The moon hung high in the sky, casting a cold, silvery light over the deserted street. Inside the small convenience store, the darkness was broken only by the trembling beam of a flashlight, clenched between Joe's teeth. Thin, with a black beanie covering half his face, he was forcing the register drawer open with a screwdriver, the screech of metal echoing in the tense silence. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and his fingers trembled as he tried to stay calm.
"Joe, fuck, hurry up!" hissed Vince, his partner — a bulkier man with a scruffy beard. He was in the back, stuffing packs of cigarettes and bottles of bourbon into a bag with quick, sloppy movements. "If the alarm goes off, we're screwed!"
"I'm trying, damn it!" Joe snapped back, his voice muffled by the flashlight in his mouth. He pushed the screwdriver harder, and the drawer finally popped open with a loud click, revealing a handful of crumpled bills and a pile of coins. "Got it!" He yanked the flashlight from his mouth and started throwing the money into a cloth bag.
Vince approached, glanced at the full sack, and gave a crooked smile. "Took you long enough, you useless fuck."
Joe rolled his eyes but didn't bother to respond. He grabbed all the cash. "Alright, back door. Move!" he ordered, already heading toward the rear exit.
The two rushed across the store, weaving past shelves and stacked boxes. The back door — a rusty metal slab — was easily busted open by Vince, who shoved it with his shoulder.
They stepped into the dark alley, the air thick with the stench of garbage and wet asphalt. "Alright, we're good. Now we just run and—"
"Hey, gentlemen," a relaxed voice cut through the silence from above. "You do know stealing's not cool, right?"
Joe and Vince froze, eyes wide as they looked up. Perched on top of an air conditioner, balanced like it was the most natural thing in the world, stood a man. He wore a makeshift black mask with poorly cut eye holes and regular clothes — a worn denim jacket, black pants, and an old pair of sneakers. His hands were in his pockets, and he tilted his head like he was just having a casual chat.
"What the fuck is this?" Vince muttered, taking a step back. "Who the hell are you?"
"Good question!" the man replied, jumping down from the air conditioner with a gravity-defying lightness, landing soundlessly just a few feet away. "Let's say I'm... someone who still gives a damn. And you two, well, clearly don't."
Vince pulled a pistol from his waistband. "Go fuck yourself!" He tried to fire, but before he could pull the trigger, something sticky — a web? — shot through the air, wrapping around the gun and yanking it out of his hand with a swift tug. The weapon landed right in the masked man's palm, which he caught effortlessly.
"You know, this thing is pretty dangerous," the masked figure said, spinning the pistol in his hand like a toy. "Ever think about how guns make us gods? One little trigger pull, and we decide who lives and who dies."
Vince, now disarmed, turned red with rage. "You son of a bitch, you're dead!" He lunged forward, pulling a switchblade from his pocket and aiming for the man's chest. But the masked stranger dodged easily, twisting his body like he'd seen the move coming from miles away.
"I'm not a big fan of guns myself." With a swift motion, the masked man grabbed Vince's wrist, twisting it until the blade clattered to the ground. "But I get it. Like it or not, they've become a necessary evil in today's world."
He shoved Vince backward. Vince flew across the alley, slamming into the concrete wall with a dull thud. The sound of bottles breaking inside his backpack echoed, and he slumped to the ground, groaning, the air knocked clean out of him.
Joe, panicking, prepared to run. But the masked man raised the pistol, aiming it directly at him.
"In situations like this," the masked figure said, tilting his head, "a good man without a gun wouldn't stand a chance against the bad ones. That's why, sometimes, a good person has to pick one up too." He kept the pistol trained on Joe for a moment, then slowly lowered it. "It really is a never-ending cycle."
Before Joe could process anything, the masked man moved in and landed a powerful punch to his face, knocking him out cold.
***
The streets of Brooklyn pulsed with the chaos of the night. Neon lights reflected in puddles of rain, and the sound of distant horns mixed with the roar of a silver car speeding down the asphalt.
Inside the car, Tony—a short guy with greasy hair and a scar on his chin—gripped the steering wheel with sweaty hands, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror. In the passenger seat, Rico—younger, with a snake tattoo on his forearm—held a backpack stuffed with money stolen from a bank. The wailing sirens of police cruisers echoed behind them, getting closer by the second, their red and blue lights flooding the interior of the car.
