The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie, silver glow across the deserted streets. I hadn’t planned on staying out this late, but the quiet corners of the city felt less suffocating than the confines of my apartment. I had taken to wandering these streets more often, finding solace in the ruins and forgotten places that the metahuman battles had left behind. It was in these places, far from the chaos of the city centre, that I felt like I could breathe.
Tonight, however, something felt different.The air was colder tonight, the kind of sharp chill that bit through layers of clothing and settled deep into your bones. I wrapped my coat tighter around me, pushing through the city streets that stretched ahead like a maze of cracked concrete and flickering street lights. The silence was deceiving—there was always something lurking in the corners, always a sense of danger that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I had no destination in mind, no real plan. My legs just kept moving, as if the motion would somehow quiet the storm that raged inside me. It didn’t, of course. The visions still haunted me, the memories of that night with Mel playing over and over in my mind, twisting my gut into knots. But tonight, I wasn’t just running from the memories. I was searching for something, though I wasn’t quite sure what. Maybe understanding. Maybe control.
The streets grew darker as I walked farther from the city’s heart, where the ruins left behind by metahuman battles sprawled in forgotten chaos. The farther I ventured, the more abandoned the world became—broken windows, scorched walls, and collapsed roofs, all remnants of a war no one could control. I stopped at the edge of a crumbling building, the skeletal remains of what used to be a home or shop, and stared into the emptiness.
Those ruins could only lead me to one simple idea. Powers weren’t a gift—they were a curse, a plague on this city, on everyone who lived here. Whether they called themselves heroes, villains, vigilantes, or rogues, metahumans all left destruction in their wake. The so-called heroes, like Gravitas, pretended to be protectors, but they caused just as much damage as the villains they fought. They tore through buildings, shattered lives, and left people like me to pick up the pieces. And for what? A pat on the back, a public relations stunt, or the approval of MetaPol. They weren’t saviours—they were walking disasters.
The villains weren’t any better, of course. They embraced the chaos, thrived on the fear and destruction they caused. Ms. Kai, with her monstrous powers, didn’t care about the lives she destroyed—people like Mel and I were nothing but collateral damage in their endless battles for power. They waged war in the streets, caring more about their vendettas or territories, than the lives they shattered. In the end, both sides were playing the same game, just wearing different masks. Whether they were branded as villains or heroes, the outcome was always the same: death and destruction.
On those in-between? They weren’t that different. New Moon, claiming to be fighting for justice, operating outside the law because they can’t trust the system. But that self-righteous attitude only makes them more dangerous. They don’t even answer to anyone, don’t care about the rules or the lives caught in their path. They crossed lines, killed without hesitation, all under the guise of doing what was “necessary.” But necessary for who? Certainly not for the people left cleaning up the mess.
Or even guys like the Blood Watch, only caring about the highest bidder. Only pursuing where money was made. No morals but that of the money. At least, those were straightforward… Easy to guess where they’ll go, but harder to know how much damage they’d do…
My thoughts stopped when I sensed it—another presence, watching me from the shadows.
I stopped, my heart quickening. The air around me felt heavy, thick with tension. Slowly, I turned, scanning the street behind me. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and hulking, his face obscured by the low hood of his jacket. He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, and I could see the glint of something metallic in his hand.
A knife.
“Hey,” his voice was rough, low. “Give me your bag.”
I didn’t move, the rush of adrenaline sharp and immediate. Fear prickled at my skin, but beneath it, something else stirred—a darker, more dangerous instinct. I just need to touch him… Or him to touch me… One small touch and the tether would be there to help me.
I wasn’t proficient in any martial arts, but still took on a defensive stance. Or at least what I thought was one. My fist clenched tight, the right one going up in front of my face, the left one doing the same around my stomach. Like what you could see in those old boxing videos my father watched years ago.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” the man growled, stepping closer. His knife caught the moonlight, glinting sharply.
The attacker lunged forward with surprising speed, his knife flashing in the dim light. I instinctively raised my arms to block, but my form was sloppy, more a reflex than any real defence. His blade sliced through the air, catching the side of my arm as I twisted away. The pain I expected to flare instantly didn’t come. Or at least, not as strong as I expected it to be. I stumbled backwards, surprised by the move as much as the sensations, my feet unsteady on the cracked pavement.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
My mind raced, trying to recall anything useful from those old videos I barely remembered. But no amount of hazy childhood memories could make up for my lack of training. My fists were up, awkward and shaky, and I had no idea how to move in a real fight. The man’s movements, however, were calculated, methodical. He had done this before.
He came at me again, the knife slashing toward my torso. I tried to dodge, but I was too slow. The blade grazed my side, tearing through my coat and biting into my skin. I cried out, stumbling back again, but there was nowhere to run. My breath was ragged, fear surging through me as blood seeped from the wound. I had to act, had to reach out—but he was too fast, and I couldn’t get close enough.
