《Damaged》 Scar Memory DAMAGED - ISSUE #1 The city was always loud at night. The hum of traffic, distant sirens, and the occasional burst of laughter from some bar down the street. But inside John Harkin¡¯s childhood home, there was only silence¡ªuntil his father came home. John was ten the first time he realized the beatings weren¡¯t hurting like they used to. He stood in the dim light of their crumbling living room, staring up at the broad shadow of his father. The smell of liquor clung to the man¡¯s breath as he staggered forward, bottle still in hand. ¡°You think you¡¯re tough, boy?¡± his father slurred, raising his fist. John didn¡¯t flinch. The punch landed hard against his cheek. He felt the impact, the snap of his father¡¯s knuckles against his skin. But it wasn¡¯t the same. The pain dulled quicker than before. He touched his face, staring at his father¡¯s confused expression. The beatings continued, but something changed. At first, John thought he was just getting used to it. But by eleven, he noticed something else¡ªevery time he took the same kind of hit in the same place, it hurt a little less. By twelve, the bruises weren¡¯t as deep, and by thirteen, the cuts didn¡¯t bleed as much. He wasn¡¯t healing faster¡ªhis body just wasn¡¯t breaking as easily in places it had already been broken. By fourteen, he started to experiment. He¡¯d press on bruises that lingered, comparing them to the places where past injuries had already left scars. He realized that once something healed completely, the next time it happened, it hurt less. If a wound left a scar, the area around it toughened. It didn¡¯t make him invincible¡ªnew injuries were just as painful as ever¡ªbut his body was learning. He tested his theory in schoolyard fights and by deliberately scraping his knuckles on rough brick walls, watching how much less they hurt after a while. By fifteen, he started pushing back. His father¡¯s beatings became harder, more frantic, but John never crumbled. He could tell the old bastard was getting frustrated, drinking more, hitting faster. The man wanted to see him break, to hear him cry. John just stared back at him, silent. One night, after a particularly bad fight, he sat on his bed, flexing his fingers, running them over his bruises. His father had thrown a glass bottle at him, catching him on the shoulder. The pain still throbbed, the wound would still take weeks to heal. But he knew that next time, if it happened again, it wouldn¡¯t hurt as much. By sixteen, his father stopped altogether. John had won. John left as soon as he could. By eighteen, he was gone, scraping by on whatever jobs he could find. Construction, bouncing at bars and underground fights when the money ran low. The city was a different kind of battlefield, one where people took what they could and left nothing behind. He learned quickly. If you wanted to survive, you had to be harder than the people trying to take you down. And John was harder than most. The beatings, the fights, the broken bones¡ªhis body adapted. Each scar made him stronger. Made him colder. But he still healed at a normal rate. He could still bleed, still break, still suffer. He just wouldn¡¯t suffer the same way twice. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. On the streets, people started calling him Damaged. It fit. He didn¡¯t stop crime for gratitude¡ªmost of the people he helped didn¡¯t even say thank you, but they knew him. Whispers of the man who could take a beating and keep standing spread through the alleys and backstreets. He wasn¡¯t a hero, but he was there when no one else was. In this world, powers weren¡¯t special. Some people could glow in the dark, others could stop a moving train. The strongest among them, the ones with world-ending strength, worked for the government. They saved cities, saved nations. They never saved people like him. John Harkin had no interest in the Paragons¡ªthe world¡¯s premier superhero team. He had watched them fight monsters and tear the sky open with their powers. They weren¡¯t here, in the parts of the city where people went missing and never came back. They weren¡¯t in the alleys where a man could be stabbed over a cigarette. Now present day he stood in the rain outside a pawn shop, watching the flickering television screens in the window. The news played a clip of the Paragons in action¡ªflashes of power, buildings crumbling, people running. The same as always. ¡°Fucking Paragons, the governments bitches." John muttered to himself. He then heard something in the alleyway across the street. The alley was dark, but John could hear the sounds of struggle as he got closer. A group of men were kicking the hell out of someone against a dumpster. A woman¡¯s voice cut through the night, pleading for them to stop. John stepped out of the shadows. The gang turned, sizing him up. His stance was loose, casual. His arms were wrapped in bandages, his jacket damp from the rain. One of them had a fist that glowed orange, waves of heat distorting the air around it. John immediately knew¡ªthis was something new. The first thug swung a bat. John let it hit his back, barely registering the impact. He grabbed the bat mid-air, yanking it forward and pulling the man off balance before driving his knee into his ribs. Another came at him, throwing wild punches. John let them land. Normal fists didn¡¯t mean much anymore. Then one with the burning fist lunged forward, his burning knuckles catching John across the ribs. Pain. Real pain. A flash of white-hot agony unlike anything he¡¯d felt in a long time. He gritted his teeth, staggering back. The gang saw it. Saw him react. John¡¯s glare darkened. They thought that meant something. He surged forward, ducking under another flaming punch, and slammed his forehead into the man¡¯s nose. Blood spattered, and the fire-handed thug stumbled back. John didn¡¯t give him a chance to recover. He grabbed his wrist and twisted until the man howled, the heat fading from his fist as John drove an elbow into his jaw, knocking him out cold. The rest scattered. John nodded towards the couple he saved and walked on through the alley. John returned to his apartment, peeling his shirt off and looking down at his side. The burn was raw, blistering, unlike the old scars covering his body. He grabbed a roll of bandages, wrapping the wound tight. New scars. ¡°At least next time,¡± he muttered to himself, ¡°it won¡¯t hurt as much.¡± A small television in the corner flickered on. The news anchor¡¯s polished voice filled the room. ¡°And now, a statement from Cerberus, leader of the Paragons, following today¡¯s battle in the city¡¯s financial district.¡± John¡¯s eyes narrowed as the screen cut to a towering man in a red suit, cape draped over his shoulders. Three heads, but only the central one spoke. The others remained still, hidden behind metallic coverings. ¡°Our duty is to protect this world from threats beyond comprehension,¡± Cerberus declared, voice smooth and commanding. ¡°Today was another victory for order. We will always stand above the chaos.¡± John scoffed. ¡°Arrogant prick.¡± The Paragons saved the world. But Damaged saved the people in it and tomorrow, he¡¯d be back out there. Because someone had to. The man in the suit The sun barely crept through the grime-covered window of John Harkin¡¯s apartment, casting dim light over the room. The cheap mattress beneath him groaned as he sat up, rubbing the stiffness from his neck. His ribs still ached from the burn, but the pain was familiar now¡ªdull, manageable. **Next time, it won¡¯t hurt as much.** A knock at the door. John exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he stood. Most people didn¡¯t come knocking unless they were desperate. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble, then pulled on his coat before unlocking the door. A young man stood there, barely in his twenties. His eyes were sunken, dark circles etched under them like he hadn¡¯t slept in days. He looked like someone who had lost something important¡ªsomeone who wasn¡¯t used to asking for help. ¡°Damaged?¡± The man¡¯s voice was rough, like he had been smoking or crying. Maybe both. John leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. ¡°Yeah. What do you need?¡± The man swallowed hard. ¡°It¡¯s my sister. She¡¯s missing.¡± John didn¡¯t react at first. People went missing every day in this city. The cops barely cared unless there was money involved. Superheroes? They had **bigger things** to worry about. ¡°Cops won¡¯t help?¡± John asked, already knowing the answer. The man shook his head. ¡°They don¡¯t give a damn. And the heroes¡­ they don¡¯t either.¡± John studied him. ¡°Why?¡± The man hesitated, like he didn¡¯t want to say it. Then, finally, he muttered, ¡°She¡¯s a prostitute.¡± John sighed through his nose. Of course. The city didn¡¯t care about people like that. **The Paragons weren¡¯t going to swoop down and rescue a missing sex worker.