Berry, the leader of the cat gang, was among the most feared predators in the Undercity. A cruel man standing 180 centimeters tall with stark white hair, his appearance had been warped by the influence of Steel's tree. Retractable claws extended from his fingertips, and elongated canine teeth gave his face a feline, tiger-like quality. His operations were particularly heinous—he captured females of all ages, from young girls to elderly women, keeping them caged in a warehouse where they served as his "pets" and worse.
The warehouse was dimly lit by flickering industrial lights that cast long shadows across the concrete floor. Rows of cages lined the walls, each one filled beyond capacity with terrified captives. The air was thick with the smell of fear and desperation.
"Please let us go, please," a woman begged, her fingers wrapped around the rusted bars of her cage. "We need to be free, free us, please, we beg of you."
From another cage, an older woman shouted, "You fucking animals, you will be punished by God!"
A third prisoner, her eyes hard with defiance despite her circumstances, warned, "Let us leave now or else when I leave myself you will regret it."
Berry prowled between the cages, his claws clicking against the concrete floor. He stopped and turned toward the voices, his lips curling into a snarl.
"Shut up, you fucking dumpsters," he growled. "I need three of you outside this cage right now. I feel like having a little fun."
He nodded to three of his main gang members, who moved forward to carry out his commands. The men were similar to Berry in appearance, though their mutations were less pronounced—evidence of their lower status in the gang hierarchy. They unlocked one of the larger cages and reached inside, roughly grabbing three women who tried desperately to shrink away from their touch.
"No, please," one sobbed as metal handcuffs were snapped around her wrists.
"Don't do this," another pleaded, struggling against her captor's grip.
The third woman said nothing, but tears streamed down her face as she was dragged from the relative safety of the cage.
Berry watched with cruel satisfaction as his men lined the women up before him. His intentions were clear—he would violate them one by one, and death would be the punishment for any who refused his advances.
He stepped toward the first woman, who trembled uncontrollably. But before he could touch her, distant screams echoed from outside the warehouse. The sounds grew closer—men crying out in pain, followed by the distinctive sound of metal slicing through flesh and bone.
Berry froze, his predatory instincts suddenly alert to danger. "What the hell is that?" he muttered, gesturing to five of his lieutenants. "Go check what's wrong outside."
The five gang members exchanged nervous glances before drawing their weapons—a mixture of crude blades and salvaged firearms. They moved cautiously toward the large metal door that separated the warehouse from the outer corridors of the Undercity.
The lead man pushed the door open, peering into the darkness beyond. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, in a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track, all five men were decapitated simultaneously. Their heads toppled from their shoulders, expressions of shock still etched on their faces as blood sprayed in wide arcs across the entrance. Their bodies remained standing for a heartbeat before collapsing to the floor with a sickening thud.
The women in the warehouse screamed in terror at the sight. "Ahhhh!"
Berry backed away from his intended victims, his eyes darting wildly around the cavernous space. "Who are you? Where are you?" he demanded, his voice echoing off the metal walls.
Before any answer came, the remaining four gang members met the same fate as their comrades. One by one, they were cut cleanly in half at the waist, their upper bodies sliding grotesquely from their lower halves. Berry watched in horror, and this time he caught a glimpse of what had killed them—a katana moving through the air, gleaming with a distinctive crimson light that seemed to pulse with each kill.
"What is this?" Berry whispered, backing away further.
Then a figure appeared at the entrance, silhouetted against the dim corridor lights. As he stepped into the warehouse, his features became clear. He was young, perhaps fifteen years old, with short red hair and eyes that glowed the same crimson as his blade. He wore tight black armor with intricate red lines running across its surface like veins. Standing at approximately 170 centimeters tall, he was not physically imposing, yet an aura of deadly purpose surrounded him.
It was Michael Fluorescent, though few would recognize the boy who had once run with the Black Feathers. His face was harder now, marked by the weight of loss and purpose.
"I will fight you personally," Michael said, his voice cold and measured, "since you are the boss and you are the most wicked one here."
He began walking slowly toward Berry, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. The Shimobe Blade hung loosely at his side, its crimson glow illuminating the floor beneath him.
Berry's shock gave way to rage. "You bastard!" he screamed, his features contorting. "You killed my gang! I will make you regret it!"
With a feral growl, Berry lunged at Michael, his claws extended to tear the boy's head from his shoulders. Michael's response was almost casual—a simple flick of the Shimobe Blade that severed Berry's right hand at the wrist.
