The city was alive with flickering lights and distant sounds as I stood on the rooftop, my breath coming in slow, measured puffs. Neo Lyon sprawled beneath me, a mess of towering buildings and narrow alleys, bustling streets and quiet corners, all bathed in the harsh glow of streetlights. The wind tugged at the edges of my coat, the makeshift costume I had pieced together over the past few days. It wasn’t perfect—just scraps of dark fabric and leather stitched into something functional—but it was enough for tonight. Enough for my first steps as Replica.

The black suit clung to my body, flexible and sturdy, perfect for movement. I’d kept the design simple: black and grey, with silver accents that caught the light only when I wanted them to. My face was hidden beneath a mask that covered the lower half of my features, leaving only my eyes visible. I’d considered a full mask, something to obscure my identity completely, but I needed to see clearly, to be aware of every shadow, every flicker of movement.

The gloves, snug and thin, allowed me the dexterity I needed while keeping me anonymous. My hands itched slightly, not from discomfort but from anticipation. Tonight was the first time I would step into the world of Neo Lyon’s shadows not as Liz, the girl who barely scraped by, but as Replica. And I needed this. I needed to prove that I could control my powers, that I could navigate this chaotic world in a way that suited me—without being a hero or a villain but as myself.

Far below, the city hummed with its usual energy: cars honking, people shouting, and the occasional rumble of far-off conflict. Neo Lyon was never quiet. Even now, I could hear the wail of sirens in the distance, no doubt heading toward another metahuman conflict. It wasn’t my business tonight. I had something smaller in mind for my first outing—something that would let me test the waters before diving into deeper, more dangerous currents.

I’d overheard enough at Paul’s shop and from passing conversations on the street to know where I could start. A petty gang called the Red Hands had been causing trouble in a nearby district, shaking down local businesses, especially those too small or insignificant for MetaPol to bother with. They weren’t major players, but they were perfect for tonight. Low stakes, minimal risk.

From the information I garnered, they seemed to tend to attack every 3 to 4 days a new business while staying in the Brotteaux District. That meant they had little choices nowadays with how many places they attacked this past few months. It’s been 4 days since their last attacks. It meant that tonight was the night, and they would either attack this nightclub, or the 24/7 shop with barely any customers at the opposite side of the District.

“...Or they could have moved to a new kind of Modus Operandi…” I whispered, surveying the nightclub from the opposite building.

The Vault. It is almost a hole in the wall kind of nightclub, yet, I saw at least a hundred different faces queuing and entering the establishment in the 3 hours I have been monitoring.

“Maybe it’s not such a low stake, minimal risk, first outing…” I sigh in the cold air. “Or maybe it was a dud… Where are they…?” I sighed again, exasperated.

I shifted my weight slightly, feeling my body ache all over from staying in the same position for so long. The night air was crisp, filling my lungs with a cool bite that kept me alert. I wasn’t nervous—at least, that’s what I told myself. This wasn’t my first confrontation with danger, but it was different this time. This time, I was choosing to face it. This time, I was Replica.

My eyes scanned the alleyways around the club. It was the perfect spot for the Red Hands to make their move. They preferred back entrances, the quiet moments between security checks, when businesses were busy enough to cover their tracks but not so crowded that they couldn't make a clean getaway. They liked to blend in with the usual chaos and disappear as quickly as they came.

A flicker of movement caught my attention. I tensed, focusing on the alley to the left of the nightclub where three figures emerged from the shadows. My heart rate quickened, though I remained calm, watching as they approached the side door with practiced ease. Each of them was dressed in nondescript dark clothing, the kind that blended easily with the night. They weren’t armed—at least not visibly—but the way they moved, with confidence and precision, marked them as professionals. These weren’t petty thugs.

One of the men approached the door, pulling a small device from his pocket and pressing it against the lock. A soft click echoed through the alleyway as the door swung open. No alarms, no guards. It was like they’d done this a hundred times before.

I narrowed my eyes. The Red Hands had a reputation for being thorough, but this was too smooth. They weren’t just here for a shake-down; this was something bigger. I had two choices—wait for them to do whatever they came to do, or make my move now, before they got too deep inside.