** Hell, even regular cops would probably chalk it up to ¡°the life¡± and move on. John wasn¡¯t like them. ¡°Alright,¡± he said. ¡°Tell me everything you know.¡± The man¡¯s shoulders sagged, relief washing over his face. ¡°Thank you. Thank you so much.¡± John stepped aside, motioning him in. This wasn¡¯t going to be easy. But **nothing ever was.** --- The man¡ªDanny¡ªsat on the torn couch, hands clenched into fists on his lap. He pulled a crumpled photograph from his pocket and handed it to John. ¡°This is her. Marie.¡± John took the photo, scanning it. A young woman, maybe mid-twenties, blonde with tired eyes but a genuine smile. She looked like someone who had lived too hard, too fast. **Like someone who knew the city could swallow people whole.** Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°When did you last see her?¡± John asked. ¡°Three nights ago. She was working near 8th and Vale. That¡¯s where she¡ª¡± Danny stopped himself. ¡°That¡¯s where she usually works.¡± John¡¯s jaw tightened. He knew the area. It was a bad part of town, but not just because of the usual dangers. **It belonged to Centipede.** Centipede wasn¡¯t just a street-level thug. He was a gang boss who could turn into a **giant centipede at will**. His organization controlled **drug-running, trafficking, and underground fights**, and his people were loyal. Either out of fear or because they knew stepping out of line meant being **eaten alive**¡ªliterally. If Marie disappeared in Centipede¡¯s territory, it wasn¡¯t good. John tapped the photo against his fingers, thinking. ¡°Did she mention anyone new? A bad client? Trouble with the gang?¡± Danny shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I warned her about that place, but she said it¡¯s where the money was. She¡ª¡± his voice cracked. ¡°She didn¡¯t have a choice.¡± John nodded. He¡¯d heard it before. The city didn¡¯t give people like Marie choices. He slid the photo into his pocket and stood. ¡°I¡¯ll find out what happened.¡± Danny¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Really?¡± John gave him a look. ¡°I don¡¯t say things I don¡¯t mean.¡± Danny nodded quickly. ¡°What do I do?¡± ¡°Stay put. If she ran into something bad, people might be watching. I¡¯ll handle this.¡± Danny hesitated. ¡°She¡ªshe always wore this bracelet. It was silver, with little charms on it. If you find that¡­¡± His voice wavered. ¡°Just, please. Find her.¡± John nodded once. **Find the bracelet. Find Marie.** He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. **He already knew this wasn¡¯t going to be simple.** 8th and Vale. **Centipede¡¯s nest.** This wasn¡¯t just some street gang. This was **a war zone.** --- John didn¡¯t waste time. By nightfall, he was walking through Centipede¡¯s part of town. The streets here smelled like spilled beer, piss, and something rotten beneath the surface. Neon signs flickered, illuminating figures huddled in doorways, dealing, smoking, or waiting for something worse. He pushed into a bar called **The Hollow**, a known haunt for Centipede¡¯s crew. It was the kind of place where people didn¡¯t ask questions and didn¡¯t answer them either. **Unless you asked the right way.** John scanned the room, stepping toward the bar. A few heads turned, sizing him up. He wasn¡¯t a regular. That alone made people cautious. The bartender, a wiry guy with a greasy ponytail, gave him a flat look. ¡°You lost?¡± John pulled Marie¡¯s picture from his pocket and slid it onto the bar. ¡°Looking for her.¡± The bartender barely glanced at it. ¡°Don¡¯t know her.¡± John exhaled through his nose, then leaned in. ¡°See, I think you do.¡± His voice was low, calm, but carried weight. ¡°She worked around here. Had clients. And if she disappeared, someone in this place knows why.¡± Before the bartender could answer, a voice spoke from behind him. ¡°What¡¯re you doing in my part of town, Damaged?¡± Before he could turn, he heard **the sound of a hundred legs skittering** toward him. Then, **tightness.** Something **wrapped around him, squeezing.** John clenched his teeth as Centipede coiled around his body, **his segmented, chitinous form twisting over him.** ¡°I don¡¯t like uninvited guests,¡± Centipede whispered, his voice slithering into John¡¯s ear. ¡°Especially ones who break my things.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not after trouble,¡± John grunted. ¡°Just looking for a girl.¡± Centipede squeezed tighter. ¡°And if I don¡¯t feel like sharing?¡± John grit his teeth but kept his voice even. ¡°Because Marie isn¡¯t the only one missing. **Six girls.** All prostitutes. All taken in your territory.¡± Centipede hesitated. The tension in his grip loosened. **He didn¡¯t know.** John felt the pressure lessen as Centipede finally let go, shifting back to human form. He adjusted his suit and gave John a long look. ¡°That¡¯s bad for business.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± John muttered, rolling his shoulder. ¡°Figured you¡¯d see it that way.¡± Centipede smirked, then shrugged. ¡°The guy in the suit? I had a man follow him. Lost contact near an **abandoned church, three miles west.**¡± John¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°That¡¯s all you got?¡± Centipede¡¯s grin widened, his teeth sharp. ¡°That, and a warning¡ªdon¡¯t stick your nose too far into places it doesn¡¯t belong. Or next time, I don¡¯t let go.¡± John didn¡¯t reply. He just turned and walked out. An abandoned church. **That¡¯s where he¡¯d start.** John didn¡¯t waste time. After shaking down a bar in Centipede¡¯s territory, he got his lead¡ªan abandoned church, three miles west. A place where things went to rot. The church was barely standing. Its brick walls were cracked, the windows shattered long ago. But inside, through the dusty glass, a dim glow flickered. Candlelight. Then he heard it¡ªchanting. John crouched low, circling the back of the church. A broken window gave him an easy way in. He slid through, landing silently on the dusty wooden floor. The main hall stretched out before him. Six women, bound together, kneeling on the altar. Marie was among them. A dozen hooded figures surrounded them, their voices a low, feverish drone. ¡°Sinners¡­ tainted¡­ filth to be cleansed¡­¡± John exhaled slowly. Religious cult. Fucking great. And then the door to the side creaked open. A man stepped into the light, wearing an immaculate black suit. His presence commanded absolute silence. The cultists turned as one, dropping to their knees in reverence. His eyes glowed¡ªgolden light, unnatural and blinding. One cultist hesitated, bowing slower than the others. The suited man barely glanced at him before unleashing twin beams of searing golden energy, killing the fool where he stood. The others flinched but kept their heads bowed. ¡°The Messiah!¡± they whispered, worship dripping from their voices. John¡¯s fists clenched. This just got worse. The golden-eyed man turned his head slightly, as if sensing something. His eyes scanned the darkened pews . Did he know John was here? John steadied his breathing. This wasn¡¯t going to be easy. He adjusted the bandages over his knuckles and rolled his shoulders. Here we fucking go. Dont get hit! John stepped out of the shadows, his boots scuffing against the warped wooden floor. The cultists turned toward him in unison, their hoods concealing everything but their twisted grins and hollow devotion. The golden-eyed man in the suit remained still, his gaze locked onto John, studying him like a curiosity. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be here,¡± the man said, his voice calm, almost pitying. ¡°These women need salvation. They will find it through my golden vision.¡± John tilted his head, rolling his shoulders as he took another step forward. ¡°Yeah? Guess I¡¯ll just have to make sure you can¡¯t open your eyes anymore.¡± The Messiah frowned, but before he could speak, **the cultists charged.** They came from all sides, lunging at John with knives, fists, and raw fanaticism. **He moved fast.** A blade scraped across his arm, but it barely phased him¡ª**scars from past wounds had made him tougher.** A punch to the ribs? He barely felt it. But he knew one thing for certain: **he couldn¡¯t get hit by those goddamn lasers.** The burns from the night before still throbbed beneath his coat. **He wasn¡¯t able to take damage from something like that.** Not yet. John grabbed one of the cultists, using the man as a human shield just as another slashed wildly at him. Blood sprayed, but not John''s. He shoved the dying man forward, buying himself a second to duck behind an old wooden pew. **A golden beam of light cut through the air, blasting the wood apart.** **Too close.** John kept moving, weaving between pillars, knocking cultists down as they tried to block his path. Another laser fired, singeing his shoulder as he barely twisted away in time. **It hurt like hell.