The next attack came swiftly, his knife cutting toward my abdomen. Desperation fueled me, and I tried to parry his arm away with a clumsy swing. I missed it. The blade found its mark, slashing across my midsection. White-hot pain coursed through me, and I doubled over, gasping. I could feel the warmth of my blood spreading, soaking into my shirt. This was bad—really bad.
Panic gripped me, but somewhere beneath the fear, that dark instinct flared again. The tether. I just needed to touch him, just for a second. My vision blurred, but I forced myself to focus. He was close now, closing in for another strike. This time, I lunged—not to fight, but to make contact. My hand shot out, grazing his wrist as he swung the knife toward me again.
The tether snapped into place as his knife plunged in the meat of my shoulder.
“Psycho.” He half-sighed, half-panted as he pulled out his knife and took quick steps away from me. “See what it did… To fight back, bitch!” He spits on the ground, playing slightly with his knife before brandishing back at me. “Now gimme your purse, cunt! Or else…”
Before he could finish, I felt the newly formed tether connecting us both. I quickly pulled on it, willing for our states to switch around.
A sudden rush of energy surged through me as I yanked on the tether. The pain in my shoulder disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a dull sensation—a distant, throbbing ache that no longer belonged to me. My body felt lighter, the weight of my wounds now his to bear. The attacker froze mid-step, confusion flashing in his eyes as the knife wavered in his hand.
"What the…?" he muttered, glancing down at his arm. Blood dripped from a fresh wound, the same spot where he had stabbed me moments ago. He staggered back, his face twisting in disbelief as he clutched at the injury. I could see the realisation dawning on him, the shock that something wasn’t right.
His confusion quickly turned to anger, and he raised the knife again, but I could see the hesitation in his movements now. The wound had weakened him, made him slower. It wasn’t just the physical pain—there was fear in his eyes. He didn’t understand what had happened, but he knew something was terribly wrong.
"You… What did you do?" His voice wavered, a mix of rage and bewilderment. He stumbled forward, trying to maintain his threatening posture, but I could see him faltering from pain.
His momentary pause let me gather my thoughts. They were clearer now, without the pain. It felt like I knew which actions I needed to take to press on.
He lunged again, his movements still aggressive but not as precise. I sidestepped, my body reacting faster than before. The knife swung past me, cutting through empty air. My fists came up in a tighter formation, the stance feeling more familiar now, more natural. I moved without thinking, stepping into his space as if guided by an unseen instinct. My muscles responded smoothly, my feet shifting with an ease that hadn’t been there moments ago.
He tried to swipe at me again, but I ducked low, my body twisting just out of reach. I could feel the rhythm of the fight settling into my bones, each move flowing into the next. His attacks came predictably now—clumsy, desperate slashes meant to scare more than to hit. My mind started to anticipate them, seeing the gaps in his defense. I pivoted sharply, avoiding another wild strike, and delivered a punch to his side. The force behind it surprised me, as did the accuracy. My knuckles connected with his ribs, the impact sending a shockwave up my arm.
He grunted, stumbling back from the blow, his balance faltering. I pressed forward, my confidence growing with each second. A part of me registered the shift in my movements—the fluidity of my strikes, the way my feet moved almost instinctively. I had never fought like this before, but now, it was as if I could predict his every move. When he raised the knife again, I caught his wrist, twisting it sharply until the weapon clattered to the ground.
He gasped, his eyes wide with panic as the knife fell from his grip, clattering uselessly on the cracked pavement. I kept my hold on his wrist, twisting harder, forcing him to his knees. His face contorted in pain, and the anger that had once fueled his attack drained away, replaced by raw fear.
“Let go!” he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. I loosened my grip just enough to let him jerk his arm free, but I stayed standing over him, ready to act if he tried anything else. He scrambled backward, clutching his injured wrist, his breaths coming in shallow, frantic gasps.
“You’re—you're one of them!” he spat, his words trembling. His eyes darted from me to the dark alley behind him, clearly weighing his options. I could see the fight leaving him, the bravado melting away as he realised he was outmatched. “I-I didn’t know! Just... let me go, okay?”
I didn’t move. My heart was still pounding, but the fear that had gripped me earlier had been replaced by something else—a cold, detached clarity.
He took a hesitant step backward, his eyes flickering toward the street as if he was planning his escape. “I... I don’t want any more trouble,” he muttered, inching away. “Just let me go, alright? I won’t come near you again, I swear.”
For a moment, I considered letting him run. He was weak, scared, and no longer a threat. But something about the way he looked at me—like I was some kind of monster—stirred something dark inside me. I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, and he flinched, falling back onto the ground.
“Run,” I said quietly, my voice steady and cold.