Music blasting. People going crazy — a high-school party for the soon-to-be seniors, the kind of night that smells of cheap perfume, spilled beer, and reckless laughter. It's all taking place in another kid's house, parents conveniently absent. Classic.
Gemma and four friends spill out into the night, helping the drunkest one home while trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
Gemma: "I told you to go easy on the bottles."Stacy: "Blah-blah-blah, okay Mom…"Stela: "Forget it, Gemma. You know how she gets. Your house is the other way, right? We'll get her home — you head back and sleep, okay?"Gemma: "Uhm—yeah. Sure. Thanks. You all be careful, please."Stacy: "Bye-bye, Gemma~"
Gemma smiles and walks away.
The streets are empty. Normally she'd be home well before now; the city still thrums with late revelers. The air is thin and cold, the kind of night that presses at the throat. Gemma tries to calm the tiny bolt of panic in her chest and keeps her head down.
Her phone is nearly dead — the battery icon drops like bad luck and adds a fresh layer of worry. She keeps walking, trying to ignore the footsteps. At first she thinks she's imagining things, then the soft giggles start. Two men slide out from shadow and begin trailing her.
She picks up the pace. So do they.
She fakes a phone call, voice shaky but practiced. "Hello? Yeah, I'm coming home now—"
Two more men step out of an alleyway and block her path.
Gemma freezes, heart pounding.
Gemma: "Excuse me… can I help you—?"They exchange looks and grin, a smile without humor that crawls up Gemma's spine.
Man 1: "Yeah, you can actually help us…"They cackle.
Man 2: "You live around here, baby?"Gemma: "No. Sorry, I have to go—"
She tries to pass, but hands clamp on her arm. A slammed shoulder throws her against the wall. Pain explodes in her temple; blood blossoms across her hairline. Dizziness takes her, but she fights to think. She crawls, fingers scrabbling across the cold pavement as they mock and close in.
Man 1: "Yeah! Show us how brave you are!"They laugh and prod. Gemma sobs, trying with everything to stay conscious.
They grab her foot and drag her toward the alley, toward the darkness—and toward what comes next.
Man 2: "C'mon, baby. Don't be shy—"Gemma mumbles, words slurred with fear: "Please… please… don't—"
They ignore her. One man begins to pull himself on top of her.
And then—
They feel it. A presence. A cut in the air, like the world taking a breath. Death doesn't announce itself. It arrives with a silence so loud it breaks bones.
SPLAT.
One man collapses—crushed like rotten fruit beneath something that moved faster than thought. The others spin, horror spilling out of them. Before they can flee, violence rains down: abdomens burst open, organs splattering, a grotesque punctuation that turns laughter into horrified screams. Blood paints the alley red.
A figure stands at the edge of the pool of moonlight: a dark, luminous cloak, a full-faced mask with a cross across its center. The masked silhouette kneels slowly near Gemma, careful, measured.
Gemma's eyes widen; her body trembles from pain and shock. He stays a respectful distance, voice low, rough like someone who has swallowed a storm.
Masked figure: "It's okay… don't be afraid."
She shakes, words stuck in her throat.
Masked figure: "Can you stand on your own?"
Gemma: "PLEASE! DON'T—DON'T COME ANY CLOSER! GET AWAY!"
He stops. For a heartbeat, the vigilante remains still, gauging her terror. Then he steps back, a nod like a benediction.
Masked figure: "…Get home safe."
Without another word, he fades into the shadow as though the darkness had always been part of him. He does not disappear altogether; somewhere unseen, he watches until Gemma makes it to safety.
Hidden in a different kind of dark, a room filled with rank and order, a silhouette slams his fist into the high vaulted ceiling of the chamber. His voice echoes off marble and metal.
Voice (off): "FOR HOW LONG… FOR HOW LONG WERE YOU PLANNING TO HIDE THE WEAPON FROM US?!"
Every pair of eyes snaps to the center of the room, where a single man kneels in the spotlight — Hiro, a soldier in polished uniform. He holds his head bowed, hands steady on his knee.
Silence bites the air.
Hiro says nothing for a long moment. When the voice roars again, he answers in a flat, practised tone.
Voice (off): "SPEAK, GODDAMMIT!"Hiro: "…Sir. I assure you, my intent was not to hide the boy. I've been testing to see his worth—"
A cold, contemptuous laugh cuts him off.
Voice (off): "AND WHO SAID DECIDING HIS WORTH WAS UP TO YOU?"
Hiro's shoulders tense like string pulled taut. He lifts his face slowly, revealing a look stripped of regret. Whatever humanity the room once afforded him has been burnt away.
Voice (off): "…YOU SHALL SUFFER THE PROPER PUNISHMENT, SOLDIER."
Hiro: "Of course, sir."
The voice softens just enough to poison.
Voice (off): "I WILL GET MY WEAPON, IN DUE TIME—"
Hiro looks back once, expression empty. He speaks like he's reciting doctrine, not a person.
Hiro: "Yuri."
The room goes dead silent. Conversation dies. Eyes latch onto the name and do not look away.
Voice (off): "WHAT WAS THAT, SOLDIER...?"Hiro: "The boy's name... its yuri. Try not to forget. Sir"
A single name settles over them like a threat written in blood...