I crouched low, tightening my grip on the edge of the rooftop. My breath came slow and steady, matching the cool night breeze. The Red Hands were making their move, and I was ready to test my new identity, my powers, and my control over this chaotic world.

Think, Liz.

If I jumped in too soon, I risked being outnumbered and overwhelmed. But waiting too long would mean giving them the upper hand inside the club, with more variables at play. They moved like pros, and something about their precision bothered me. These weren’t just common street thugs—they were organised, calculated.

No hesitation, I told myself, channelling the focus I’d need as Replica.

I shifted slightly, muscles tense and ready to act, while my mind weighed the risks. I decided to follow them inside—observe, gather information, and strike when I had the upper hand. My powers gave me an edge, but I didn’t fully know what they were capable of yet. This was my first real field test, and the stakes, while not catastrophic, were high enough to demand precision.

The last man slipped inside, leaving the alley empty except for the dull hum of the city behind me. I silently climbed down the fire escape, careful to keep to the shadows. The streetlight cast long shadows over the alley, masking my descent as I reached the ground without making a sound. My heart pounded, not from fear but anticipation. I wasn’t running from danger anymore; I was running toward it.

The back door to The Vault stood slightly ajar, a small invitation for trouble. I crept closer, hearing muffled voices from inside. They were quick and methodical, already working on whatever they had planned.

Get in, assess, disrupt.

I slipped inside, the cold metal of the door brushing against my gloved hand. My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the hallway. The sounds of the nightclub beyond were faint, the heavy bass thumping through the walls. Ahead, I could hear the men moving, but they were out of sight, deeper into the club’s private area. I stayed close to the wall, moving quietly through the corridor, avoiding the cameras that were either off or hacked by their device.

The hallway opened into a storeroom filled with crates of alcohol and cleaning supplies. I crouched behind a large stack of boxes, peeking around the edge to get a better view. There they were—three of them, as I’d seen before. One was crouched over a safe embedded in the wall, fiddling with what looked like a sophisticated lock-picking device. The other two stood nearby, watching the door to the main part of the club. They were armed now, with small handguns holstered under their jackets.

Definitely not petty criminals.

The man at the safe clicked something on the device, and the lock made a soft beep. A quiet rush of air escaped the vault as he pulled the door open. My pulse quickened. This wasn’t a routine shake-down—this was a robbery, and not just any robbery. They knew exactly what they were doing. There was something valuable in that safe, something worth all this trouble.

I watched closely, waiting for the right moment. They were focused, unaware of me, which meant I had the element of surprise.

I could hurt myself before touching one of them to transfer my wounds. But that would make me vulnerable until then, and I’d still need to handle the other two.

The sounds of their murmurs were drowned out by the thumping bass that vibrated through the walls. They were too focused on the safe, their bodies tense and their gazes locked on the prize, whatever it was inside. This was my moment. My mind raced as I calculated my options.

I could approach quietly, surprise them, and try to incapacitate one before the others noticed. But I wasn’t skilled in hand-to-hand combat—not yet. I needed an edge. My power. I’d been practising with small injuries, cuts, and bruises, but this was different. I needed to cause real damage to myself if I wanted to transfer that to them. And I didn’t know how long I’d have before the others turned on me.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

I slowly crouched behind the crates and pulled a small blade from my boot. It wasn’t much, just a regular knife I’d gotten for cheap at a pawn shop, but it would do the job. The cold metal pressed against my skin, and I hesitated for a moment, steeling myself for the pain to come. Without allowing myself to think any further, I slashed the blade across my left forearm.

The pain was strangely manageable, again. Did my power come with pain tolerance somehow, or do I need to cut myself more if I want it to be destabilizing?

Can’t dawdle on that, they seem distracted, if I have to strike it should be now.

I jump out of my cover to the closest Red Hand. However I was too short on the leap and barely grazed them.

I cursed under my breath as I landed just short of the first Red Hand. My body twisted in midair, barely managing to brush the back of his jacket. But it was enough.

