The wind rose from the alley below, carrying the smell of burnt oil and old rain, that characteristic Gotham odor that never left the skin. I stood on the Artemis rooftop, feeling the cold concrete beneath my bare feet as I stretched my arms upwards, lengthening my shoulders that still bore the weight of the week's simulations.
The sun had already sunk behind the city's gothic towers, leaving the sky a dirty shade of purple and gray, as if Gotham had swallowed the entire day. The worn tatami mat creaked slightly under my weight with each movement, and the punching bag hanging from the beam swayed lazily, as if it too were tired of waiting.
I was wearing a tight black tank top, already clinging to my chest from the initial warm-up sweat, and gray athletic pants that allowed complete freedom of movement on my legs. My body responded well to the stretches—years of solitary routine in the basement had left my muscles dense, defined, without excess bulk, but with a solidity that I felt in every flex. The fire element in my chest pulsed slowly, a constant heat that accelerated circulation and relieved any residual stiffness from the sessions on the mountain. I bent forward, touching my toes, feeling the stretch rise up my calves to my back, and took a deep breath, letting the humid air fill my lungs.
My gaze inevitably kept straying to her.
Artemis was on the other side of the tatami mat, her back to me, stretching against the rusty grate. Her dark green crop top rode up slightly with the movement of her raised arms, revealing the curve of her waist and a patch of warm beige skin, marked by fine scars that told stories she never verbalized. Her short shorts barely covered her muscular thighs, revealing the defined lines of her legs that seemed sculpted for speed and strength—muscles that flexed with every breath, every stretch.
Her blonde ponytail swayed in the wind, and the dim light of dusk cast soft shadows on the curves of her body, highlighting the contrast between her skin and the tight fabric. It was impossible not to look. Too difficult. My stomach clenched every time she moved—it wasn't just attraction; it was admiration mixed with something more primal, as if the elemental within me recognized a similar fire in hers.
She turned to the side, noticing my gaze, and raised an eyebrow with that crooked smile that always disarmed me a little.
"Focus, Erick," she said, her voice heavy with provocation, but softer than usual. "If you keep staring like that, you'll forget how to stretch your own body."
I chuckled softly, straightening up and rolling my shoulders to release the tension. "Just admiring the technique. You make it look easy."
"It's easy when you've been training since you could walk," she replied, turning completely to face me. Her top stretched a little more with the movement, and I forced my eyes to look up at her face. "Now stop stalling and come here. Let's start with the partner stretches before you burn the mat just by watching."
We moved closer, facing each other in the center of the tatami. I reached out to help her lean forward, holding her wrists as she touched her feet—a basic exercise that required mutual trust. Our faces were close, our breaths unintentionally synchronizing. Her scent filled my space: clean sweat, the leather of equipment stored somewhere, and a subtle trace of something floral that she never admitted to wearing. My heart raced—not from exertion, but from closeness.
That's when the noise started.
A low, insistent beep came from the training bag leaning against the fence. I had programmed that alert weeks ago: a miniaturized police frequency scanner, integrated into the Manto system, which picked up transmissions in real time and issued a discreet warning when it detected emergency codes. The sound was high-pitched enough to cut through the wind, but low enough not to attract the attention of neighbors.
Artemis stopped stretching mid-way, frowning. "What the hell is this?"
"Alert," I replied, releasing her wrists and walking to the bag. I unzipped it with a swift movement, pulling out the opaque red helmet. The piece blinked a faint gray internal light—a sign of active transmission. I put it on my head without hesitation; the plates clicked into place with the jacket, sealing the partial suit I wore beneath my civilian clothes. The HUD activated on the visor: green lines of data scrolling rapidly, police audio connecting directly to my ear.
The dispatcher's crackling voice came out clear and urgent:
"...units on high alert. Incident confirmed at warehouse 47, eastern industrial sector. Black Mask on site with multiple injured officers. Suspect hired unknown metahuman — reports of superhuman strength and shadow manipulation. Attack targeting rival faction, possibly linked to Falcon. Urgent reinforcements requested. Code red, I repeat, code red..."
I froze for a second, processing. Black Mask—Roman Sionis, the psychopath obsessed with masks and territorial control. An unknown metahuman with superhuman strength and shadows? That was big trouble—maybe a new hired villain, or a mercenary with powers no one has yet cataloged. Injured police officers meant real blood, lives at risk, chaos spreading through the streets while the League still kept us in "supervised training."
I slowly removed my helmet, the cool air hitting my sweaty face, and looked at Artemis. Her almond-shaped eyes were fixed on mine, a mixture of sharp curiosity and restrained excitement.
"Problems," I said, summarizing the essentials. "Black Mask attacking a rival faction—probably Falcon's. Hired a meta with superhuman strength and shadow manipulation. Police officers already down, urgently requesting reinforcements."
She crossed her arms, her top stretching slightly with the movement, but her focus was pure steel. "Seriously? And we're here stretching while Gotham bleeds?"
We exchanged glances—one of those moments where words weren't necessary. I felt the elemental pulse in my chest, hot and anxious, as if it could smell battle in the air. The League kept us in training, waiting for "approval" for real missions, but this? This was real, happening now, and I was tired of being a spectator.
"I don't know about you," I said, my voice low but firm, "but I'm fed up with waiting for Batman and the Justice League to approve my actions. Do you want to take on that challenge?"
Artemis stared at me for a long second, her eyes gleaming with something wild, an echo of the fire I carried within me. Then she smiled—not her usual sarcastic smile, but a genuine one, sharp as the tip of a newly sharpened arrow.
"I think so, Erick. Let's see what you're really made of."
We agreed with a quick nod, the air between us charged with a new energy—no more training, but real action. "Let's get changed," I said, turning to my bag.
Artemis nodded and began to descend the stairs, but paused at the top for a moment, glancing back. I had already tossed my black tank top aside, exposing my bare torso. Years of solitary work in the basement had left my body scarred: broad shoulders, arms defined by dumbbells and barbells, abs ripped like living armor, subtle scars from flame tests gleaming faintly in the setting light. It wasn't the body of a comic book superhero, but it was solid, earned drop by drop through sweat and determination.
She glanced—just for a second, but it was enough. A blush rose to her cheeks, a subtle shade on her warm beige skin, as she admired the result of those years of isolation and effort. She quickly looked away, her heart racing with more than just the excitement of the fight, and ran down the stairs, her footsteps echoing like a call to battle.
I didn't notice her blushing—my mind was already on the next step.
I was left in just my underwear for a moment, the cold wind chilling my exposed skin, and I donned the complete Cloak with precise and quick movements. The boots with reinforced metal soles and toe caps, cushioning impacts and allowing kicks that could break reinforced doors; the cloak with transmuted Kevlar, lightweight but capable of withstanding blades and medium-caliber bullets; the black jacket reinforced for ballistic shots, with internal compartments for smoke grenades, sedative darts, and multi-functional tools.
Finally, the helmet: I fitted it to my head, the plates sealing with a low, familiar hum. The HUD activated immediately—green lines of data scrolling across the visor: thermal analysis of the environment, motion tracking of nearby movements, air filtration for toxins and gases, direct connection to the police radio. The system had already triangulated the exact location of warehouse 47 in the eastern industrial sector—12 kilometers away. Fastest method calculated in real time: zeta tube to a discreet drop point 2km from the target, then rooftops and alleys on foot—estimated time: 8 minutes.
I turned toward the stairs, the wind whipping against my jacket, my helmet sealed shut, transforming the world into a living data screen. Night was falling over Gotham, and for the first time since entering this life, I was no longer the spectator waiting for permission.
I was the fire in the shadows — and I was ready to burn.
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