"Tony, fuck, do something!" Rico shouted, turning to look at the three cruisers chasing them. "They're right on our ass!"
"I know, dammit!" Tony growled, jerking the wheel to swerve around a delivery van blocking the lane. The car skidded, tires screaming against the pavement, and he nearly lost control—but managed to steady the vehicle just in time. "If you hadn't knocked out that guard, we'd be off the island by now!"
Rico didn't answer. He just clutched the money-laden backpack against his chest, his heart pounding so loud it felt like it might burst. Suddenly, something slammed against the roof of the car, jolting it violently. Tony glanced upward, confused. "What the hell was that?"
Before Rico could answer, a masked head suddenly appeared at the driver's side window.
"Hey there! Did you know you're going a bit over the speed limit?"
Tony's eyes went wide. On instinct, he threw a punch at the intruder. The masked figure tilted his head just in time, dodging with ease.
"I'll take that as a yes," he said, then reached into the car and shot a web straight onto the brake pedal.
The result was immediate. The car screeched as the brakes engaged. The tires lost grip, and the vehicle began spinning out of control across the road.
"SHIT!" Tony shouted, fighting the wheel, desperate to regain control.
On the roof, the masked figure muttered to himself. "I should've thought this through..." With a forward leap, he flipped in the air and shot out two webs—one from each hand—anchoring them to nearby buildings. As he landed, feet planted firmly on the car's crushed roof, he pulled against the spin, using his own body as an anchor.
"Argh!" he groaned, muscles straining against the force, until the car finally came to a stop, the engine giving one last sputtering groan.
Panting, he looked down at the now thoroughly dented vehicle beneath his feet. "Haa... alright. That was easy."
Releasing the webs, he dropped onto the asphalt and peeked inside the car: both criminals were unconscious, probably having slammed their heads during the sudden stop. 'You guys are alive, right?' he wondered, frowning slightly.
That's when the red and blue lights flickered in the mirrors. Several police cars had just pulled up behind them.
"Time to disappear."
Wasting no time, the masked figure turned, fired a web, and vanished swiftly between the buildings.
***
The wind sliced through the air, carrying the distant sound of sirens and the constant hum of the city that never slept. On the ledge, a woman stood, her feet dangerously close to the edge. Her brown hair whipped around, tangled by the wind, and her hands trembled as they clutched the rusted railing behind her. Tears streamed down her face, but she made no sound. Her eyes, fixed on the emptiness below, seemed to be searching for something that didn't exist.
Clara was only 24, but that night she felt the weight of a century. The empty apartment she'd left behind, the stack of unpaid bills on the table, the recent firing that still echoed in her mind — it all felt small compared to the pain in her chest, a nameless ache that had suffocated her for years. She took a deep breath, the cold air burning her lungs, and stepped forward, her body swaying slightly.
"Nice view, huh?" a casual voice broke the silence, coming from somewhere to her left.
Clara flinched, almost losing her balance. She turned her head, and there he was — a masked man, sitting on the ledge like it was a park bench, casually swinging his legs.
"You…" Clara muttered, her voice hoarse from crying. "You're that guy from the news, aren't you? The one who jumps around, catching thieves."
"Yeah, I guess I'm that guy." He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming through the holes in the mask. "But, you know, it's not just about thieves. Sometimes, I just... walk around doing good things. And I saw you and thought, maybe she wants to talk?"
Clara let out a bitter laugh, more of a sob than anything. "Talk? Now? Look where I am, you idiot. There's nothing to talk about."
The masked man didn't move, but his voice softened, losing a bit of its teasing edge. "Okay, maybe 'talk' isn't the right word. But I don't know... tell me. Why are you up here, staring at the ground like it's got all the answers?"
She gripped the railing tighter, her knuckles turning white. "Because I can't take it anymore. Because... everything is just too heavy. My life is crap, and I'm weak. I've always been. I can't handle anything. So why keep going?"
He stayed silent for a moment, the wind whistling between them. Then he stood, with an almost supernatural grace, and walked along the ledge until he was just a few steps from her. Clara stared at him, expecting something cliché, like "you're stronger than you think" or "things will get better." But he didn't say any of that.
"Weak? You think being here means you're weak?"