** But the pain was nothing compared to what happened next. A scream. A real one. **Not from him.** One of the women¡ªMarie¡ª**collapsed, lifeless.** A hole burned straight through her chest. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. John froze. The Messiah didn¡¯t even blink. ¡°A sacrifice,¡± he murmured. ¡°Salvation comes at a cost.¡± Something inside John **snapped.** He surged forward, slamming his fist into a cultist¡¯s jaw so hard the man hit the ground instantly. **He didn¡¯t stop moving.** Another laser fired, but this time John was already on the Messiah, closing the distance before he could react. The first punch knocked him off balance. The second sent him sprawling. **John didn¡¯t stop.** He rained down blows, fists like hammers breaking bone and shattering arrogance. The Messiah gasped, his golden eyes flickering with power, desperate to fire again. **John didn¡¯t give him the chance.** He grabbed the man¡¯s head, forcing it down, and with a guttural growl, **drove both of his thumbs into those glowing sockets.** The Messiah screamed as golden light **erupted from his burning eyes, searing John''s thumbs.** John **pushed harder.** The skin beneath his hands burned, the stench of cooked flesh filling the air. The screams turned to gurgles, then silence. The golden glow faded. John exhaled, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. **It was over.** The remaining cultists stood frozen, their god reduced to nothing but a blind, whimpering heap on the floor. **Without him, they were just lost fools.** John turned toward the women, still bound, still terrified. He knelt, pulling a knife from one of the fallen cultists and started cutting them free. His hand hesitated when he looked down. Marie¡¯s lifeless eyes stared back at him. The hole in her chest was still glowing faintly from the heat. John **sighed** and reached for her wrist, unclasping the small **silver bracelet** she always wore. ¡°Damn shame,¡± he muttered under his breath. The other women were still in shock, some crying softly as he finished cutting them loose. ¡°Come on,¡± he muttered. ¡°We¡¯re getting out of here.¡± After getting the girls out safely, John pulled out his phone and dialed a number. A gruff voice answered. ¡°Harkin.¡± John smirked. ¡°Hey, got a present for you. Cult freak, glowing eyes, calls himself the Messiah. Killed a bunch of people. You might want to bring a mop.¡± The cop on the other end grumbled. ¡°Goddammit, John. You know I can¡¯t keep cleaning up your messes.¡± ¡°Not asking you to. Just making sure someone bags the bastard before he bleeds out. Or worse, someone actually thinks he¡¯s worth saving.¡± A long pause. Then, a sigh. ¡°Where?¡± ¡°Old church, three miles west of Centipede¡¯s turf. You¡¯ll know it when you see the bodies.¡± He hung up before the cop could argue. **His job was done here.** --- The walk back to Danny''s apartment was quieter than usual. The city buzzed around him, but John barely heard it. **His hand still clutched the bracelet.** When Danny opened the door, his face immediately fell. He didn¡¯t have to ask. He already knew. John held out the bracelet. Danny took it with shaking hands, staring at the charms, his fingers brushing over them as if Marie were still wearing it. ¡°She didn¡¯t make it.¡± John¡¯s voice was blunt, but not unkind. ¡°But the others did.¡± Danny swallowed, eyes glossy but no tears fell. ¡°She¡­ she would¡¯ve wanted that.¡± John gave a small nod. ¡°She would¡¯ve.¡± Danny exhaled a trembling breath, gripping the bracelet tight. ¡°Thank you.¡± John didn¡¯t respond. He just turned and left, blending back into the city that didn¡¯t care who lived or died. Mutual Respect John stood in the middle of his cramped apartment, bare-chested, fists wrapped in tape. The dim light overhead flickered, casting shadows across the faded wallpaper. A heavy punching bag swung lazily in front of him, the surface already worn and split from years of abuse. He rolled his shoulders, exhaled, and swung. The first punch sent the bag jerking back like it had been hit by a hammer. The second nearly tore it from its chain. John didn¡¯t hold back. He never had to. Most people built strength through training, repetition, and struggle. John had something more. Every injury, every broken bone, every split knuckle had left its mark¡ªnot just as a scar, but as something deeper. His body remembered damage. And it made him stronger. His knuckles had split so many times that the bones beneath were denser, harder. His muscles had torn and repaired themselves so often that they had become something more like iron cords beneath his skin. His body adapted. It didn¡¯t just heal¡ªit evolved. He had no super strength. No enhanced reflexes. But when he threw a punch, it landed heavier than any normal man¡¯s. Years of repeated trauma had turned his body into a weapon. Scar tissue layered over muscle, thickening like armor. His fist slammed into the bag again. The chains rattled. The stitches at the seams groaned. John didn¡¯t stop. The pain in his hands barely registered. His body was used to it. He could remember when his knuckles would split and bleed every time he threw a punch. Now? They barely bruised. His fists hit like bricks because they might as well have been bricks. John wiped sweat from his forehead, stepping back to let the bag swing freely. His breathing was steady, his body still humming with tension from the fight at the church. His hands weren¡¯t shaking, but they still burned¡ªthe Messiah¡¯s golden light had left its mark. A reminder that there was always something out there stronger than him. He flexed his fingers, testing the ache. Maybe not for long. John walked over to the small fridge in the corner, grabbing a cold bottle of water. He twisted off the cap, took a long drink, and stared at himself in the mirror on the wall. Scars on top of scars. They told his story better than words ever could. And they weren¡¯t done being written yet.
A thunderous crash outside rattled the walls, shaking dust from the ceiling. John¡¯s head snapped toward the window, muscles tensing. It wasn¡¯t just a car wreck or some dumb street fight. This was something bigger. He moved to the window and peeled back the curtain just enough to see the street below. Chaos. A massive, hulking creature stood in the middle of the street¡ªits grotesque form a patchwork of bulging, unnatural muscle, its skin a sickly, mottled gray. Its face was distorted, like something that had been human but had rotted and stretched into something monstrous. And it wasn¡¯t alone. A man was fighting it. Timber. One of the Paragons. Timber was massive in his own right¡ªa towering African American man, built like a tree trunk, with a thick beard and a deep, booming voice. His suit had a rugged, almost lumberjack aesthetic, a red and black design that looked almost old-fashioned in contrast to the high-tech gear most heroes wore. He was strong¡ªstronger than almost anyone¡ªand he wielded a huge battle axe with deadly precision. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. But Timber was losing. The creature swung a massive arm, knocking Timber through the side of a parked van like he was nothing. The van folded around his body with a metallic crunch, windows shattering, alarms screaming into the night. Timber groaned but forced himself up, shaking off the debris. John hesitated. This wasn¡¯t his fight. The Paragons handled things like this. Big, loud, world-ending threats. John fought for the forgotten people. The ones who didn¡¯t have heroes to step in for them. But as he looked beyond Timber, he saw the crowd¡ªthe bystanders cowering behind cars, running into alleyways, screaming in terror. People. Scared. Helpless. John sighed and cracked his knuckles. Here we fucking go. He grabbed his coat and sprinted for the door.
