The neon sign buzzed like an insect in pain, casting fractured light across the rain-slicked pavement. Alex stood outside a run-down convenience store, face half-hidden beneath the hood of his coat, blood drying on the corner of his mouth. He stared at the reflection in the cracked window. Not at the bruises or cuts.
But at the eyes.
They weren't his anymore.
Something inside him had changed—fractured, split, and reassembled into something harder. Not colder. Just… hollow.
A monster in the mirror. And the worst part? It didn't scare him.
He adjusted the weight in the bag he carried — metal canisters, black tape, acetone, a few wires. Ingredients. No longer for revenge. For demonstration. He wasn't just fighting back anymore. He was sending messages.
Behind him, a car pulled up slow. Black. Unmarked. Windows tinted.
He didn't flinch.
A man stepped out, crisp suit, charcoal gray overcoat, polished shoes that didn't belong in this neighborhood. He moved with precision, his breath fogging lightly in the cold air.
"Alex Smith," the man said. Calm. Measured.
Alex didn't answer.
"You've been busy. Four dead. Two factories blown to ash. A judge who 'resigned' after twenty-two years. And whispers all over the underground."
Still no answer.
The man continued, "You're not just burning bridges, Alex. You're drawing a map. People are starting to follow the trail."
Alex slowly turned toward him, eyes sharp. "Who are you?"
"Victor Kael," the man replied. "Let's call me… interested. I represent people who watch the cracks form before a city collapses."
"Spies?"
"No," Kael smirked. "Businessmen. Opportunists. Survivors. You're not the first man they've buried in this city, but you might be the first to crawl out with fire in your eyes and blueprints in your hands."
Alex stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous. "If this is a pitch, make it fast."
"You want justice," Kael said. "Or maybe just vengeance. Either way, you won't last doing it solo. Not against Crowne. Not against the ones pulling his strings."
Alex's stare sharpened at the name. "You know about Darius."
"We all do," Kael replied. "But he's just a gatekeeper. A pretty face covering a deeper rot. And your story — what they did to you — it's not unique. You were just a test subject. One of many."
Alex blinked. Slowly. "You know what they did?"
Kael stepped forward, handing him a folder. "Project Revenant. A classified slate buried six years ago. Experiments in psychological conditioning. Identity erasure. Weaponized trauma."
Inside the folder: photos, medical documents, surveillance logs. His name on multiple pages.
And Rachel's.
His blood ran cold.
Kael watched him closely. "They didn't just destroy your life, Alex. They built you. Every pain, every loss, every betrayal… it was engineered."
Alex felt his chest tighten.
The betrayal he'd blamed on Crowne, on the system… was part of something even deeper. A lie rooted in science and cruelty.
"Why give this to me?" Alex asked.
"Because I believe monsters like you should know what made them," Kael said softly. "And because I think you'll want in. Not just revenge — revolution."
Alex stared at the folder a long time before tucking it inside his coat.
"I work alone."
"For now," Kael said. "But the world's changing. Sooner or later, you'll need an army."
He turned and walked back to his car, leaving Alex in the cold with the folder… and the truth.
Later that night, Alex sat in his apartment — dimly lit, walls covered in blueprints and red string. He'd torn down the old revenge map. Built a new one.
This one was bigger. Wider. More dangerous.
Names were connected now. Politicians. Corporations. Scientists. Rachel.
The room felt colder than usual. As if some ghost lingered in the corners, watching. Waiting.
He stared at Rachel's photo for a long time, hand trembling.
He didn't cry.
He hadn't cried in weeks.
Instead, he took out a black marker… and crossed her name out.
She was no longer a memory.
She was a variable.
In another part of the city, a man watched old footage on a dozen screens. He laughed — a high, twisted sound — as explosions rippled across the recordings.
"Smith," he whispered. "Oh, you're fun."
The camera zoomed in on Alex's face — cold, furious, broken.
"Yes," the man chuckled. "Break more."
He turned to a wall of masks. One was painted white. With a red smile. And empty eyes.
The Joker hadn't made his move yet.
But he was watching.
And he loved the show.