"Obviously," she shot back, her anger mixing with her tears. "If I were strong, I wouldn't be thinking about... doing this. I wouldn't be giving up."
He crossed his arms, head tilted like he was analyzing something. "See, I look at things a bit differently. To me, being here, making this decision... that's not weakness. If anything, it's a hell of a lot of strength."
She blinked, confused. "Are you insane? How is this strength?"
"Because," he said, pointing a finger at her, "for someone to consider hurting themselves, to look into the abyss and think about jumping, they have to be strong enough to push past the most basic instinct we have — to survive. That instinct is a beast. It screams, it fights, it drags you back. And you, even with it yelling in your head, are here. Not everyone can do that. That's... courage. Twisted courage, but courage all the same."
Clara stood still, his words echoing in her mind. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that it made no sense, but something in his voice — the calm, the certainty — made her hesitate. For the first time, she looked at him, really looked, and saw something in the eyes behind the mask. It wasn't pity or judgment. It was... understanding.
"But what if I don't want to be brave?" she whispered, her voice breaking. "What if I just want... to stop feeling all of this?"
He took another step closer, now so near she could see the fabric of the mask shift with his breath. "Then you find another way. Not this one. Because, look, I don't know you, but I know you've survived days that felt impossible. You're standing here, still breathing, even after everything that knocked you down. That's not an accident. There's something in you, something that's kept you going this far. And I bet, if you give it a chance, that something can take you farther than you think."
Clara lowered her head, tears hitting the ledge. "I don't know if I can."
"You don't have to know now. You just need to breathe once more. Then again." he said, his voice now almost a whisper. "You just need to try. One step at a time. And maybe tomorrow, you'll find a reason to keep going. A hot coffee, a good song, a stranger who makes you laugh. Life's like that sometimes. It surprises you."
She kept crying, no longer holding it back. She stayed like that for a while until, slowly, she took a step back, away from the edge. "Thank you," Clara murmured, barely audible. "For... not letting me jump."
He shrugged, the lightness returning to his voice. "Hey, I just talked. You did the rest." He walked to the edge of the rooftop, looking out over the city below. "Now, I might be wrong, but I think a slice of pizza helps on days like this. You in?"
***
[Some hours later]
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The shrill sound of the alarm shattered the silence in the room, yanking me out of a deep sleep. My eyes opened slowly, morning light seeping through the blinds and burning my vision. 'Damn, forgot to close them.'
With a groan, I stretched out my arm, the weight of exhaustion making every movement feel like a Herculean effort. My hand fumbled across the nightstand until it found the alarm clock, and with a clumsy slap, I silenced the infernal noise.
I stayed in bed for a few more seconds before getting up and heading to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink reflected back an image that didn't do much to improve my mood. My blond hair was a mess, strands sticking out in every direction, like I'd wrestled with the pillow and lost. My blue eyes, usually bright, looked dull, surrounded by dark circles that gave away too many sleepless nights. I rubbed my face with both hands, trying to shake off the sleep, and splashed cold water on it. The shock helped—but not enough.
As I brushed my teeth, staring into the mirror, my mind wandered. Flashes from the night before danced in my head, but I pushed them aside. It wasn't the time to think about that. Not now.
"Arthur! Breakfast is on the table!" My mom's voice burst from downstairs, loud and impatient, like she'd already called me three times. Knowing her, she probably had.
"Coming!" I shouted back, my voice a little hoarse. I spat the toothpaste into the sink, rinsed my mouth, and threw on an old T-shirt over the shorts I slept in. I went down the stairs, the smell of coffee and burnt toast guiding me to the kitchen.
My mom was there in her apron, stirring a frying pan full of eggs. "I've already called you five times, boy," she muttered without even looking at me. "Sit down before it gets cold."
I sighed and dropped into the chair, the back creaking under my weight. "Sorry, Mom. Peter and I stayed up playing. Lost track of time."
She turned her head, giving me that look that was part scolding, part concern. "I figured. You two need to stop that now that school's about to start. I don't want you falling asleep at your desk on the first day, got it?"
"Sure, Mom. I'm responsible," I replied with a crooked smile, fully aware she'd probably have a heart attack if she knew what I'd really been doing.
***
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, images or songs featured in this fic. Additionally, I do not claim ownership of any products or properties mentioned in this novel. This work is entirely fanfic.