John hit the street at full speed, ducking under a swipe from the monstrous creature as it swung at Timber again. He slid past its massive leg, pivoted, and drove a hard punch into its side. The impact rippled through the beast¡¯s flesh, sending a wet thud through the air. Timber, seeing the opening, came in from the other side, swinging his massive axe into the creature¡¯s ribs. The weapon bit deep, dark blood splattering the pavement, but the beast roared in rage and swung wildly. John dodged left, Timber went right. For a moment, they moved in sync. John ducked a swipe, landing two quick jabs into the creature¡¯s exposed gut. Timber followed up with a crushing kick to its knee, forcing it to stagger. They weren¡¯t winning, not yet, but they were keeping it off balance. The creature twisted and lunged, catching Timber in its massive grip, lifting him clean off the ground. John saw it coming¡ªleapt forward, driving his full weight into the back of the creature¡¯s knee. The joint buckled, forcing it to release Timber as it stumbled forward with a guttural snarl. Timber landed hard but recovered fast. ¡°Nice one,¡± he grunted. John didn¡¯t have time to respond. The beast roared and lashed out, catching John mid-step. The impact sent John flying, crashing through the windshield of a parked car. Glass bounced off his arms, pain flaring through his body. A normal man would be dead. John groaned, rolling off the hood of the car and spitting blood. His ribs were screaming, his arms aching, but he was still moving. The creature snarled in confusion. It didn¡¯t understand why he was getting back up. John gritted his teeth, flexing his bloodied hands. ¡°Yeah. I get that reaction a lot.¡± It roared and charged, but before it could strike¡ª A massive battle axe slammed into the monster¡¯s skull. The blade sank deep, splitting bone, crushing brain matter. The creature let out a gurgling shriek, its body convulsing before it collapsed to its knees. Timber stood behind it, gripping the axe handle, breathing hard. Timber exhaled, rolling his shoulders. ¡°You''ve got one hell of a punch, Damaged.¡± John smirked slightly but winced at the pain in his ribs. ¡°Yeah? Well, next time, I get the axe.¡± Timber chuckled. ¡°Fair enough, appreciate the assist." Without another word, Timber dragged the corpse of the beast away.
John returned to his apartment, tossing his coat aside as he grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. He pressed it against his ribs, grimacing as the cold hit the bruised flesh. The TV flickered on. A news report. The Paragons save the day once again! Timber defeats monstrous threat! John scoffed. Not a single mention of him. Typical. The media only cared about the elite heroes. He leaned back against the couch, ice still pressed to his ribs. Nothing new. As he exhaled and let his muscles relax, his eyelids grew heavy. The dull ache in his ribs was almost enough to lull him to sleep. A knock at the door. John¡¯s eyes snapped open. He groaned, pushing himself up, his ribs protesting with every movement. He shuffled to the door, cracking it open. Timber stood there, arms crossed. ¡°Hell of a fight tonight.¡± John raised an eyebrow. ¡°How¡¯d you find me?¡± Timber smirked. ¡°Government¡¯s useful sometimes.¡± John grunted. ¡°What do you want?¡± Timber leaned against the doorframe. ¡°I came to offer you something. You should consider trying out for the Paragons. We could use more men like you¡ªpeople with character, people who don¡¯t act above everyone else.¡± John exhaled sharply, shaking his head. ¡°Not my style. I don¡¯t work well in teams, and I like the work I do¡ªprotecting the people, not the world.¡± Timber studied him for a moment, then nodded. ¡°Figured you¡¯d say that.¡± He pushed off the doorframe. ¡°Still, I¡¯ll be keeping an eye on your work. You impressed me, Damaged.¡± John met his gaze, a flicker of respect passing between them. ¡°Likewise.¡± Timber gave him a final nod before turning and walking down the hall, leaving John alone in the doorway. John sighed, closing the door behind him. He leaned back against it, ice pack still in hand, and smirked to himself. At least someone noticed. Clean Kills Time had passed, and John¡¯s recent wounds were mostly healed. The burns had faded, the bruises dulled, and his ribs no longer ached with every breath. He could still feel the dull throb when he moved too quickly, but pain was nothing new. It was part of him. Tonight, he sat in a small diner on the city¡¯s west side, nursing a cup of coffee as he waited. The place was quiet, the kind of spot people went to when they didn¡¯t want to be found. Dim lighting, faded red booths, and a radio playing something old and slow. The bell above the door jingled. Detective Gomez. John smirked as he saw him walk in¡ªtall, lean, sharp in his pressed shirt and dark overcoat. But the most striking thing? His eyes. Vibrant blue, unnaturally bright. A side effect of his ability¡ªnight vision. It wasn¡¯t much compared to the super-powered titans walking the streets, but it gave him an edge. It also made him easy to spot. John leaned back in his seat as Gomez slid into the booth across from him. ¡°You ever consider sunglasses, Gomez? You stick out like a neon sign in a place like this.¡± Gomez smirked, setting down a folder between them. ¡°You ever consider washing that damn coat? You stick out like a bad smell.¡± John chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. ¡°Fair enough. What¡¯s this?¡± He tapped the folder. Gomez sighed, running a hand through his short dark hair. ¡°A problem.¡± John flipped the folder open. Crime scene photos. Bodies. Sliced perfectly in half. He frowned, studying the images. The cuts weren¡¯t jagged. They were precise. Not like something an animal or brute strength would do. It was almost... surgical. Too clean. ¡°This is new,¡± John muttered. ¡°Yeah,¡± Gomez said, rubbing his temple. ¡°And it¡¯s been happening for months. Whoever¡¯s doing this, they know what they¡¯re doing. Crime scenes are pristine¡ªno stray evidence, no witnesses, nothing. Just a corpse split right down the middle.¡± John flipped to another picture, then another. Each one the same. He glanced up. ¡°You think it¡¯s a cop.¡± Gomez nodded. ¡°Or a detective. Maybe someone with connections. Someone who knows how to clean up. Every time I start piecing things together, the killings stop. For weeks, even months.¡± John exhaled, closing the folder. ¡°And now they¡¯re back.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Gomez said. ¡°And I need your help to find out who the hell is doing this before more bodies turn up.¡± John leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. A killer hiding in plain sight. A cop hunting criminals but doing it too well. ¡°Alright,¡± he said, nodding. ¡°Let¡¯s hunt.¡± Gomez nodded. ¡°I was hoping you¡¯d say that.¡± He reached into his coat and pulled out another file, sliding it across the table. ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to find patterns, connections. The victims¡ªthugs, killers, scum, all of them. It¡¯s why no one¡¯s making a fuss about it. But look at this.¡± John opened the file and scanned through the reports. Different locations. Different gangs. But something caught his attention. ¡°These spots,¡± John said, tapping on a map with marked locations, ¡°this is all over the city. No clear pattern.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I thought too,¡± Gomez said. ¡°But check the gaps. The time between the killings and where they pick up again. It always stops when law enforcement changes. Transfers. Promotions. When someone leaves the force or moves departments, the killings start up again in different areas.¡± John frowned. ¡°So, whoever this is, they¡¯re either moving around or keeping tabs on how close the investigation gets.¡± Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. ¡°Exactly,¡± Gomez said. ¡°And whenever I get too close, they go dark. No kills for weeks. Then suddenly, they¡¯re back at it in a different neighborhood.¡± John ran a hand down his face. ¡°Means they¡¯re definitely in the force.¡± Gomez nodded. ¡°Which is why I need you. I can only dig so deep before I get noticed. But you? You work outside the lines.¡± John sighed. He hated dirty cops. Hated the ones who twisted their badge into something worse than the criminals they chased. This was going to be messy. ¡°What do we have on the latest victim?¡± John asked. Gomez flipped to the last page. ¡°Happened two nights ago. Southside. A drug dealer. Same clean split. No one saw anything, no witnesses, just a body left behind like a warning.¡± John took another sip of his coffee, staring at the photos. If they didn¡¯t move fast, there¡¯d be another one. ¡°Give me a full list,¡± John said. ¡°Every victim. And I want to know what they did.¡± Gomez nodded, pulling out another folder. ¡°Already ahead of you.¡± He slid it across the table. John flipped through it, scanning each name, each crime. Then, something clicked. ¡°They all had records,¡± John muttered. ¡°Petty theft, assaults, drug charges... but this.¡± He tapped one of the pages. ¡°This is different.¡± Gomez leaned in. ¡°What is it?¡± John exhaled. ¡°Years ago, there was a robbery. Went bad. A whole family got wiped out.¡± He flipped through more pages. ¡°These guys... they were all involved.¡± Gomez¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°Every single one of them?¡± John nodded. ¡°Whoever¡¯s doing this isn¡¯t just cleaning up criminals. They¡¯re settling a personal score.¡± Gomez leaned back, rubbing his chin. ¡°That means we need to find someone in the force with a connection to that case.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll start at the station, see what I can dig up,¡± Gomez said, pushing back from the booth. ¡°You?