His father’s blood painted his arms, dried beneath his nails, soaked into his skin, and covered him in stark red guilt. D hadn’t even gotten the chance to wash it off before they threw him into the armored black-and-white police cruiser, which now reeked of blood—metallic, thick, and inescapable.

The matte-black interior of the car was already stained, with splotches and small pools of red dotting the seats and floor where he sat near the right window. He’d managed to get a glance at the name tag on the passenger-seat cop before the cuffs locked around his wrists—Officer Jackson.

“Y’know,” D said, breaking the silence, “you don’t look much like a Jackson. You take your wife’s name?”

For a second, it looked like Jackson was going to turn and tell him off, but he stopped himself. D didn’t know why he was trying to piss off the cops. Maybe it was the silence—too thick, too still. The only sounds were the occasional bursts of static and chatter from the police radio. So he kept talking.

“It’s kind of funny,” he muttered, watching the city lights blur through blood-smeared glass.“They never complain about how bad this shit smells in horror movies.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth but didn’t make it all the way up to his eyes. He fiddled with his fingers behind his back—something to do, something to feel. Eventually, he grew bored and rested all his right fingers atop his left, the way he always did when his hands were cuffed or tied.

The HALTECH nullifier cuffs were cold and snug on his wrists, but they made a decent backscratcher if he moved right. He rubbed them discreetly against a lingering itch and tried to puzzle out a question that’d been nagging him since they threw him in the car

How the hell did these bastards even know I had powers? Wait—do I have my contacts in?

He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and saw his false brown eyes staring back. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they just slap HALTECHs on anyone who looked dangerous enough—and yeah, D figured he probably did look dangerous.

He sighed and looked down at his stained hoodie and gray jeans. Whenever he fidgeted, he moved slowly—just enough to keep the cop from staring too hard at him through the rearview. Jackson kept sneaking glances—nervous, maybe disgusted. Or a mix of both…Whatever.

D turned back to the moon, now half-hidden behind a three-story brick building. When he was a kid, he used to watch it from the backseat while his father drove around their old upstate villa. He’d pretend the moon was following them—watching him, specifically.

Catching another glare in the mirror, D pulled a face, mockingly exaggerating the sneer Officer Jackson kept sending his way.

“What’s the food like at HALTECH?” he asked.

No answer.

His stomach growled. It’s probably awful, he figured. Maybe I’ll get to see Ma once in a while… The thought of being locked up long enough for the food to start tasting good was bleak. But seeing his mom again—even behind glass—might make it worth it.

He tried again. “Hey—either of you know the visitation rules if the person you wanna see is also at HALTECH?”

Silence.

“C’mon, man. I know you can both hear me. I ain’t speaking Yiddish back here.”

Still nothing. D leaned forward, resting as close to the partition as the cuffs would allow. Maybe this’ll work better if I play nice.

He took a deep breath, plastered on a fake smile, and said, “Listen, guys. I know we got off on the wrong foot with you arresting me and whatnot, but hey—maybe we can still be frie—”

A loud thud cut him off as the right side of the cruiser bounced and slammed down. D hit the door headfirst with a painful grunt. “What the hell are you doing up there?!” he shouted.

They’d stopped. D looked out the window and realized they were on an empty stretch of road, likely near the edge of the city. The street was dead quiet. The officers exchanged a look—wordless, practiced, experienced.

D tried again, his voice less cocky this time. “So… am I going to prison or—?”

“SHUT IT!” the passenger cop barked, slamming his elbow into the partition hard enough to make the metal rattle. He glanced at the driver, and they exchanged a nod.

The passenger door opened.

Jackson stepped out, raising his flashlight and slowly circling the car.

The night was heavy and still. No cars. No people. Just faint yellow light from distant street lamps and the occasional drip of water from a nearby gutter. Jackson muttered under his breath—probably just a cinder block. Maybe a stray dog. He didn’t hear anything.

He crouched by the rear wheel and shone his flashlight underneath—then froze.

A creature the size of a cat blinked up at him. Bright red, jelly-like. It had stubby limbs, beady black eyes, and a mouth that stretched across its featureless, doll-like face.

“Damn it, what the hell is that?!”

He jumped back. The thing darted after him, then leaped—latching onto his collar and climbing up his neck in seconds.

He screamed into his radio, “I NEED HELP OUT HE—” before the thing latched onto his face.

The driver was already out, gun half-drawn, unsure whether to help or shoot.

