The minute I stepped inside the house, my nerves prickled like needles against my skin. Instantly, I summoned my power, letting it ripple outward, imprinting every surface with an invisible force. I felt it rush through the living room, kitchen, and hallways, searching for any sign of intrusion or unwelcome presences. My heart raced, breath quickening in anticipation—but all I found was emptiness and the echo of my own paranoia.
"Breathe," I whispered shakily to myself, shaking off the tension in my shoulders. "Nothing's here. You're safe."
With cautious steps, I made my way toward the basement, the quiet creak of the stairs beneath my feet adding an eerie soundtrack to the stillness of the house.
The basement was expansive, a silent archive of my family's history. Boxes lined the walls, stacked precariously, containing Mama's cherished belongings—her beloved piano, now silent and draped with a faded cover, and the worn sewing machine that once hummed gently in the evenings. Scattered around were Dad's old mementos, things he'd collected from his travels or hobbies he once pursued. Despite their nostalgic warmth, I hadn't yet mustered the strength to go through them, not with the weight of recent events pressing heavily on me.
Pushing aside the clutter with careful telekinetic precision, I cleared out a comfortable workspace. The objects move fluidly, floating effortlessly and stacking neatly in corners, turning what would normally take an entire day into a matter of minutes. It felt oddly therapeutic to exert control over something tangible amidst the chaos in this house.
Once everything was in place, I set to work meticulously crafting my costume. Hours melted away in a blur of focus and creativity, punctuated only by the occasional glance at the clock reminding me how swiftly time had flown. Yet it felt satisfying—like I was finally building something solid from the fragments of my shattered confidence.
My finished costume lay proudly on the table, a sleek black bodysuit that hugged my form comfortably. On its chest, precisely over my heart, I had embroidered a stark white cross, a symbol mirrored on both palms. Draped over my shoulders was a blood-red hooded cape, its fabric thick and protective, emblazoned boldly with my symbol across its back. The final piece was my mask that I carefully painted to embody duality: half pure white, representing clarity, the other half deep black, embodying mystery and resolve.
Turning my attention to my main weapon, I grabbed the length of sturdy rope I'd purchased earlier, winding it skillfully around a selection of throwing knives to create a makeshift rope dart. I held it up, testing its weight and balance, pleased with the effortless motion and lethal grace it offered.
"I'll call you... The Stinger," I said softly, letting a grin of satisfaction spread across my face.
Finally, I equipped my utility belt, methodically filling it with essential items: the burner phone tucked securely into its pouch, loose change for emergencies, my trusted taser within easy reach, and the remaining throwing knives neatly secured for quick access. After a brief pause, I fetched my dad's lighter out of my pocket and a handful of medical supplies from the medicine cabinet upstairs, ensuring I'd be prepared for anything.
As I stood fully dressed and equipped, a strange, exhilarating feeling surged through my veins, a mixture of apprehension and pride. For the first time, I saw clearly what I was becoming, who I was meant to be. "It's done," I whispered resolutely into the quiet of the basement, gripping The Stinger tightly in hand.
"Psycho-Sting...is real now and he's ready!" I said with determination and excitement.
With my costume and gear finished, the last thing I needed to do was make a plan. Pulling out my notebook, I began mapping out the best routes to take and potential spots that the Phantoms could gather. My pen flew across the paper, marking down alleyways, abandoned buildings, and known hangouts I remembered from my walks down main street and the conversation between Adam and Holly.
Then, there was that girl they mentioned. "Alexis…" Her name echoed softly in my mind, a puzzle piece without a picture. I frowned slightly, wishing for more clarity. If only I had more information—but at least a name was a start. Every detail mattered, no matter how small.
With a sigh, I carefully used my power once more to hide away my costume and gear behind Dad's old mementos, covering them neatly with a white tarp.
Just as I finished, my head began to buzz violently, a sensation like a nest of hornets angrily stinging my consciousness. A sharp pain radiated down my spine, buckling my knees, sending me staggering backward.
"Yeah…there she is," I gasped through clenched teeth, bracing myself against the basement wall. "But something's wrong!"
A powerful wave of dizziness crashed over me as I stumbled out of the basement, my breaths rugged and uneven. My legs trembled, threatening to collapse under the assault of pain radiating from my skull. Fighting through the haze, I dragged myself up the stairs, collapsing onto the top step.
I rested my forehead against my knees, gripping my head tightly, trying desperately to prepare myself for the storm hurtling toward me. Suddenly, the front door flew open with a violent crash, reverberating through the house like an explosion.
"I'm…Home!"