¡± ¡°I know one of them,¡± John said, standing. ¡°Guy turned his life around. Works at a warehouse now. If he¡¯s next on the list, I¡¯d rather not find him in two halves.¡± --- The warehouse district smelled like oil, metal, and sweat. John stepped through the yard, weaving between stacked crates and moving forklifts. The man he was looking for¡ª**Rick Nolan**¡ªwas working the loading dock, hauling boxes into a truck. ¡°Nolan,¡± John called out. Rick turned, wiping his hands on his overalls. His eyes widened with recognition. ¡°Shit¡­ I know you. You¡¯re that guy¡ªDamaged.¡± John stepped closer. ¡°We need to talk. It¡¯s about the robbery. The one that went bad.¡± Rick¡¯s face hardened. ¡°That was years ago. I paid my debt.¡± ¡°Someone doesn¡¯t think so.¡± John glanced around. ¡°People involved in that job are dying. Sliced in half.¡± Rick swallowed, suddenly looking uneasy. ¡°I got out of that life, man. I don¡¯t¡ª¡± His phone buzzed in John¡¯s pocket. **Gomez.** ¡°I know who it is,¡± Gomez said over the line. ¡°John, listen to me. It¡¯s¡ª¡± A wet **slice** cut through the air. Rick¡¯s body went rigid¡ªthen **split clean in two.** John felt a sudden, sharp pain across his stomach, a thin line of burning heat. His scars saved him¡ªthe thousands of cuts he had endured over the years kept the wound shallow¡ªbut it still hurt. Rick¡¯s body collapsed in halves, blood pooling between the crates. Standing behind him was a man. A cop. His right arm was cybernetically enhanced¡ªa glowing, katana-like blade extending from his wrist, still slick with blood. John clenched his fists, blood dripping from his wound. The killer had finally revealed himself. ¡°One down,¡± the man said coldly, staring at John. ¡°One more to go.¡± His eyes were wild¡ªwhether from grief or the thrill of the kill, John couldn¡¯t tell. John clenched his fists. ¡°I get why you¡¯re doing this. But Rick? He turned his life around. This wasn¡¯t justice.¡± The killer smirked. ¡°Justice? No. It¡¯s about balance.¡± Another blade extended from his other arm. He lunged. John barely dodged, the second blade slicing through the air where his throat had been a second earlier. He countered with a hard punch to the ribs, but the killer was fast¡ªtrained. A blur of steel forced John back, each cut adding up, biting into his skin. His scars dulled the worst of them, but the pain was real. John managed to grab the killer¡¯s arm mid-swing, twisting with all his strength. A sickening crack. One of the cybernetic blades snapped. The killer grunted in pain but retaliated instantly, slicing deep into John¡¯s calf. Somewhere untested. Agony shot up his leg. John dropped to one knee, teeth clenched. The killer stood over him, blade gleaming. ¡°Next time,¡± he said, ¡°you won¡¯t walk away.¡± And then, he was gone. John gritted his teeth, pressing a hand to his bleeding leg. He grabbed his phone. ¡°Gomez,¡± he rasped. ¡°He got away.¡± Silence. Then Gomez cursed. ¡°Where are you?¡± John exhaled. ¡°Bleeding out in dirty warehouse." ¡°Hold tight. I¡¯m coming.¡± Gomez got to John in record time. The warehouse was a mess¡ªRick Nolan¡¯s body still warm, his blood pooling beneath the cracked concrete floor. John was sitting on the ground, back against a crate, his leg bleeding heavily from the deep cut to his calf. ¡°Shit,¡± Gomez muttered, kneeling beside him. He pulled out his radio. ¡°This is Detective Gomez, I need officers and crime scene response at the East Dock warehouse district. We¡¯ve got a body¡ªsuspect fled the scene.¡± John grunted as Gomez slung one of his arms over his shoulder and pulled him to his feet. ¡°You¡¯re heavier than you look.¡± John smirked through the pain. ¡°I carry my burdens well.¡± The trip back to his apartment was slow, John barely able to put weight on his leg. By the time Gomez got him inside, he was sweating from the effort. Gomez grabbed a chair and let John sink into it before heading to the kitchen to find some ice. ¡°You¡¯re lucky,¡± he muttered. ¡°That cut could¡¯ve been worse.¡± John exhaled, wincing as he pulled his boot off, exposing the wound. ¡°Still feels like hell.¡± Gomez sat across from him, placing the ice pack on the table. ¡°I found out who he is. The cop.¡± John glanced up, waiting. ¡°His name¡¯s Detective Ryan Calloway,¡± Gomez continued. ¡°Been on the force over fifteen years. Had a record of excessive force, questionable calls, but nothing that ever stuck. Kept getting transferred, always just before IA could pin anything on him.¡± John sighed. ¡°And the family?¡± Gomez nodded grimly. ¡°It was his sister, her husband, and his niece. They were killed in that robbery. He clearly never got over it, I get that." John ran a hand down his face. ¡°I saw it in his eyes, Gomez. He¡¯s gone. Talking won¡¯t do anything. He¡¯s completely lost it.¡± Gomez leaned forward. ¡°Then we stop him before he kills his last target.¡± John let out a breath, staring down at his leg. He clenched his jaw. ¡°I can¡¯t go after him right now. Not like this.¡± ¡°You won¡¯t have to,¡± Gomez said. ¡°I¡¯ll find the last guy and get him into protective custody.¡± John nodded slowly. ¡°Good. Do that. I need a damn minute.¡± Gomez stood. ¡°Rest up. I¡¯ll call you when I have something.¡± John didn¡¯t reply, just leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His whole body ached, but at least he was still breathing. For now. 1. Hunted Gomez moved quickly, tracking down the last target¡ªDaniel Mendez, a career criminal with a rap sheet long enough to wrap the precinct. The guy had been involved in the robbery years ago, but unlike the others, he had never tried to clean up his act. He still ran scams, still shook people down, still acted like he was untouchable. Despite that, Gomez did his job. He got Mendez into protective custody, moving him to a safe house locked down with police officers from top to bottom. Mendez, of course, wasn¡¯t grateful. Not even close. ¡°This is bullshit,¡± he scoffed, slumping onto the couch in the safe house¡¯s main room. ¡°All this for some psycho cop? I got rights.¡± Gomez exhaled, gripping the bridge of his nose. He hated this guy. Every word out of his mouth made him question if he should even be wasting resources on him. But he wasn¡¯t a dirty cop and that meant doing what was right¡ªeven for people who didn¡¯t deserve it. ¡°Just stay put,¡± Gomez muttered. ¡°You¡¯ll be safe here.¡± Mendez scoffed again. ¡°Yeah? You pigs gonna babysit me all night?¡± Gomez ignored him and turned to the officers stationed inside. ¡°Nobody leaves the perimeter. If anything moves, you check it.¡± The cops nodded, ready for anything. Or so they thought. --- HOURS LATER ¨C JOHN''S APARTMENT John was still where Gomez had left him¡ªslumped in his chair, his leg propped up, the deep gash in his calf still throbbing with pain. He had barely moved in hours, letting his body rest, letting the pain settle into something duller, something he could work through. His phone rang. He barely had time to pick it up before gunfire exploded on the other end. ¡°GOMEZ?¡± There was screaming In the background. Gunshots. Shouting. Chaos. ¡°Damaged,¡± Gomez¡¯s voice was breathless, panicked. ¡°He found us. He¡¯s inside the safe house!¡± John sat up fast, gritting his teeth. ¡°How the hell did he¡ª¡± ¡°No time!¡± Gomez interrupted. ¡°He¡¯s cutting through the cops like nothing! I¡ªshit¡ª I can barricade the door, but I need help! We¡¯re at the old Branning Street complex!¡± A loud crash came through the line. Gomez yelled something before the phone cut to static. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. John stared at the dead phone, then looked down at his bleeding calf. He sighed. ¡°Fucking hell.¡± No time for rest. He grabbed a towel, wrapping it tightly around his calf, using his teeth to help knot it. It wasn¡¯t enough. The wound was too deep¡ªhe needed to close it. Fast. He reached for a stapler. No finesse, no care¡ªjust fast, brutal closure. He lined up the first staple above the wound and slammed it in, his body jerking from the pain. He did it again and again. Each staple bit through skin and muscle, sealing the gash shut in a crude, agonizing line. