In the dark alleyways of New York, the moon hung high, casting a soft, silver glow over the restless city. The rhythmic wail of police sirens echoed through the streets, ricocheting off towering buildings before fading into the night.
Four robbers sprinted through the shadows, their breaths ragged and hearts pounding. Heavy duffel bags stuffed with stolen loot bounced against their backs as they raced through the labyrinth of dimly lit alleys.
They had pulled off countless heists, slipping through the grasp of the NYPD like shadows in the night. But tonight felt different. It wasn't the police they feared. Rumors had spread of a new vigilante prowling the city—swift, relentless, and unforgiving.
The vigilante, nicknamed Sage, had emerged from nowhere, swiftly becoming the bane of New York's criminal underworld. Skepticism initially shrouded the mysterious figure's existence, but doubt soon ignited into wildfire as criminals fell one after another.
Sage left those who crossed his path in a terrible state. Encounters with him led to one of two fates: shattered bones and bodies, or fractured minds. Rumors swirled that a single glance from his eyes was enough to drive a person to madness. Many of his victims ended up in mental care facilities, undergoing weeks—sometimes months—of recovery.
The most unsettling fact? No public sightings of Sage had ever been confirmed. Only those he had saved or destroyed claimed to have seen him, offering fragmented descriptions of his form. Yet one detail remained consistent in every account: his dual, dreadful red eye.
"You think he's out here tonight?" Marco, the youngest of the crew, whispered nervously, glancing over his shoulder. Sweat gleamed on his brow despite the cold night air.
"Shut up and keep running," growled Vince, the de facto leader, his voice sharp and commanding. "We'll be long gone before he even shows."
Tommy, the burliest of the group, huffed as he kept pace. "I heard he took down a whole gang last week. Left 'em tied up like Christmas presents for the cops."
"Yeah," added Rick, the wiry getaway driver, his voice trembling. "And... he goes for anyone who crosses the line, even a small time thief couldn't escape his fists."
Vince shot him a glare. "We ain't scared of some guy in a mask. He probably bleeds just like anyone else."
Marco swallowed hard, his unease growing with every step. The shadows around them seemed to stretch and twist as if something unseen lurked within them.
The group ducked into an abandoned warehouse, panting as they leaned against the cold, rusted walls. The distant wail of sirens faded, leaving only an unsettling silence hanging in the stale air.
"Told you we'd make it without any hassle," Vince said, sighing in relief as his pounding heart began to steady. "We lay low here until morning," he ordered, his tone firm. "Then we split up."
The others nodded, their breaths still uneven, but before anyone could speak, a faint sound sliced through the stillness—a whisper of movement, like leather brushing against metal. The soft scrape echoed through the cavernous space, subtle but chilling.
Marco's breath hitched. "You hear that?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Rick shrugged, trying to mask his unease. "Probably just some rat," he muttered, though his eyes darted nervously toward the shadows.
Vince scoffed. "Relax. There's nothing here."
The others shrugged off the noise, dismissing it entirely, while Marco kept his gaze fixed on the unlit part of the warehouse. Every instinct in his body screamed that something was wrong. His breath quickened, and a cold shiver ran down his spine at the thought of being beaten into a pulp by the infamous vigilante.
The others paid no mind to Marco's unease and began counting the stolen cash, eager to split it up before parting ways in the morning. The rustle of bills echoed through the vast space, filling the eerie silence.
Suddenly, the lights flickered—once, twice—casting eerie shadows that danced across the rusted walls. Then, without warning, the warehouse plunged into total darkness.
The group froze.
"What the hell?" Vince growled, his voice sharp in the pitch-black void.
Tommy's voice cut through the darkness, tense and strained. "Must be the power grid... right?"
Marco's heart raced. His voice trembled as he whispered, "He's here... isn't he?"
Silence answered him, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint sound of something shifting in the shadows.
"Get yourselves together!" Vince yelled, noticing the group beginning to panic. He quickly grabbed his flashlight, sweeping the beam left and right. The others mirrored his movement, gripping their own flashlights tightly.
They turned in fear, their hearts pounding in their chests. Suddenly, the shadows shifted—a blur flashed in the corner of their eyes, sending a fresh wave of panic through them.
"Who's there?!" Vince roared, gripping his rifle. Then suddenly without warning, a sharp scream tore through the warehouse.
"ARGHH!"
Then—silence. The others jolted backward, shock and fear washing over their faces.
"Rick? Rick, you there?" They swung their flashlights toward the direction of the scream, guns raised, fingers hovering over the triggers. As their beams cut through the darkness, they locked onto a figure cloaked in black. And in his grasp was Rick.
Held by the throat, Rick's body dangled several feet in the air, completely limp—unconscious. Their stomachs twisted as they noticed Rick's arm, grotesquely twisted at an unnatural angle, bent almost backward.