D twisted in the backseat, trying to get a better view through the fogged rear window.

What the fuck is going on out there? He thought.

He pressed his face to the side window just in time to see Jackson on the ground, thrashing, clawing at his face. The other cop hovered helplessly—half trying to yank him up, half radioing for backup, half yelling.

D stared, wide-eyed.

Minutes—maybe seconds—passed before Jackson went limp. The creature peeled itself off and stood upright, now visibly smaller. It hissed.

The second cop raised his gun.

“G-GET OFF HIM!” But he hesitated. He couldn’t shoot—not while it stood on his partner’s chest.

He lunged instead, gun raised to strike—

A Whistle.

Clear, crisp, sudden. From above.

The creature’s head snapped toward the sound. Then it bolted—slinking into the shadows of a nearby alley.

D stared, eyes wide.

“Holy shit… That’s what living in New York gets you—goddamn. mutated. rats.”

He squinted at the alley. The thing was already halfway up the wall, climbing like a spider made of jello. D stared harder, following the creature up the building with his eyes till he saw…

Silhouettes.

Not just one.

Multiple figures, barely visible, standing atop the building. Watching him—just like the moon.

From what D could make out, there were five figures. He stared, eyes wide, as the creature crawled up one of them—up their neck—and disappeared inside.

D felt his stomach twist, heart pounding, breath quickening. He cried out into the thick glass, where he could still see the officer tending to his partner.

"HEY! GET THESE CUFFS OFF ME—I CAN HELP!”

He hoped the cop could hear him. Hoped he’d believe his obvious lie. His thoughts raced as he scrambled in the backseat, trying to run with no way out.

As soon as these cuffs are off I need to get the hell out of here!

Who the fuck are those people? What happened to that creature?

“DUDE, LISTEN TO ME! AT LEAST LET ME HELP GET YOUR BUDDY UP!” he shouted, still ignored.

D figured the cop hadn’t seen the people on the rooftop—or he’d be sprinting to the car instead of dragging his buddy’s body toward it.

D looked back up to the rooftop—but he didn’t see five figures anymore.

Just one.

Slim, Tall, and Holding something long and thin that glistened in the moonlight.

Before he could make out the face, the figure jumped onto an adjoining fire escape with a metallic crash. D’s heart thudded harder.

He had to get out of the car—before it went from a prison to a tomb.

The figure flipped and glided down the fire escape like they’d done it a thousand times before. Arriving at the bottom of the metal series of platforms in seconds, they leaped to the ground and landed with enough force to crack the concrete beneath them.

Upon getting a closer look the figure had a long sword on their hip with a fancy hilt.

This person-no this woman had pale skin, A white long-sleeve leotard with padded shoulders, Black armored leggings, and White shoes that were a mix of ballet shoes and combat boots.

She approached the officer with cold poise, her silver eyes fixed on him with a predator’s glare.

In one unnaturally smooth motion, she drew her sword and held it at her side.

The officer cried out

“LOWER YOUR WEAPON AND PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD. NOW.”

She stepped forward, black hair bouncing lightly with each step.

The click of the gun’s safety coming off was likely the last warning she’d get.

“I would advise against that,” she said, flat and factual. “I have need of the prisoner in your backseat. Give him to me, and you may live.”

“ON YOUR KNEES WITH YOUR HANDS UP, OR I SHOOT!”

She sighed. Not nervous—exhausted.

“If that’s how you want to do this... fine. But lethal force goes both ways.”

She rotated her wrist—ready.

Two deafening gunshots. Flashes bright enough to light the darkness.

The cop blinked. Expected to see a body.

She was still standing.

Her rapier held upright. The blade glowed in the moonlight.

He gaped—speechless.

His bullets were on the ground at her feet—flat and ruined.

Realization dawned in his eyes, just as delight bloomed in hers.

She moved.

He reached for his cuffs, gun still raised.

Another shot—blocked.

Another—parried.

Again and again, he fired. Again and again, she deflected.

Until she was right in front of him.

He reached to grab her wrist—too slow.

Pain. His wrist exploded in agony.

He looked down.

His left hand was gone.

Blood sprayed. He dropped to his knees, crying, shaking.

“Like rabid dogs: you people attack mindlessly and cry when it’s time to be put down. Shameful.”

Gone was her joy. Her silver eyes were ice now.

He pleaded for his life with a whimpering “PLEASE—”

She walked past him. Raised her sword. its blade pulsed with white light. She delivered one clean slice.

