I woke up sore—deep, bone-level ache like I'd been hit by a truck. Again.
My eyes adjusted to the dim light of The Lantern. The monitor flickered. 12:40 p.m.
"Shit," I muttered, bolting upright. "I'm late for class."
Still in half of my suit, I tore off the armor and scrambled across the room, flinging open drawers and overturning tools.
"God where the hell is it?"
After tossing aside a soldering iron and a broken lens case, I found my homework jammed under a wrench and a coil of silk cable. I crumpled it into my bag and grabbed a pair of jeans, a hoodie, and my jacket.
In the tiny restroom, I wiped off the blood and grime with a rag, deodorized the best I could, and got dressed. No time for a shower.
By the time I locked the hatch and sprinted into the sunlight, I was already twenty five minutes late.
The campus was half-asleep when I slipped through the door. The classroom was warm and smelled like chalk dust and coffee. I dropped into my usual seat in the back, panting.
"Look who decided to show up," said Wren.
I looked up. Wren Calder. My classmate. My… maybe more, maybe not. Her voice was always half a whisper, half a smirk.
"Sorry, Wren," I muttered.
She raised an eyebrow, those copper-gray eyes of hers narrowing in mock judgment. Her army jacket, two sizes too big, hung off one shoulder. It was worn and patched with movie quotes, old game logos, and one hand-stitched moth I hadn't noticed before.
"Professor's still telling his totally not made up war stories," she said. "Pretty sure he thinks he stormed Normandy."
"Yeah… he wouldn't last ten minutes in a real fight."
"Oh?" She leaned forward. "And how would you know?"
"I served," I replied without thinking. "Discharged a while back."
She blinked. "You serious?"
"Another time," I said quickly. "Did he talk about the assignment?"
Wren reached into her bag and pulled out a folded paper. "Already got your notes."
"You're a lifesaver."
"Damn right I am," she said. "You owe me. Milkshake after class."
"Deal."
After class, we headed to our usual spot an old café with creaky booths and the best onion rings in the city. It still had a jukebox. Still smelled like vanilla and fryer grease.
"Why do you love this place so much?" Wren asked, sipping her shake.
I smiled faintly. "My dad used to bring my mom here on dates. It's where they met. They used to take me here every Saturday morning."
"You don't talk about them much."
I stared into my cup. "They were killed. Mugging gone wrong."
Her face softened. "Nate… I'm sorry."
"Don't be. If I didn't want you to know, I wouldn't have told you."
"Still… thanks for trusting me."
A silence settled. Comfortable, not awkward.
We stayed for a while, talking about the new indie horror game she was obsessed with. It felt normal. Human.
But night crept in, and duty tapped me on the shoulder.
I walked her home like I always did. She waved from her porch, and I turned back and headed towards the docks.
The city changed at night. Colder. Meaner.
I slipped into The Lantern, pulled the hatch shut behind me, and stripped down. My body moved like muscle memory. Suit up. Buckle in. Mask on.
I flipped the switch on my comm.
"Nest, you there?"
"Took you long enough, Echo," she replied. Her voice crackled through the earpiece—always a mix of sarcasm and concern.
"What've you got for me tonight?"
"Bank robbery," she said, fingers clicking across keys. "And here's the twist: cops won't go in."
"Why?"
"They're scared. Armed hostiles. Civilians inside. Detective Shroud's calling for you."
I raised an eyebrow. "She asked for me?"
"Specifically. Wants you to meet her on the rooftop across from the bank."
"Then I guess I shouldn't keep her waiting."
I revved up the mothcycle. The roar echoed through the alley.
Moments later, I vanished into the night, wings of shadow and steel slicing through the dark.