The sky above was soaked in twilight, casting long shadows across the cityscape. On top of a nearby building, David adjusted his hoodie and checked the time on his phone. Chloe stood next to him, her face unreadable. In his hand, his signature mask—plain, black, and emotionless. It stared back at him like a second identity he had grown too comfortable wearing.
"This is the place," Chloe said quietly, pointing to the rusted warehouse below.
David narrowed his eyes. "You sure?"
She nodded, but didn't meet his gaze.
They had planned this out for hours—mapping the area, timing the guards, and identifying the best entry points. Chloe would take the back entrance while David moved in from the front to create a distraction. Simple enough.
David dropped into the alleyway below and crept to the side entrance. The world tilted briefly as his power flickered to life. A hundred perspectives spiraled into his mind—ants scuttling in the dirt, birds watching from power lines, men pacing inside the warehouse, and even the lingering memory of someone who had passed by that same alley an hour ago.
It was overwhelming—but controlled. Barely.
He slipped inside, avoiding the front entirely.
The warehouse interior was dim and expansive, filled with crates and rusted machinery. A faint humming buzzed in his ears—the sound of anticipation, of a fight about to happen.
He moved deeper into the building, his fingers brushing the edge of a support beam as he grounded himself. And then he felt it.
Off.
The layout was wrong. The people inside were wrong. The two guards they'd scouted? Gone. Silent. He paused, squinting into the darkness. The faint glow from a high-hanging bulb flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the walls.
That's when he heard it—footsteps. Fast. Behind him.
David turned just in time to see the flash of a pipe swinging toward his head.
CRACK.
Pain exploded across his skull. His mask fell, skidding across the concrete floor. He staggered backward, dazed, blood already dripping from his nose.
More figures emerged from the shadows—four, five, six men. All armed. All waiting.
He raised his hands instinctively, calling on his power again—but this time, it hit like a sledgehammer. His vision doubled. He saw too much—his own body from a rat's eyes, from a thug's eyes, from Chloe's eyes—
Chloe.
She was there.
Not sneaking in.
Not helping.
Standing with them.
His stomach sank as their eyes met. She looked pale. Guilt etched into her features. But she didn't run. Didn't scream. Didn't even look surprised.
"You… knew," David whispered, his voice hoarse. "You set me up."
She flinched. "David, I—" She stepped forward, tears forming in her eyes. "They have my sister. I didn't know what else to do. They said if I brought you, they'd let her go. I thought… maybe we could still—"
A thug shoved her aside, laughing. "Yeah, yeah. Real touching. But this freak's the reason Tony ended up in a coma. We don't forget that kinda thing."
David clenched his fists, trying to concentrate, trying to reach for his power again—but the effort sent a jolt of pain through his skull. Another nosebleed. A flash of forgotten memory. Names and faces slipping away like water through his fingers.
His knees buckled.
"You don't understand," Chloe said, facing the thugs. "He helped me. He saved someone. He's not—he's not the enemy."
"No," the lead thug sneered. "He's worse. He's valuable."
David's head swam. The world was spinning again—so many thoughts, angles, versions of this moment. He saw himself attacking. He saw himself running. He saw Chloe screaming. He saw the roof caving in. None of it was real—yet.
Too many threads. Too many possibilities. And in the middle of it all, the bitter sting of betrayal.
Chloe had handed him over.
Whether she meant to or not didn't matter.
"You should've let me walk away…" he mumbled. "I told you I wasn't a hero."
A heavy boot slammed into his side. He collapsed.
"Sleep tight." one of them sneered.
Another blow came down—then nothing.
Everything went dark.