I am NightShade

The hisses and metallic rattles of spray cans broke the silence of the night skies, their sound sharp and steady in the stillness. The dark sky above acted like a protective blanket, hiding his activities from the world, protecting him from anyone who might come prying.

This piece didn't feel like just another mural; it felt destined to be part of his legacy. But he also knew that that feeling wasn't unique to him. Every artist--or real artist--strove to top their last work, always chasing something better with every new creation. And this was no different.

The sounds grew louder as the paint hit the wall, matching the energy in his chest. His movements were quick but controlled, each line bringing him closer to finishing his new piece. While the location was a common spot for pedestrians, tonight held a unique stillness, an absence of passersby that allowed his artistry to flourish undisturbed.

As the final echoes of the spray cans faded into the night, his creation stood before him: a genuine work of art, a testament to his talent and dedication. However, the emotions that stirred within him were not what he had expected.

Despite the finished masterpiece before him, a sense of disappointment crept in. He felt like there was a lot more to do... more to improve. He could have gone further, worked better. But he knew that time was not on his side. With that in mind, he etched his signature logo onto the corner of the wall and called it done.

Shortly after, he dropped to take a seat on the ground ahead of the completed artwork, a mixture of admiration and discontent warred within him. He acknowledged the quality of his creation, but the hunger for perfection still gnawed at him. With a sigh, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve, his gaze fixed on the artwork as if seeking answers.

His own murmured words broke the silence as he lay on his back, staring up at the endless expanse of the night sky. "NightShade, huh..." he said softly to himself.

That name, an alias given by the world, hung in the air. The press had dubbed him "The graffiti artist who only strikes at night" just weeks prior. Truthfully, he found the feat underwhelming, considering most street artists worked under the cover of darkness anyway. But what made him special, what fascinated both reporters and onlookers alike, was his chosen canvas: the entire expanse of New York City itself. His works spread across every inch of the city, and where others needed hours, he turned each of his creations into a breathtaking spectacle in mere minutes.

His gaze remained at the star-flecked sky as he drowned in these thoughts. The name "NightShade" clung to him, a duality he neither embraced nor rejected. He was undisturbed by the polarized opinions that followed this moniker; admiration for his art combined with accusations that likened him to a terrorist. Though his home sat several miles away, the distance never stopped his weekly adventures.

In just a few short months, his reputation had skyrocketed, becoming a popular figure all around the city. But the noise surrounding him didn't faze him; the opinions of others were never what fueled his actions. They never did. But as his thoughts drifted across the sky, he noticed something.

The clouds above, once dull, began to cast a faint glow. The sight pulled him from his quiet trance, bringing him sharply back to the moment. His bag was waiting where he left it, tucked behind a nearby alley. He reached inside, fingers searching until they closed around his phone.

"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath as he stared at the time glowing on the screen.

The night had slipped away from him faster than he realized. Panic surged in his chest like a spark catching fire, and he recognized that he needed to leave before it was too late.

As the first faint strands of dawn stretched across the edge of the sky, he prepared himself. He tightened his grip on the graffiti bag in his left hand, his skateboard in the other. With his eyes shut and a deep breath, he braced himself and moved.

By the time sunlight spilled across the streets, he eased his stance, gasping for deep breaths in surprising exhaustion. Dropping his skateboard to the ground shortly after catching his breath, he rode across a different, more suburban dwelling, just a few blocks away from his home. In a single moment, he had traversed an impossible distance, leaving behind the very city that had witnessed his presence less than a second before.

His unexplainable speed was a puzzle he chose not to unravel, its mystery somehow connected deep into his very being. He had just covered nearly seven miles before the sun had a chance to rise, a quiet testament to his unnatural capabilities.

It was a power that defied logic, but he felt no need to chase its origin. The idea of experimentation and the threat of being turned into some government project, like in the movies, was enough to keep his curiosity in check. It was a risk he wasn't willing to take.

Still, he had come to understand two things about its nature.

First, this formidable speed came at a disadvantage: his stamina and endurance remained the same. This ability merely compressed the distance he covered within the constraints of his physical capacity, affecting only the time portion of his motion.

Second, and perhaps more importantly, this extraordinary power was bound to the celestial journey of the sun. As long as the big ball of light occupied the sky, this power lay dormant, awaiting the cover of darkness to reawaken.

These details were both frustrating and fascinating. Even in places where the sun's direct gaze was hidden, his abilities stayed dormant. They shifted with time zones and geography, following rules he couldn't begin to understand.

In this moment, he had barely outrun the approaching sunrise. It bought him a small window, a few more moments to slip away before he risked being seen.

Skating the last stretch, he reached his doorstep, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He sat on the steps for a moment, gathering himself, then turned to the door. The key slid into the lock with ease, the door easing open with careful, quiet movements meant to avoid stirring the silence.

Stepping inside, his eyes landed on the figure curled on the living room couch: his mother, asleep beneath the soft hush of early morning.

A pang of guilt swept over him as he took in the sight. Her concern had kept her awake, waiting anxiously for his return. He sighed softly, a breath touched with both thankfulness and regret, before he slipped upstairs.

A moment later, he returned with a blanket, his steps gentle on the floorboards. Quietly, he approached her and laid it over her body with deliberate care, hoping to offer a little peace in return for the anxiety he caused.

"I truly don't deserve you," he murmured, barely audible, eyes resting on her sleeping form.