The officer’s body dropped, headless.

She continued walking, flicked the blood from her blade, and sheathed it.

“Subject secure. Requesting immediate evac and cleanup,” she said into a device on her wrist.

D struggled in the backseat, sweat slicking the cuffs.

He had to get out.

He had to survive.

The cuffs keeping his hands firmly behind his back were soaked with sweat from his panicked struggle. He could do nothing but think of the best way to plead for his life—should he fall to his knees and beg, or maybe tell her about his powers? Maybe if he can get his contacts out, she’ll leave him alone. He figured it was his best bet, given he doubted he’d ever get out of the restraints.

This is how I die.

He tried to calm his breath. He closed his eyes, feeling tears begin to form.

This is how I die? Like a tied pig for Christmas dinner? No fucking way, what a joke.

His mind went blank as he prepared to meet death’s embrace.

The car door opened, and the outside noise of the city filled the vehicle. D expected to feel cold steel push into his skin, but instead, he heard her voice for the first time.

“Step out of the vehicle, Mr. Cross.”

Slowly, he opened his eyes at the firm command and saw her standing just outside the open door. He stared at her—wide-eyed, his face slightly wet, his pants a little soiled.

She sighed. “Please, do not make me repeat myself.”

“L-look, whatever it is you want, I SWEAR I don’t have it, and I didn’t see anything! I’m not a snitch, I swear!”

She didn’t respond, only stared at him—her expression flat, just like the one she had given the cop before his head was separated from his body.

“Alright, suit yourself.” She reached into a pocket on her outfit, tossed a small pellet into the car, and closed the door with a sadistic smile that lacked any warmth.

D’s heart skipped a beat. Finally remembering he had legs, his body launched toward the open door—but it slammed shut in his face. Fear quickly turned into frustration. He started bashing against the door, momentarily forgetting his fear.

“WHAT’S THE BIG IDEA?” he yelled into the glass. “Are you trying to kill me, save me, or torment me?!”

Before he could throw out another question, the pellet she tossed exploded into a mass of purple gas. D smelled it as it invaded his nose—utterly putrid. He tried holding his breath, knowing it was futile.

He heard the car door creak open again. This time, he bolted for it, pushing out of the door and landing face-first on the pavement, arms still behind him.

“Glad to see you changed your mind,” the woman said, looming over him.

He slowly pushed himself off the ground and attempted to get to his feet.

“Let me guess—you didn’t want to make a bloody pincushion of me inside your new police car, so you made me come out here.”

She scoffed. “Oh, is that what you think?”

He grunted, finally getting onto his knees. “Yeah, and I hate to break it to ya, but there’s already plenty of dried blood inside your new ride.”

Before he could rise to his feet, she grabbed him by his dreads and held him there, walking behind him.

“And I suppose you think this has something to do with your father?” She looked down at him.

“Wouldn’t exactly be the biggest surprise of the night, lady.”

“It’s Spire.”

“…What?” he asked while trying to struggle against her grip.

Her grip tightened on his scalp as if she planned to rip his head off.

“My name’s not ‘lady’ it’s Spire.”

Her tone made it clear: get her name right or join Officer Headless over there.

“Alright… Spire. Sorry about your ride,”

he tried to sound as sincere as he could in this situation.

“Now, if you could let go of me, I’ve got bingo at 9 at the old folks’ home, and Mabel hates it when I’m late.”

He swore he heard her let out a small chuckle at his sly comment.

“Ever the jokester, Mr. Cross,” she said.

He heard the sound of something mechanical growing louder above them.

“Ma always said I had the makings of a comedian,” he continued, slipping back into his friendly act.

“But enough about me—it's your lucky day. You’ve got a slightly used police cruiser. Have fun with your new ride.” He forced a smile.

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that, Mr. Cross. That will be our ride.” She pulled his head back by his hair, forcing him to look upward.

What he saw made his stomach drop—a black vehicle that looked like a cross between a jet and a helicopter, resting atop a nearby building. The blades whirred loudly enough to be heard, but not as loudly as a typical helicopter.

That's when it hit him—she had said 'our' ride.

He struggled against her grip, trying to twist his head to look at her.

“WAIT A MINUTE!” he tried with all his might to stand. “The fuck do you mean OUR ride!?” Fighting against her was like wrestling a bear trap.

“How little you know…it’s…Shameful in a way,” was the last thing he heard before the grip of her rapier struck the back of his neck, and the world went black.