Mama's voice slurred heavily, her footsteps erratic and clumsy. The strong, sharp scent of alcohol wafted through the air, filling the hallway like a toxic cloud. My heartbeat quickened again, anxiety clenching my chest as I forced myself upright, gripping the railing to steady my trembling legs.
"Mama?" I called cautiously, my voice barely audible, almost afraid of attracting her attention.
She staggered into view, leaning heavily against the hallway wall, her usually neat appearance now disheveled and chaotic. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, flickering with barely-contained frustration. Her hair hung limply around her face, partially obscuring her features, but I could still see the flush of anger blooming on her cheeks.
"What are you—doing up so late?" she snapped, her voice harsh and accusing.
I swallowed hard, instinctively shrinking back, my nerves frayed. "I was just finishing some homework," I lied weakly, attempting to keep my tone calm and steady. "You...you should get some rest, Mama."
She narrowed her eyes, swaying precariously as she jabbed an accusing finger in my direction. "You don't tell me what to do, boy," she hissed, advancing a few unsteady steps toward me. "Think you're grown now? Think you can talk back to…me?"
"No, Mama, I…I just—"
"You just what?" she yelled suddenly, her voice cracking with rage. The volume of her outburst echoed sharply off the walls, making me flinch involuntarily. "Think you're better than me, huh? Think you're too good to be here?"
My heart hammered wildly, panic rising rapidly within me. "Mama, please you're drunk, let's just get you to bed," I pleaded desperately, stepping toward her, trying to gently guide her toward the couch.
"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, pulling away violently. Her hand shot out instinctively, striking me sharply across the cheek. The impact was sudden, stinging like fire and causing my vision to blur with tears of pain and shock. I stumbled back, hand pressed to my burning face, my breath catching painfully in my throat as the hallway lightbulb burst in retaliation.
Immediately, Mama's eyes widened in horror, the fury draining rapidly from her features, replaced by raw anguish and remorse. Her hand trembled in the air, suspended where she'd hit me, as if the gravity of her actions had frozen her in place.
"Oh God," she whispered, her voice breaking as her knees buckled beneath her. She collapsed heavily onto the couch, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. "Kris, I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it, baby—I didn't mean to hurt you."
I stood frozen in place, my heart torn between resentment and pity, between anger and love. My cheek still burned painfully, a constant reminder of the unpredictability of the woman before me. Yet, I couldn't suppress the instinctive desire to comfort her, despite everything.
"It's okay, Mama," I whispered softly, hesitantly moving closer. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision further. "It's not your fault."
She didn't respond, only continued to sob helplessly, mumbling apologies through the haze of her intoxication. Gradually, her sobs weakened into muffled murmurs, her body slumping heavily onto the cushions until, at last, she fell silent.
Gently, cautiously, I draped a blanket over her unconscious form, watching as her breathing steadied into deep, oblivious sleep. Standing there in the quiet aftermath, my own tears spilled silently down my cheeks, hot and bitter.
Taking a deep breath, I wiped my face roughly, turning away. The sting of Mama's strike faded slowly, but the emotional ache lingered far deeper. Tonight had solidified something in me, a resolve burning fiercer than ever. I had to protect us both—from her demons and mine.
Quietly, I moved towards my room, my steps heavier now, burdened by the weight of responsibility and sorrow. The city outside seemed darker and colder, but it was nothing compared to the storm brewing within my own walls.
Gathering my costume and gear, I waited anxiously until it was midnight before carefully opening my window and slipping outside. Landing quietly on the ground, I adjusted my cape and headed swiftly towards the glow of Main Street.
As I moved through the empty streets, my eyes caught sight of something familiar etched crudely onto the wall—a bold, unmistakable emblem of The Phantoms. The symbol filled me with both dread and determination.
Just then, I felt another presence nearby. Instinctively, I projected my thoughts outward, searching and connecting to whoever was near.
"Who's there!?" my telepathic voice demanded.
A figure stepped from the shadows, their form illuminated faintly by an eerie blue flame surrounding their fists. AzureFlame. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he studied me.
"Back off, newcomer," AzureFlame warned sharply, his stance defensive and ready. "This isn't your fight."
"I decide my own fights, and it's Psycho-Sting," I shot back telepathically, my mental voice sharp and defiant.
AzureFlame took a cautious step closer, his eyes glinting with frustration. "Bravery and stupidity often look the same from a distance. This isn't a playground—people die out here. Let a professional handle it."
"Professional? Or someone just too used to running solo?" I challenged, my mental tone edged with cold skepticism. "Maybe you're the one in over his head."
He clenched his jaw tightly, clearly suppressing a wave of irritation. "I don't have time for amateurs playing dress-up. Stay out of my way, Psycho-Sting, or you'll regret it."