Ascending the stairs once more, he took off his graffiti-stained attire. The familiar black hoodie, joggers, and mouth mask found their place in the laundry pile, awaiting cleaning. The shower was brief, but it was enough to lift the weight from his skin, washing away the paint and sweat.

Wearing only a clean pair of joggers and no top, he dropped onto his bed. He grabbed onto a small, rubber ball from his nightstand, and he began to bounce it around the room in silence.

With each bounce, his mind wandered to that familiar, wordless sensation; one that had trailed him since his last birthday months prior. It was neither emptiness nor peace, but felt more like an unseen thread urging him toward something he still couldn't comprehend.

The ball continued to trace its path through the room, always returning to his hand with adept precision. His thoughts drifted with it, blending into the stillness before he stared up at the ceiling. The weight of his thoughts pressed down gently until finally, his body gave in and sleep finally crept over him...

"Maybe, but honestly, it's better to tell him. No point stretching it," a voice suddenly echoed, stirring him from sleep.

Familiar surroundings dissolved, replaced by an otherworldly realm, an unsettling detachment from Earth surrounded by bright light and thick white fog. Rising from an unfamiliar state, three colossal figures glanced back at him, all about eight feet tall.

"What the..." he began, a strange recognition seizing his thoughts.

"He's remembering something," one of the strange beings, who appeared closest to him, muttered as they looked to see if he was alright. Their anticipation lingered, awaiting his response.

The close colossal being then called out to him in concern... "Klaus, Klaus, Klaus, Klaus..." "Klaus!!!" Suddenly, he opened his eyes and sat up in bed at the mention of his name. Now fully awake, he realized that it was all a dream.

This marked the third occurrence this month of such a dream, prompting him to contemplate whether he needed a therapist. After a brief stretch, he was interrupted by another knock on his door, accompanied by the call of his name once again.

CONVERSATION

Klaus: *softly* Shade, is that you?

Shade: Yo, Klaus. You up, bro?

Klaus: *stretching* I guess.

Shade: Well, it's morning. Time to get ready for school.

Klaus: I know. I'll be down in a bit.

Shade: Alright. Wanted to wake you up just in case. Also, Mom's making breakfast downstairs, so hurry up before yours gets cold.

Klaus: Sure.

Shade's footsteps faded as he moved away from the door, prompting Klaus to check the time; he had only slept for about an hour and a half, and it was already 8:45 am. In response, he swiftly took a shower, brushed his teeth, and began to dress up. Staring into the mirror at his messy, deep-black hair, he began remembering the peculiar dream. He then acknowledged the futility of dwelling on its meaning and chose to push it from his thoughts.

Descending the stairs, the aroma of bacon and sausages greeted Klaus. Advancing towards the dining room, he spotted Shade already eating while fixated on the television. A quick turn brought him to his mother, who had just completed preparing some eggs, her attention shifting to him as he entered.

CONVERSATION

Mother: Morning, honey, how was your night?

Knowing that she was well aware of his nocturnal activities yet chose not to address them, a sense of unease settled over Klaus.

Klaus: Same as always.

Mother: *smiling* Well, I hope that means it was great. Anyway, your breakfast is already on the table, so eat up before it gets cold, okay?

Klaus: Sure.

Before walking to the table, Klaus returned his attention to his mother, his expression softened.

Klaus: Mom?

Mother: Yes, honey?

Klaus: I'm sorry... about this morning.

A brief silence lingered between them before she approached, placing her palm gently upon his shoulder. "It's alright, Klaus," his mother assured. "Just make sure to give me a heads-up next time, alright?"

Her smile radiated warmth as she spoke, her words laced with understanding. While it didn't alleviate Klaus's feelings of guilt, he recognized her deliberate lack of concern and refrained from burdening her with unnecessary remorse.

"I will, Mom," he assured her.

With his mother returning to the kitchen, Klaus turned as a familiar thought entered his head once again: "I truly don't deserve you."

Reaching the dining room, he settled beside Shade, both engrossed in the 9 o'clock news as they consumed their breakfast. The mention of NightShade appeared, unsurprising given its frequency in the media, though his latest creation seemed to have yet to capture the headlines. A few unrelated news stories followed, but none were particularly pertinent to them.

Concluding their meal, they aided their mother with the dishes, preparing to depart for school. As they did, an intriguing news piece seized their attention, drawing their focus amid the morning's preparations.

"The masked international criminal known as X has struck again, claiming the life of the minister of finance in France last night. Witnesses report that he just casually walked in during the minister's conference, committing the murder and vanishing after walking out of sight," the news anchor announced.

"Wow, this X guy moves quickly," Shade remarked. "Wasn't he in South America just a week ago?"

"No rest for the wicked, I guess," Klaus concurred.

"I guess," Shade agreed with a smile, heading towards the door after completing his part in the morning routine as they readied themselves for school.

After bidding their mother farewell and stepping out of the house, Shade appeared to have a question in his mind. Soon enough, he turned to Klaus to address his curiosity.

"Yo, Klaus," Shade began softly, his usually vibrant tone tinged with introspection, "do you think his actions are justifiable, even if the minister wasn't really that good a person?"

Klaus took a moment. "I don't know," he confessed. "But in my opinion, no matter the circumstances, taking countless lives can never be justified."

Klaus's reply was firm, eliciting a small smile from Shade.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Shade acknowledged, the shadows of their conversation lingering as they embarked on their journey to school.