I felt the tether form instantly, that strange, invisible connection snapping into place between us. Not wasting any time after my blunder, I pull on the tether sharply, transferring my wound to him. With it came a slight toothache. A small price to pay, I guess to incapacitate the unhygienic thug.

I watched as his body jerked in surprise, his hand shooting up to clutch his left arm, blood already seeping through his jacket’s sleeve. The shock on his face was instant, but I couldn’t dwell on it. I had to move fast.

The other two turned toward the sound of his muffled gasp, their confusion quickly turning into alarm. "What the hell—?"the other guard growled, reaching for his gun.

With a grace I shouldn’t possess, I lunged at the other man, grabbing his wrist before he could reach the weapon. Another tether formed, but the little toothache from his comrade wasn’t enough of a distraction, I thought.

So I pulled him hard. The movement felt both natural and unnatural at the same time.

Destabilized, he fell forward onto the floor and I used the momentum to slam his face against the concrete ground, hard enough to disorient him. He groaned, dazed, but still struggled to reach for his gun. I couldn’t let him recover. My hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and twisting it sharply until the weapon clattered uselessly on the ground.

The third man had more time thanks to my altercation with his friends. His hand darted toward his gun as I whirled around to face him. My heart pounded, time seemed to slow. I felt that old instinctual fear rising inside me, but this time, I pushed it down. This time, I had control.

With a quick leap, I closed the distance between us, but he was faster, his gun already in hand. He shot.

A sharp, hot, pain engulfed my right arm. Somehow, I knew he’d miss, but the sudden pain still made me falter enough for the first Red Hand to have me at gunpoint too.

“I am fucked…” I muttered.

“You don’t say, missy..” The lockpicker answered my self talk.

The cold edge of the gun pressed into my back as I stood, my heart pounding as the adrenaline surged through me. I had miscalculated, taken too many risks, and now I was trapped. The wound in my arm throbbed, a reminder of how easily things could spiral out of control. This wasn’t like the petty criminals or thugs I had envisioned confronting as Replica. These men were professionals, and they had me at gunpoint.

The one I had disarmed moments earlier groaned from the floor, clutching his head, but the other two were still standing, and both had their weapons trained on me. I felt the tether humming between us, fragile but present. I could still feel their injuries—the transferred pain—but it wasn’t enough to give me the upper hand.

"Who the hell are you?" the lockpicker growled, his voice dripping with hostility as he kicked the safe door shut. "You one of those MetaPol heroes? A new vigilante? Thought you'd take us down all by yourself?"

I gritted my teeth, suppressing the urge to let my fear show. I wasn’t a MetaPol officer, and I wasn’t about to let them mistake me for some self-righteous hero. I was something else. I was me.

"Does it matter?" I shot back, keeping my voice steady despite the growing tension. "You’re done here. Walk away now, and I won’t make it worse."

The two men exchanged glances before the one with the gun stepped forward, his face twisted in a sneer. "Make it worse? Lady, you’re bleeding. You're not in any position to be making threats."

I could feel my breath quickening, the panic rising. But I couldn’t let them see that. I had to keep control. The wound in my arm sent waves of pain shooting through me, but I could use that. I could transfer it, just like before. But with both of them armed, I had to be smart, deliberate. One wrong move, and I’d be finished.

And if I sent it to the first one, I’d end up back with the gash on the other arm. And I didn’t manage to touch the lockpicker…

Looking around, I notice the two tethers still hanging between the two Red Hands I scuffed with. Maybe I could… With a quick succession of pulls, I exchanged the downed guard’s wound to me, then the man who threatened me. The motion was slightly disorienting to me, but now the two other men had their wounds swapped while I was still the same.

I felt the rush of pain shift between us, passing through the invisible tether I controlled. The man holding me at gunpoint tensed suddenly screamed as he held his face. I quickly glanced at the man who was down, but he wasn’t moving.

The sudden pain of his companion made the lockpicker falter slightly.

This was enough for me to jump into the fray and grab his wrist. And with that movement, I exchanged our wounds.