I stepped forward, not backing down. "Funny—I was about to say the same to you."
We locked eyes, tension crackling between us like a volatile storm cloud. AzureFlame finally shook his head dismissively, turning sharply away. "Suit yourself. But don't expect anyone to come save you when things go sideways." He engulfed himself in blue flame and soared toward a group of Phantom grunts nearby, leaving an uneasy tension lingering behind.
"Pride…always pride with these heroes," I muttered, shaking off the mental residue of our clash.
His focused mental state snapped my telepathic connection entirely, leaving me feeling abruptly isolated.
"He's going to be a problem," I thought grimly, gripping my throwing knives tightly.
I continued onwards, following the symbols deeper into the alleys until they stopped around an abandoned warehouse. Staying in the shadows, I used the emergency staircase to reach a nearby rooftop, securing a clear vantage point.
Surrounding the building were groups of people loading cargo, directed by a tall man cloaked in shadow. His presence was commanding, chillingly authoritative.
Focusing my telepathy, I tried connecting to one of the grunts nearby to listen in on the conversation. The mental strain was immediate—piercing and sharp, making my head ring. I could only catch fragmented pieces of thought: fear, urgency, confusion.
But amid the static, one voice cut through like steel scraping glass.
"No more delays."
It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. The tone alone commanded silence. All other noise faded.
From my perch, I zoomed in with narrowed eyes, locking onto the man who had spoken.
Bluebeard.
His long cobalt beard flowed beneath a high collar, stark against the dusky orange streetlights. The oversized trench coat swallowed his frame, but nothing could hide the menace in his presence behind his pitch black eyes. He moved with the certainty of someone who had never once been questioned—and who never tolerated incompetence.
He stood near the loading bay, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the crates being moved.
"Sector D is behind schedule." His voice was low, like gravel dragged across marble. "Do you know what happens when we're behind schedule?"
The grunt stammered, clutching a clipboard like a life vest. "S-sir, we ran into a delay—a police checkpoint two blocks over. We had to reroute—"
"I didn't ask for excuses." Bluebeard's eyes begin to change, turning into ice blue and almost unnaturally still—locked on the man. "I asked what happened."
The grunt hesitated, sweat beading on his forehead. "We're... exposed."
Bluebeard took a slow step forward.
"Exactly."
He stopped just short of the man's trembling figure. Then, calmly, with deliberate pace, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small black vial.
"Exposure invites risk. Risk invites chaos. Chaos... invites people like him." His gaze turned briefly upward—toward me? No. It was like he sensed something watching, but didn't care.
He handed the vial to the grunt. "Take this to Lady Overdose. You tell her if she doesn't deliver by dawn..."
A pause. The kind that chills the air.
"...I'll finish what the shepherds couldn't."
My eyes widened.
Lady Overdose? But she was in custody. I saw it—clear as day—on every news channel. Shackled. Dragged away in defeat. People cheering. Authorities claiming victory. I remember the anchors announcing she'd been taken to Tartarus never to be seen again.
I crouched lower, heart thudding violently. My mind reeled. This wasn't some rumor or hearsay. This was real. She was back. Operating in the shadows under Bluebeard's command.
The sickening realization sunk in like a blade. If they could get her out… who else had they pulled strings for? What other monsters were crawling back into the scene!?
Every instinct screamed at me to retreat—to get out, to regroup. But I couldn't look away. My breath hitched as the implications settled in.
She wasn't just back. She was part of something bigger. Something organized.
I reached for my notebook, hands slightly trembling as I scribbled everything I could recall: times, faces, phrases, placements of crates, guard rotations. I needed proof. I needed clarity. But most of all—I needed to survive long enough to figure out what the hell was really going on.
Because if Lady Overdose was walking free again… then the rules had changed.
And I wasn't ready.
A sudden noise snapped me out of my thoughts—boots scraping against metal.
"You've been up there long enough," a voice growled.
I looked up—and Bluebeard was staring directly at me. He hadn't moved like a man. He had moved like a shadow, impossibly fast, impossibly quiet. And now, he stood on the rooftop with me, the city sprawled behind his silhouette like a warzone waiting to ignite.
"Curious little insect," he said, tilting his head. "Let's see what kind of sting you have." He said with a grimacing smile.
Before I could respond, he lashed out with a backhand that cracked the air like a whip. I barely dodged, rolling aside as his coat bellowed behind him like a phantom.
I pulled The Stinger free, whipping the rope dart in a tight circle. The air felt heavy—thick with pressure. He wasn't just dangerous. He was experienced…and he is a real super villain.
"You're going to wish you stayed in the dark," Bluebeard said coldly.
I didn't answer. I just charged forward.
End Of Chapter