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his breathing ragged. He grabbed duct tape next, wrapping it tight over the wound, reinforcing it as best he could. It would hold. It had to. Then he grabbed the nearest bottle of painkillers, threw a few back dry, and stood up, his leg screaming in protest. He didn¡¯t have time to waste. He grabbed his coat, limped toward the door, and stepped into the night. The building was dark. Too dark. From the outside, there were no signs of life¡ªno lights, no movement, nothing but an eerie silence hanging over the place like a funeral shroud. John¡¯s gut twisted. This wasn¡¯t good. He stepped inside, boots echoing against the cold floor of the lobby. The stench of blood hit him first. Then he saw the bodies. A bloodbath. Cops lay everywhere, their bodies carved apart, limbs strewn across the floor like discarded meat. The walls and floor were slashed, deep gouges marking every surface. Calloway hadn¡¯t just killed these men¡ªhe had butchered them. John¡¯s jaw clenched. He moved forward, slow and careful, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. The deeper he went, the darker it became. The power was out. The only illumination came from dim emergency lights flickering weakly, casting long, jagged shadows. Still no sound. He pushed forward until he reached a door at the end of the hall. It had been barricaded, then sliced into. John stepped through. Inside, a man lay perfectly sliced in half¡ªMendez. John scanned the room quickly, heart pounding. Where was Gomez? His eyes landed on a crumpled form near the corner¡ªGomez. Not sliced apart like the others, but knocked out cold. John rushed over, shaking his shoulder. ¡°Gomez! Wake up.¡± Gomez groaned, his head rolling to the side as his eyes fluttered open. He gasped for breath, his face pale, his lip split. ¡°Damaged,¡± he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°He¡¯s¡­ still here.¡± A voice cut through the darkness. ¡°You all deserve it. Protecting these killers, covering for them. You became my targets the moment you did.¡± John turned sharply¡ªjust as Calloway slashed through the emergency lighting with his remaining blade. The room plunged into pitch black. John tensed. His ears strained, trying to pick up the slightest movement. Then, a whisper from behind him. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Gomez muttered, voice low. ¡°I¡¯ll be your eyes.¡± And then the fight began. Calloway struck fast, his blade singing through the air, forcing John to dodge blindly. Every missed attack left deep slashes in the walls. He was relentless. ¡°Right!¡± Gomez called. John pivoted, barely avoiding a strike, countering with a heavy elbow to Calloway¡¯s ribs. Calloway snarled but didn¡¯t falter. ¡°You don¡¯t get it,¡± Calloway growled. ¡°These people don¡¯t deserve saving. You¡¯re wasting yourself.¡± John exhaled sharply, resetting his stance. ¡°Neither do you, and yet here I am.¡± Calloway lunged again. John caught his blade arm, forcing it down before driving his knee into the ex-cop¡¯s gut. Calloway twisted free, slicing into John¡¯s side¡ªnot deep, but enough to burn. ¡°Left!¡± Gomez yelled. John rolled, avoiding a decapitating slash. He grabbed Calloway¡¯s wrist, twisted hard¡ªSNAP. The cybernetic blade broke with a sharp hiss. Calloway¡¯s breath hitched. He swung wildly with his remaining strength, but John ducked the attack and came up hard. A bone-crunching knee to the face. Calloway hit the ground. Unmoving. John, panting, wiped blood from his face. He glanced at Gomez. ¡°Told you I just needed a minute.¡± John stood over Calloway¡¯s unconscious body, his breath ragged, his muscles burning. His body ached, his wounds screaming at him, but he was still standing. He won. But it didn¡¯t feel like a victory. Gomez groaned as he sat up, wiping blood from his face. He looked around the ruined safe house, at the piles of butchered officers, at the walls slick with red. His expression darkened. Too many had died for this. ¡°We failed,¡± Gomez muttered, shaking his head. ¡°All these men¡­ dead. Protecting a piece of shit that didn¡¯t even make it.¡± John exhaled sharply, rubbing his bruised knuckles. Yeah. They failed. This wasn¡¯t justice. This was just more death. ¡°At least that psychopath won¡¯t see the light again,¡± John muttered, glancing at Calloway¡¯s limp form. ¡°He¡¯s done.¡± Gomez ran a hand down his face, exhausted. He reached for the radio of a dead officer, clicking it on. ¡°This is Detective Gomez. Branning Street safe house is compromised. Multiple officers down. Suspect in custody. Send everyone.¡± A static-filled response came through. ¡°Copy that, Detective. Units en route.¡± Gomez sighed, dropping the radio onto the floor before turning to John. ¡°Go. I¡¯ll handle the mess.¡± John didn¡¯t argue. He didn¡¯t want to be here anymore. He stepped out of the safe house and into the cold night, the weight of what had happened sinking into him. Too much death. Too many bodies just so one more killer could rot in a cell. And yet, he knew it wouldn¡¯t be the last time. It never was. Something big is coming Two weeks later. John sat on the edge of his bed, rolling his shoulders. The pain was gone. His body had recovered, but his scars had grown. His calf¡ªwhere Calloway had cut deep¡ªwas now tougher, the skin thickened, the muscle more resistant. The dozens of slices from their fight had left traces on his body, but they¡¯d also left him harder, stronger. He pulled his shirt over his head and looked in the mirror. So many scars. His body was a roadmap of violence. But every one of them meant he¡¯d survived. A news report murmured from the small TV in the corner. ¡°Former detective Ryan Calloway has officially been transferred to the high-security prison known as Ironhold Penitentiary, the most fortified facility for super-powered criminals. Officials confirm he has been placed under extreme security measures, alongside some of the most dangerous criminals in history.¡± John turned to the screen as a camera panned across Ironhold¡ªa massive, brutalist structure surrounded by sheer cliffs and stormy waters. Towering, reinforced walls lined with auto-turrets, dampener fields, and surveillance drones loomed over the isolated island. There was no escape. Inside, the prison halls were filled with dangerous individuals¡ªmurderers, rogue supers, enhanced criminals locked away from the world. A fortress of the damned. The footage flashed through a variety of inmates: A hulking man with stone-like skin, restrained in electrified cuffs. A pale woman with glowing veins, her body flickering between forms, locked inside a reinforced containment cell. The Messiah, the cult leader with the golden gaze, now stripped of his pristine suit, wearing an Ironhold jumpsuit, his eyes dimmed by power-dampening restraints. And finally, Calloway¡ªhis arms restrained, his head shaved, his expression blank. A ghost of the man he once was. A reporter spoke over the footage. ¡°Ironhold Penitentiary is the most secure prison in the world, designed to contain even the most volatile individuals. No one has ever escaped.¡± John scoffed. They always say that. He grabbed his jacket and shut off the TV. He wasn¡¯t about to sit around watching criminals rot. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. He had work to do. Time to see what the city had for him next. As John stepped outside, the chill of the night air settled in. Instinctively, he went to shove his hands into his pockets¡ªonly to realize how wrecked his jacket was. The fabric was torn, burnt, and stitched together in places where it had no right to still be holding. ¡°Damn,¡± he muttered, running a hand over the ruined leather. Time for a visit to The Tailor. After getting his jacket repaired and hearing the latest rumors, John knew he needed to dig deeper. If something big was happening, someone in the underground would know. The Hollow was alive with activity as John stepped into the dimly lit bar. Smoke hung thick in the air, and low conversations mixed with the clinking of glasses. He approached the bartender, a grizzled man with a cybernetic eye, and leaned against the counter. ¡°Where¡¯s the boss?¡± John asked. The bartender glanced at him, then toward the back. ¡°He¡¯s in his office.¡± John nodded and made his way down the narrow hallway. He reached a reinforced metal door and knocked twice. Heavy footsteps approached, and when the door swung open, a massive man stood in the doorway. Ogre. The name fit. He was built like a tank, thick arms crossed over his chest, a scowl permanently carved into his ugly face. John smirked. ¡°Damn, you get uglier every time I see you.¡± Ogre growled, his fists clenching. ¡°Watch your mouth, Harkin.¡± Before Ogre could react, a voice from inside barked, ¡°Let him in.¡± Centipede. John stepped inside as Ogre reluctantly moved aside, closing the door behind him. ¡°I thought you¡¯d come scuttling along, John.¡± John smirked. ¡°Only insects scuttle.¡± Centipede leaned back in his chair. ¡°Business is back booming, thanks to you. The girls are back to making me money.¡± John¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°Save the gratitude. I¡¯m here for answers.¡± John asked about the rumors, saying something big was happening. Centipede admitted he¡¯d lost a few men but clarified that they chose to leave. However, he did know someone who had been approached and didn¡¯t go¡ªa grunt named Chomp, a burly young man with a retractable jaw. ¡°He¡¯ll have more answers than I do,¡± Centipede said, handing John an address. ¡°Go find him.