A shiver ran through the three men, fear flickering in their eyes. Suddenly, the cloaked figure's gaze snapped toward them. Their bodies tensed in response.
With a dull thud, Rick's body hit the ground. The cloaked figure's attention was now solely on them.
Vince's breath caught in his throat. 'Shit. Fuck.' He aimed his rifle, hands shaking, and yanked back the trigger.
Ratatatatata! Bullets tore through the air, cutting the wind at imperceptible speed. But before their eyes, something horrifying unfolded.
The figure unsheathed the sword strapped to his waist, and in an instant, his hands moved in a blur. One by one, the bullets split in two, their severed halves clattering uselessly to the ground.
Marco swallowed hard, fear tightening his throat. Without a second thought, he turned on his heel and sprinted in the opposite direction. I have to get out of here! The desperate thought pounded in his head as he frantically searched for an exit.
Sparks flew, illuminating the darkness in fleeting bursts. The sharp clang of metal against metal rang through the warehouse. Vince and Tom, now firing together in desperation, suddenly ran out of bullets.
Panic surged through them. Purely on instinct, they fumbled to reload, yanking out empty magazines with trembling hands—
The next moment a bloodcurdling scream shattered the air. Vince froze, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. His wide, terrified eyes darted toward where Tom had been standing.
He had barely registered the sickening crack of bones before silence fell. Now, he stood alone in the darkness, his breath shallow, his gaze frantically scanning the shadows.
Suddenly, a hand rested on his shoulder. His body froze, a shiver running down his spine. Instinctively, his neck turned toward the figure behind him. His gaze locked onto a glowing red eye and everything went dark.
What happened next would be a story only he could tell—when he woke up.
Orchid's attention shifted to the last remaining target. His sharp gaze locked onto the figure, who was frantically searching for an exit. The man's breath came in ragged gasps, his panic evident. Sweat drenched his clothes, his face pale as if he had seen a ghost.
Orchid sighed inwardly. His expression hardened as he approached the final robber. During their escape after the bank heist, a security guard had been shot. While the guard wasn't on death's door, attempted murder was just as grave a crime as murder itself.
Orchid no longer concealed his presence, as he walked towards the trembling figure, his footsteps resounded sharply. The robbers eye darted towards him in fear as he stumbled and fell onto his back. Crawling backwards in fear.
Marco's breath came in short, shallow gasps as he scrambled backward, his palms scraping against the cold, grimy warehouse floor. His wide, terror-stricken eyes locked onto the approaching figure—Orchid.
The vigilante's presence was overwhelming, his dark form seeming to absorb the dim light around him. Each step he took echoed sharply, deliberate and slow, drawing out the inevitable.
"P-please," Marco stammered, his voice cracking. His back hit a stack of crates, leaving him trapped. "I-I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt! It—it wasn't supposed to go that far!"
Orchid didn't stop. His pace remained steady, methodical.
Marco's hands shot up in surrender, fingers trembling. "I swear! I never wanted to shoot anyone! It was Vince! He panicked! I just carried the luggage! That's it!" Desperation laced his words, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please,... I got a little sister. She—she needs me."
Orchid finally halted a few steps away. And silence stretched between them.
"Please," he whispered again, his hands still raised. "I'll turn myself in—I swear. Just... just don't do whatever you did to the others."
Orchid remained still, his unreadable gaze fixed on Marco. A long moment passed before he finally spoke.
"You'll turn yourself in?" His voice was quiet, almost contemplative.
Marco nodded frantically. "Yes! Right now! You can even—tie me up or whatever! Just show me mercy!" He said shakily his gaze darting into the darkness where Vince and the others had fallen.
Orchid stared at him for another moment before reaching into his belt and pulling out a pair of zip ties. He tossed them to Marco, who fumbled to catch them with shaky hands.
"Tie yourself," Orchid ordered.
Marco hesitated only for a second before quickly looping the ties around his wrists, pulling them tight. His breathing remained uneven, but relief flickered in his eyes. He was still in one piece.
Orchid crouched down to eye level, his crimson gaze piercing through the trembling man. "If you ever do this again," he said, his voice low and sharp, "I won't be so lenient."
Marco swallowed hard and nodded, unable to speak. With a swift motion, Orchid delivered a precise chop to the side of Marco's neck. The robber's eyes rolled back as consciousness slipped away, his body slumping against the crates.
Orchid exhaled softly before standing. He retrieved a burner phone from his pocket and dialed a number. As the call connected, he spoke a few words.
".....They're ready for pickup."
Without waiting for a response, he ended the call, dropped the phone, and stepped into the shadows.
By the time the NYPD arrived, the only thing left in the warehouse were the bound, battered bodies of the criminals—and the lingering whisper of fear that would haunt them for years to come.