The cold, sharp pain in my arm vanished almost instantly as I transferred it to the lockpicker. His eyes widened in shock, and he gasped as the fresh wound materialised on his body. His hand reflexively shot to his side, the injury pulling him into a desperate stagger. His grip on the gun weakened, and in that split second, I yanked the weapon from his hand, tossing it to the floor.

"Wh—what the hell are you?" he sputtered, his voice quivering in disbelief as he clutched his now bleeding arm.

I didn’t answer. My breath came in ragged gasps, adrenaline pumping through me as I felt a strange, dark satisfaction growing inside. I had the upper hand now, the power to control not just my own pain but theirs too. They didn’t understand what was happening, and I wasn’t about to enlighten them. It was better this way—let them think I was some kind of monster, something beyond their comprehension.

The other man, still holding his face in agony, stumbled back, his legs unsteady. He was no longer a threat, his gun forgotten on the ground. I glanced at the one I had slammed into the floor earlier—still unconscious, his face twisted in a daze of pain and confusion. The odds had shifted in my favor, but I couldn’t afford to be careless. I had won this round, but only barely.

I kicked the guns out of reach, then turned to the lockpicker, who was still trying to process the agony shooting through his arm. He wasn’t going to be picking any locks for a while, that much was certain.

"Here’s how this is going to go," I said, my voice cold and steady. "You’re going to leave now, and you’re not going to come back. Tell your boss that the Red Hands are finished in this district."

He looked up at me, his eyes burning with a mix of hatred and fear. "You think you’ve won, huh?" he spat, wincing as the movement caused his wound to throb. "You don’t know who you’re messing with. The Red Hands have connections—big ones. You’re just a small-time freak trying to play hero."

I leaned in, close enough for him to see the determination in my eyes. "I’m not a hero," I whispered, my voice filled with the calm certainty of someone who had nothing left to lose. “I am just a Replica.”

For a moment, we stared at each other, the tension thick in the air. Then, without another word, he pulled himself to his feet, still cradling his injured arm. He cast one last, hateful glance in my direction before limping toward the door, dragging his companion along with him. They disappeared into the night, leaving me alone in the dimly lit storeroom.

I stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, my body still humming with adrenaline. My arm, though no longer bleeding, ached with the memory of the wound. The power I had used left me feeling drained, like I had pulled not just pain but something more from the men. But I couldn’t dwell on that now. I had won—barely—but I had won.

I moved to the safe, still open from the lockpicker’s earlier work. Inside, I saw stacks of cash, along with a few small packages I didn’t recognize.

I reached out, my gloved fingers brushing against the edge of the cash. The weight of the decision pressed down on me, and for a moment, I hesitated.

But then I thought about Mel—about everything I had lost, everything that had been taken from me. The metas had all the power, all the control. Why should I keep playing by their rules when they never played by mine? I wasn’t going to be a pawn in their world any longer.

With swift movements, I stuffed some of the cash and the packages into my bag. I didn’t know what was in the packages, but I’d figure it out later. For now, I had what I came for—power, in the form of resources. Money to fund my transformation, to buy better materials for my suit, to gain the tools I needed to survive in this world.

“A little fee for saving you from a full-on theft” I lightly laughed before taking my leave.

I closed the safe door quietly, taking one last glance around the storeroom to make sure I left no trace. The adrenaline was still buzzing in my veins, but there was also a strange calm that settled over me. I had done it. I had faced danger, taken control, and come out on top. But this was only the beginning.

As I made my way back through the darkened hallway, I felt a growing sense of certainty. I wasn’t Liz anymore—not here, not now. I was Replica, and tonight, I had taken my first real step into the shadows.

Outside, the cool night air greeted me, a stark contrast to the stuffy heat of the club. The streets were still alive with the pulse of Neo Lyon, but for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was just surviving. I was part of it now, moving through the cracks, unseen and unnoticed.

I ducked into an alley, pulling my hood low over my face as I disappeared into the night. The city’s noise faded into the background as I slipped through the streets, my mind buzzing with the possibilities ahead. I needed to lay low for now, assess the packages I’d taken, and figure out my next move. But I knew one thing for certain: this wouldn’t be the last time Neo Lyon’s underworld heard from Replica.