¡± As John turned to leave, Centipede smirked. ¡°We¡¯ll have to stop meeting like this, Harkin. People are gonna talk.¡± Ogre clapped a heavy, painful hand on John¡¯s back as he walked out. John had a lead. Time to find Chomp. John tracked down Chomp at the address Centipede provided. The place was a dingy, low-end gym, the kind filled with guys trying to look tough but barely lifting anything heavier than their own egos. Chomp was easy to spot¡ªa burly young man with a broad grin, lifting weights that seemed just a little too heavy for him. As he laughed at a joke someone told, his jaw extended wider than normal, retracting just as quickly. A weird, almost useless power¡ªbut he carried it with pride. John stepped up. ¡°Chomp.¡± The young man blinked, then grinned. ¡°Hey, you¡¯re Damaged, right? I hear about you sometimes.¡± John nodded. ¡°Yeah. Got a couple of questions.¡± Chomp wiped his hands on his shorts. ¡°Shoot.¡± John got straight to the point. ¡°I heard you were approached by someone recently." Chomp¡¯s smile faltered for the first time. ¡°Oh. That guy, the one with the black mask.¡± He exhaled. ¡°Yeah, he showed up outta nowhere, started talking about how I was ¡®wasting my potential.¡¯ Said if I was tired of being just some low-level grunt, I could join something bigger. That I could ¡®be more.¡¯¡± John narrowed his eyes. ¡°Be more how?¡± ¡°He said they had ways to improve my ability,¡± Chomp said, tapping his jaw. ¡°Make me stronger, faster. Make my bite actually dangerous.¡± He chuckled but it was forced. ¡°I told him no. I like my life the way it is. My power¡¯s my pride.¡± John studied him for a second and felt a flicker of respect. Chomp might not have had much, but he owned what he had. ¡°That all he said?¡± John pressed. Chomp thought for a moment, then nodded. ¡°Yeah. Just that something big was coming. That I¡¯d regret not being part of it.¡± John exhaled through his nose. A man in a black mask, promising criminals with weak powers a chance to be more. It wasn¡¯t enough to piece everything together yet. But it was a start. For now John headed back into the streets, he still had his job to do and he knew eventually this case would open up again. The Paragons The Paragons Headquarters was a marvel of modern engineering¡ªa towering fortress of steel and glass, embedded with energy-dampening barriers and cloaked in government funding. It stood as a gleaming testament to power, home to the world''s most celebrated heroes¡ªthe ones who fought when entire civilizations hung in the balance. The elite. The untouchable. Inside its vast training facility, four figures stood in the heart of a simulated battlefield. The space around them flickered with digital projections, transforming into a crumbling war zone. The simulated cityscape loomed around them, battered ruins shifting as the Paragons¡¯ elite trained for their next mission. Timber grinned, gripping the massive battleaxe strapped to his back. The hulking man¡ªall muscle, broad shoulders, and brute force¡ªstood like a walking fortress, towering over his teammates. His thick beard framed his rugged face, and his flannel-inspired suit, designed for durability over style, stretched over his massive frame. Despite its lumberjack aesthetic, the suit was reinforced with lightweight armor, allowing for both movement and the kind of devastating power that only Timber could unleash. With a casual roll of his shoulders, he lifted his axe and brought it down onto a reinforced combat dummy. The shockwave exploded outward, splitting the synthetic ground beneath him, sending debris scattering in all directions. "You¡¯re gonna break the damn floor again," The Tunnel muttered, arms crossed. Unlike Timber, The Tunnel was built for movement, not raw power. His brown-and-black suit hugged his lean frame, designed for agility over brute strength. But what made him immediately stand out was his quirky, eccentric appearance¡ªhis long, well-kept hair tied into a top knot, paired with a perfectly twirled mustache that gave him a peculiar mix of gentlemanly charm and mischievous trickster energy. With a flick of his wrist, a circular portal appeared in front of Timber, shimmering like rippling water. Timber barely hesitated before stepping through¡ªdisappearing in an instant¡ªonly to re-emerge across the battlefield, swinging his axe mid-motion and cleaving through two newly spawned robotic adversaries before they could react. Circuits fried, synthetic bodies collapsed into sparking heaps. ¡°Perfect timing as always,¡± Timber grunted. "You¡¯re just predictable," The Tunnel smirked, closing the portal with a snap of his fingers. --- Above them, Cerberus hovered in mid-air, arms folded across his chest. Cerberus looked every bit the soldier. His clean-cut jawline, piercing blue eyes, and imposing build made him the epitome of controlled power. His red suit was pristine, the fabric and armor tailored for both mobility and dominance¡ªmilitary-inspired, no excess flair, only functional strength and authority. His cape flowed behind him, not out of vanity, but because it was part of the uniform. His three heads studied the battlefield with cold efficiency. Each one served a purpose: The left head, encased in protective metal plating, flickered as it scanned every detail of the battle, calculating strategies in real time. The right head, similarly armored, flashed red, releasing a sudden blast of heat vision¡ªincinerating a robotic enemy that had attempted to flank Timber. The central head, the dominant one, remained calm, unreadable, his deep-set eyes locked onto Sentience, their AI-powered teammate. "Showoff," The Tunnel muttered. "Survival skills need improvement," Cerberus remarked, his voice carrying an unshakable authority. Across the battlefield, a thin mechanical hum filled the air. Sentience stood motionless¡ªuntil it moved. One moment, the AI was completely still, its sleek metallic silver body reflecting the burning ruins around it. The next, it was everywhere. A blur of silver and speed, weaving through the battlefield, dodging Timber¡¯s axe swings, stepping just outside of The Tunnel¡¯s portals before they could close around it. Its movements weren¡¯t just fast¡ªthey were calculated. Adaptive. Sentience had no face, only a sleek, humanoid shell with piercing blue optics¡ªeyes that processed millions of calculations in the span of a second. It had been built for war, and though its exterior was human in shape, there was nothing human about its efficiency. ¡°Initiating calculated countermeasures,¡± Sentience droned, its voice monotone, emotionless¡ªyet disturbingly precise. Cerberus smirked. "Let''s make this interesting." The right head¡¯s eyes burned bright, and a searing beam of energy shot forward, cutting through the battlefield like a flaming sword. The heat would have reduced anything in its path to ashes¡ªexcept Sentience adapted. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. At the last possible second, Sentience¡¯s arms shifted mid-movement, unfolding into two razor-thin blades. With inhuman precision, it deflected the beam, redirecting it toward The Tunnel. The Tunnel barely dodged, diving through his own portal and reappearing ten feet away, shaking his head. ¡°I swear to god, one of these days¡ª¡± ¡°Adapting,¡± Sentience interrupted, its glowing blue optics locked onto Cerberus. Cerberus grinned. He loved a challenge. A deep voice crackled over the intercom. "Simulation intensifying." The environment shifted, the ruins morphing around them. The ground cracked, walls collapsed, the terrain reshaped itself into something new. The training room was no longer just a city¡ªit was now a fully realized war zone, complete with shifting obstacles, incoming drones, and environmental hazards. Cerberus cracked his knuckles. "Let''s see if we can actually push ourselves today." ¡°Agreed.¡± Sentience¡¯s form flickered, its body shifting into battle mode. ¡°Increasing combat efficiency.¡± The real fight had just begun. Meanwhile, Outside Paragons HQ... A lone figure stood on the edge of a rooftop, overlooking the gleaming fortress in the distance. The wind blew gently, rustling the long edges of his dark coat. His black mask concealed his features, but the glint in his eyes was unmistakable¡ªcalculated amusement. ¡°They think they¡¯re untouchable,¡± he murmured, his voice smooth, unhurried. From this distance, he could barely see them, but he knew what was happening inside. Knew how they trained, how they thought, how they prepared for world-ending threats¡ªwhile ignoring the people right beneath them. Let them enjoy their little training exercises. Let them believe they¡¯re prepared. A slow smile curled beneath the mask. "We''ll be ready soon enough." With a snap of his fingers, he vanished into the night. The battle simulation had ended, the holographic battlefield fading into static before the training room returned to its pristine metallic state. The scent of sweat and burned circuitry still lingered in the air. The last of the combat drones lay dismantled, their sparking limbs twitching weakly on the ground. Timber cracked his neck and let out a deep breath. His massive axe was slung over his shoulder, the edges still glowing faintly from the heated battle. ¡°Well,¡± he huffed, glancing around at the wreckage. ¡°That was fun.