Berry howled in agony, clutching the bleeding stump with his remaining hand as he staggered backward. "Curses," he spat through gritted teeth, glaring at Michael with hatred.
Michael didn't respond. He simply stared back with his crimson eyes, unmoved by Berry's pain or rage.
The loss of his hand only fueled Berry's fury. His body began to change as more of Steel's corruption manifested—he grew slightly larger, his remaining claws lengthening and sharpening. With a roar that shook dust from the rafters, he leapt upward, using his enhanced strength to propel himself to the ceiling.
He rebounded off the metal surface, hurtling back down toward Michael with his left hand extended, claws poised to rip through flesh and bone. Michael watched the attack without apparent concern, deflecting Berry's claws with an effortless parry that sent sparks flying where metal met keratin.
"I don't have time to deal with your slow movements," Michael said, his voice betraying a hint of boredom. "I have to end this quick."
Berry landed in a crouch, spinning to face Michael again. "End this quick, huh?" he snarled. "Well, we'll see ab—"
His sentence remained forever unfinished. In a single fluid motion too fast for Berry to track, Michael stepped forward and swept the Shimobe Blade in a horizontal arc. Berry's head separated cleanly from his body, his final expression one of surprise rather than fear. The head rolled across the concrete floor while his body remained upright for several seconds before collapsing in a heap.
Without pausing to admire his handiwork, Michael approached the cages. One by one, he cut through the locks with precise strokes of his katana. The women hesitated at first, afraid that this new violence might be directed at them next. But as the cages opened, they began to emerge cautiously, some weeping with relief, others too traumatized to speak.
"You are safe now, ladies and little ladies," Michael said, his tone softening slightly as he addressed the former captives.
"THANK YOU!" they cried in near-unison, many clasping their hands together in gratitude as they gazed at their unexpected savior.
Michael nodded once, then turned to leave. At the doorway, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"You can call me Crimson Angel," he said. "Spread it to the people that they should watch out whenever they commit a crime, because a Crimson Angel will come after them."
With those words, he activated his wings—an upgraded version of Eagle's technology that now resembled actual feathers rather than mechanical appendages. They unfurled from his back in a display of engineering artistry, black with brilliant crimson highlights that caught the dim light. The wings extended fully with a soft mechanical whisper, and Michael rose into the air, navigating through the high ceiling of the warehouse before disappearing into one of the many tunnels that comprised the Undercity's upper levels.
The freed women watched him go, awe replacing fear on their faces.
"That beauty in flight and those colors," one whispered to another. "He really is a Crimson Angel."
After dealing with several more minor criminals that night—a group of thieves here, a lone mugger there—Michael finally returned to his fortress. The base that had once belonged to the Black Feathers was now almost unrecognizable, transformed by Alphonse's money into a technological marvel hidden within the shell of an abandoned warehouse.
Inside his private quarters, Michael methodically removed his armor piece by piece, setting each section in its designated place. He placed the Shimobe Blade on its stand, the katana's crimson glow dimming slightly as it left his touch. He peeled off the form-fitting underclothing, noting where enemy blood had seeped through the armor's joints.
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, watching as pink-tinged droplets fell into the sink. Raising his head, he stared at his reflection in the mirror—at the crimson eyes that had once been Moon's, at the face that seemed older than its fifteen years.
"Michael Fluorescent," he said to his reflection, "you have now become a vigilante. Even though you haven't gotten used to killing, you have to get used to it. You must keep pretending you are used to it until you do. For that's the only way you can get stronger and change the city. It's all about sacrifice."
He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the blood and sweat of the night's work. As the evidence of violence swirled down the drain, Michael closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection—on what he had done, on what he had become, on what still remained to be done.
In the days and weeks that followed, stories of the Crimson Angel spread throughout every level of the Undercity. In bars and markets, people whispered about the red-eyed avenger who struck with impossible speed. Among the normal citizens, he became a symbol of hope—proof that someone was finally fighting back against the predators who had long ruled their world. Among the infected citizens, partially transformed by Steel's tree, reactions were mixed—fear from those who preyed on others, cautious optimism from those who still maintained their humanity despite their mutations.
And among the criminals, the name Crimson Angel became a curse. Crime lords and gang leaders placed bounties on his head, hiring assassins and setting traps to eliminate this new threat to their operations. Yet all failed against Michael's enhanced abilities and the mysterious power of the Shimobe Blade.
For better or worse, he had become the focus of the Undercity—a vigilante with blood-red wings cutting through the perpetual darkness, bringing a violent form of justice to a place that had long forgotten what justice meant.