Unmasked
A voice, muffled and distant, sliced through the haze.
"Hey—wake up!"
Remond stirred, limbs heavy and aching, as if lead had been poured into his veins. The world was a blur of sunlight and shadow, every breath a ragged pull against the dull ache radiating through his body. His eyelids fluttered, vision sharpening slowly. The first thing he saw was a face—sharp amber eyes, masked but unmistakably worried.
"You alive or what?" the voice demanded, laced with impatience but tinged with something softer. Concern?
Remond's mind stumbled over the details, sluggish. Ms. Panther. The train. The crash. His breath hitched, the memory snapping into focus with all the subtlety of a lightning strike.
He jerked upright with a gasp, only for the world to tilt violently. A gloved hand shot out, gripping his shoulder and shoving him back down with a forceful growl.
"Easy, hotshot," Ms. Panther muttered. "You just stopped a damn train. You're not doing much of anything without passing out for another hour."
---
The Unmasking
It was then that he realized—cold dread slamming into him—that his mask was gone. The cool morning air bit at his face, and his fingers instinctively flew to cover it, but it was too late. Ms. Panther's eyes, intense and unblinking, were fixed on him, and there was no mistaking the spark of recognition behind that mask.
His heart pounded. "You—my mask—"
"Relax," she interrupted, leaning back with a snort. "I found you half-dead on the tracks with that thing barely hanging on. I didn't peek—much." A pause, and then her lips twitched beneath her mask. "Just enough to make sure you were breathing. You're welcome, by the way."
Remond's pulse thundered in his ears, a mix of panic and exhaustion tangling in his chest. "You—how much did you—"
"Enough," she cut in smoothly, arms crossing over her chest. "I know who you are, yeah. And before you start hyperventilating, your secret's safe with me."
He blinked, thrown off-balance. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Ms. Panther confirmed. "Not all of us are glory hounds looking to cash in on every secret we find, you know." Her gaze softened, just a fraction. "Besides, after what you pulled back there—figured you deserve at least that much trust."
---
The Rooftop Conversation
As his senses settled, Remond took in the surroundings. They were perched on the rooftop of a building overlooking the station. Morning sunlight spilled over the cityscape, painting everything in hues of gold and gray. The sounds of emergency sirens wailed faintly from below, distant yet unrelenting.
Ms. Panther stood at the edge of the rooftop, one boot braced against the concrete ledge, watching him with an inscrutable expression. Her posture was relaxed, almost casual, but the set of her shoulders betrayed lingering tension.
"How… long was I out?" Remond asked, voice rough.
"Few hours," she replied, glancing back. "You passed out right after you stopped the train. I had to drag your ass out of the station before the news vultures got there."
His cheeks warmed, mortification creeping in. "Sorry about that."
She huffed. "Don't get all apologetic. You saved a lot of lives back there. Hell, you probably saved mine too." Her eyes narrowed, a glint of something fierce in them. "Which is why I'm saying this exactly once—thank you."
The words were gruff, reluctant, but the sincerity hit harder than any praise he'd received before. Remond's throat tightened, and he managed a shaky nod. "I—uh, sure. Anytime."
A smirk curled at the edges of her mask. "Cocky little bastard, aren't you?"
He huffed a laugh despite himself, the tension in his chest easing just a bit. "You're welcome," he muttered.
---
An Alliance of Sorts
She turned away, gaze fixed on the horizon. "Look," she started, voice quieter but firm. "What you did was reckless as hell—and stupid. But it worked. I respect that." Her gloved fingers drummed idly against her arm. "Not a lot of heroes left who fight for the right reasons. So if you need backup…"
She hesitated, the words coming reluctantly, as if each one had to be pried out. "Just call. I've got your back."
Remond blinked, startled. "You… mean that?"
"Don't make me repeat it," she growled, but the faintest smile ghosted across her lips. "Now get going. Before I change my mind."
He hesitated, words fumbling on his tongue. "Ms. Panther, I—thanks."
She snorted. "Just don't die before I can kick your ass for making me worry."
---
The Reveal
By the time Remond slipped back into the shadows, mask tugged securely over his face once more, his heartbeat had steadied—just barely. Exhaustion gnawed at him, but there was still one thing left to do.
He found a quiet alley a few blocks away, crouching against the brick wall with shaky breaths. His fingers trembled as he fished out the voice recorder, the tiny device's light blinking steadily. Along with the footage stored in his wristwatch, it was the only proof he had of what the goon had said—the accusation that had flipped his world sideways.
Operatives of Second Dawn. Staging the train hijacking. Setting it all up to burnish their reputation. The thought made his stomach churn, rage and disbelief battling for control.
With a steadying breath, he thumbed through his contacts, landing on Bronson's name. "You'd better be right about this," he muttered, attaching the files and hitting send.
---
The Explosion
The fallout was faster—and far worse—than Remond had imagined.
Within hours, Bronson's team had verified the footage. By evening, the video was live—blasted across every platform, the title stark and brutal: "The Dark Truth Behind Second Dawn."
It spread like wildfire. Every channel, every comment section, every news outlet was a tempest of outrage and disbelief. Footage of the goon's confession played in a relentless loop, and the name Second Dawn was spat with venom and betrayal.
Remond watched the chaos unfold from the shadows, heart a heavy thud in his chest. There was no going back now. The truth was out—and the storm was just beginning.