boos." I reach into my backpack and toss him one.

He catches the can with surprisingly fast reflexes. "Aouw bruv, my tummy gonna be messed up in the morning."

I laugh aloud as I open my own can. "Man, who the fuck cares? Live a little."