Music blared from the house, bass rattling the walls, bodies pressed together in reckless celebration. The air reeked of cheap perfume and spilled beer, laughter slicing through the night like jagged knives. It was a high-school party for soon-to-be seniors—parents conveniently absent, rules abandoned, chaos reigning.
Gemma and four friends spilled out into the cool night, helping the drunkest one stumble along the sidewalk. Their laughter mingled with the distant thrum of the party, half amusement, half exhaustion.
"I told you to go easy on the bottles," Gemma muttered.
"Blah-blah-blah, okay Mom," Stacy slurred, leaning heavily on Stela.
"Forget it, Gemma," Stela said, steering Stacy forward. "Your place is the other way, right? We'll get her home. You just head back, sleep, recharge."
Gemma nodded, tugging her scarf tighter around her neck. "Yeah… sure. Thanks. You all be careful."
"Bye-bye, Gemma~"
She smiled softly, turning into the empty streets alone. The city still throbbed faintly with the echoes of late revelers, distant sirens, and music bleeding from other parties. The cold air bit at her cheeks, pressing at her throat like invisible hands. Gemma's chest tightened, a bolt of panic crawling up her spine, but she kept her gaze low, her steps measured.
Her phone glowed dimly in her hand—battery nearly dead, flashing a tiny red warning. Another worry, a small tick of terror she tried to ignore.
At first, she thought she was imagining it. Footsteps behind her, light at first, almost playful—but then the giggling began. Soft, cruel, sliding through the darkness. Two men emerged from the shadows, matching her pace.
She forced a shaky smile and lifted the phone. "Hello? Yeah, I'm on my way home—"
Two more figures slipped out from an alleyway, cutting off her path.
Gemma froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a desperate drum.
"Excuse me… can I help you—?" she started.
They exchanged a glance, grins spreading across their faces without a hint of humor, teeth bared like predators.
"Yeah, you can help us," one said, voice low and predatory.
"Live around here, baby?" the other added, stepping closer.
"No… I—sorry, I have to go—" Gemma stammered, trying to sidestep.
Hands clamped down on her arms. A slammed shoulder drove her against the brick wall, sending a sharp spike of pain through her temple. Blood blossomed across her hairline. Dizziness clawed at her, but she forced herself to think, to crawl away. Fingers scrabbling on the cold, hard pavement, she felt them close in.
"Yeah! Show us how brave you are!" one sneered, shoving her roughly.
Gemma sobbed silently, forcing herself not to pass out. Their laughter reverberated in her skull, grotesque and hollow.
One man lunged, hands grabbing at her. The world narrowed to pain, fear, the pounding of her heart—until the air shifted.
It was subtle at first. A silence so sharp it cut through the night like a blade. The shadows seemed to pause, the rain's rhythm faltering. A presence descended—quiet, impossible, absolute.
SPLAT.
The first man collapsed like rotten fruit under unseen weight. A scream tore from the second as the ground erupted around him. Organs, blood, chaos. A grotesque punctuation mark to the nightmare that had been creeping silently up behind them.
At the edge of the moonlit alley, a figure stood. Cloaked in darkness that shimmered with a faint, unnatural light. A full-faced mask bore a cross, kneeling slowly, deliberately, as if time itself bent around him.
Gemma froze, body trembling, unable to speak. Pain and shock locked her vocal cords.
"It's okay… don't be afraid," the figure said, voice low, gravelly, as if he had swallowed a storm.
She shook, words catching in her throat.
"Can you stand on your own?" he asked gently, still at a distance.
"PLEASE! Don't—don't come closer! Get away!" Gemma cried, backing up, fingers digging into the cold concrete.
The masked figure paused. For a heartbeat, he remained still, measuring her terror. Then he nodded once, deliberately, like a benediction.
"…Get home safe," he murmured.
And just like that, he vanished into the darkness, as though the shadows had always been part of him. Invisible, yet watching. Protecting. Waiting.
Far away, in a different kind of darkness, a room of rank, order, and absolute control, a fist slammed against the vaulted ceiling. Marble shivered, metal groaned. A voice echoed, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"For how long… for how long were you planning to hide the weapon from us?!"
All eyes snapped to the center of the chamber. Hiro knelt, hands resting on his knees, head bowed. Polished uniform, unflinching posture, every inch of him trained to obedience. Silence swallowed the room.
The voice roared again.
"Speak, goddammit!"
"…Sir. I assure you, my intent was not to hide the boy. I've been testing to see his worth—" Hiro's voice was flat, practised, devoid of emotion.
A cold, contemptuous laugh cut him off.
"And who said deciding his worth was up to you?"
Hiro's shoulders tensed like tightly pulled cords. He lifted his face slowly, revealing eyes stripped of hesitation. Whatever humanity the room had once afforded him had been burnt away.
"…You shall suffer the proper punishment, soldier," the voice spat.
"Of course, sir," Hiro replied, his tone hollow, automated, like reciting doctrine.
"I will get my weapon, in due time—"
Hiro's voice cut the sentence short. "Yuri."
The chamber went dead silent. Conversation died mid-breath. Every eye fixed on that single word, each gaze heavy with unspoken fear.
"What was that, soldier…?" the voice demanded.
"The boy's name… it's Yuri. Try not to forget, sir," Hiro said calmly, the words settling like a threat scrawled in blood across the minds of all present.
And just like that, the name hung over the chamber, over the city, over the world—ominous, certain, unstoppable.