Blood in the Streets

The city was drowning in screams.

A storm of sirens howled through the midnight air, their echoes swallowed by the fires devouring steel and glass. The streets, once pulsing with life, were painted in crimson. Broken bodies of heroes lay sprawled across the pavement, their masks cracked, their capes torn. The symbols of justice they once carried meant nothing now.

He stood among them, silent.

A dark figure in the chaos, his coat soaked in blood—none of it his. Twin katanas dripped red, their edges still humming with the weight of death. The bodies around him twitched, their last breaths leaving in broken gasps.

They had come for him.

They had called him a traitor. A murderer. A villain.

They weren't wrong.

From the rooftops, drones hovered, capturing every angle of the carnage. News stations broadcasted the massacre in real-time. The world was watching. The world was afraid.

A voice crackled through the comms of the fallen heroes. "All units, retreat! Level 5 threat—repeat, Level 5 threat! Do not engage alone!"

He smiled.

Cowards.

He took a step forward, boots crushing shattered glass. A hero—barely conscious, his breathing ragged—reached for his weapon. The man knelt beside him, pressing the cold steel of his blade against the hero's throat.

"Tell them," he whispered, his voice like rusted iron.

The hero's eyes flickered with terror. "T-Tell them what…?"

The blade pressed deeper.

"Tell them I'm coming."

A sharp slice. A final gasp. Silence.

The man stood, lifting his bloodstained blade toward the watching drones.

Let the world see. Let them fear.

The heroes were no longer untouchable.

And this was only the beginning.