¡± "Speak for yourself," The Tunnel muttered, brushing some burned fabric from his sleeve where a stray energy blast had singed him. ¡°Some of us don¡¯t get to take hits like a tank.¡± "Adapt," Cerberus stated flatly, hovering above them for a few seconds before lowering himself to the ground, his cape settling around him with precision. The three heads of the Paragons¡¯ leader assessed the aftermath with cold efficiency. The central head watched Sentience, its blue optics dimming as the AI hero powered down to standby mode. "The results are acceptable," Sentience droned. "Though I would estimate that in real combat scenarios, a 40% improvement in reaction efficiency is necessary for a complete victory against a variable opponent." "Victory is always complete when I''m leading," Cerberus countered, a smirk playing on his lips. Timber scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You ever let yourself take a loss, big guy?" "Losses don''t exist," Cerberus replied smoothly. "Only lessons." Timber let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. ¡°Man, you really believe your own hype.¡± The Tunnel chuckled too but said nothing. Then, casually, Timber added, "By the way¡­ anyone else been hearing about Damaged lately?" The room shifted slightly. Sentience continued to power down, showing no outward reaction. The Tunnel remained silent, watching the dynamic between Timber and Cerberus unfold. Cerberus'' central head arched a brow, but it was his right head that spoke¡ªits voice laced with thinly veiled condescension. "Harkin?" Timber nodded. "Yeah. The guy''s been making some waves. Keeping the streets clean, taking on cases none of us would bother with. Hell, I even fought beside him the other night. He¡¯s the real deal." Cerberus'' left head exhaled a short, amused breath, while the central head remained impassive. "A street brawler with a pain tolerance? That''s what you''re impressed by?" Timber frowned. "It''s more than that, and you know it." Cerberus sighed, stepping forward. "He''s reckless, unfocused, and unremarkable. Yes, he has some resilience, but let''s be honest¡ªhe''s just a man who gets beat up enough times until it stops affecting him. Hardly a skill. Hardly a hero." Timber''s jaw clenched. ¡°You¡¯re wrong about him.¡± Cerberus¡¯ central head tilted, a small smirk playing at his lips. ¡°Am I?¡± Timber¡¯s grip on his axe tightened, but he held his ground. "Maybe if you actually stepped outside your goddamn tower, you¡¯d see what he¡¯s doing for the people you ignore.¡± The air felt heavier for a moment. The Tunnel simply watched, waiting for the moment to pass. After a few seconds, Cerberus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "We don¡¯t ¡®ignore¡¯ anyone, Timber. We prioritize." Timber huffed. "Yeah, tell that to the people who don¡¯t have powers strong enough to be worth your time." Cerberus didn¡¯t answer immediately. He simply turned, stepping toward the exit. ¡°Let the man handle his low-level thugs," he said over his shoulder. "When something real happens, we¡¯ll step in." With that, he strode out of the training hall, his cape flowing behind him. The Tunnel exhaled, scratching the back of his head. ¡°Yeah, well¡­ That went well.¡± Timber let out a frustrated grunt, his massive hands tightening into fists. ¡°Arrogant bastard.¡± The Tunnel smirked. ¡°You knew what he was gonna say before you even asked, man.¡± Timber shook his head. ¡°Yeah. I just¡­ expected more from him.¡± The room fell silent for a moment. Then, The Tunnel folded his arms. ¡°You really think Damaged is something special?¡± Timber didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Yeah. I do.¡± "Why?" Timber exhaled, looking toward the city beyond the reinforced glass of Paragons HQ. "Because he¡¯s not doing this for cameras. He¡¯s not doing it for a paycheck. He¡¯s doing it because someone has to.¡± The Tunnel considered that for a moment before shrugging. ¡°Well¡­ guess we¡¯ll see how long he lasts.¡± Timber narrowed his eyes. ¡°I think he¡¯s gonna outlast all of us.¡± The Tunnel let out a short laugh, shaking his head. ¡°Man, that¡¯d be one hell of a twist.¡± Neither of them noticed Sentience standing in the corner, watching, its artificial mind processing the conversation in silence. Somewhere in its algorithmic calculations, a curiosity was forming. Elsewhere¡­ The black-masked figure reappeared in the shadows of a ruined warehouse, stepping forward as if the air itself had spat him out. Figures moved in the darkness, some low-level criminals, others something worse. The masked man observed them all, watching as more and more disillusioned, overlooked powered individuals gathered in the gloom. They were waiting. They were listening. His voice cut through the silence, calm and confident. "The world has forgotten you." "The Paragons don¡¯t fight for you. They fight for their reputation, their place at the top." Murmurs of agreement spread through the crowd. He continued, stepping forward, his presence commanding. "But that is going to change." He raised his hands. "Very soon¡­ they¡¯re going to know exactly who we are." The shadows moved. The revolution had begun. A fan? The rain came down in cold sheets, soaking the cracked pavement and turning the neon glow of street signs into blurred smears of color. The city never slept, but it sure as hell felt more desperate at night. Damaged moved through the shadows, his coat heavy with rain, eyes locked on the small convenience store across the street. It wasn¡¯t much¡ªa family-owned corner shop, the kind barely staying afloat with the way the city worked against people like them. And tonight, someone was trying to take even that from them. Through the glass storefront, he saw them¡ªtwo figures inside. One held a laser pistol, pacing near the register, barking orders at the terrified shop owner. The other¡­ well, there were three of him. A cloner. Damaged clicked his tongue. That was going to be a pain. Taking a slow breath, he stepped forward. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna hurt nobody,¡± the man with the laser pistol said, voice strained, eyes darting between the shop owner and the cash register. Nervous. Twitchy. He wasn¡¯t some hardened criminal¡ªhe was desperate. And Damaged knew him. ¡°Come on, Lenny,¡± Damaged called out as he stepped through the door, his boots heavy against the tiled floor. His voice was calm, but firm. Authoritative. ¡°This isn¡¯t you.¡± Lenny turned, his wide-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, rain-slicked hair sticking to his forehead. The man used to be a scientist, a genius even¡ªbut gambling got its hooks into him, and it hadn¡¯t let go. Now, here he was, robbing a corner store with tech he probably built himself. Lenny¡¯s laser pistol twitched upward, but he didn¡¯t fire yet. ¡°Stay back, man,¡± he warned, his voice shaking. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna do this.¡± ¡°But you¡¯re doing it anyway,¡± Damaged said. Disappointment laced his words. ¡°What happened to getting clean? You were working on something real, something that mattered.¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± Lenny¡¯s grip on the gun faltered for a second, but the cloner¡ªor cloners, rather¡ªweren¡¯t hesitating. Three identical men blocked the exit behind Damaged, each holding a crowbar or a pipe. Their grins were identical too¡ªwide, mean, full of bad intentions. ¡°We doing this or not?¡± one of them asked. Lenny hesitated. Then his finger tightened on the trigger. Damaged saw the glow before the shot even came. He moved fast, lunging forward just as a bolt of red-hot energy blasted toward him. Instinctively, he raised his arm, shielding his face with his scarred hands¡ª The impact burned, even through his resistance. The scars from the Messiah¡¯s golden vision had made him tougher against heat, but not immune. The pain still bit deep, but he didn¡¯t flinch. Lenny¡¯s eyes went wide. ¡°What the hell¡ª¡± Damaged didn¡¯t give him time to process it. With a burst of movement, he closed the distance, knocking the laser gun aside with a brutal swipe of his arm. The pistol clattered against the ground, spinning across the tiles. Lenny barely had time to react before Damaged¡¯s fist buried itself in his gut, knocking the wind out of him. One down. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. The clones were next. The first swung a crowbar¡ªDamaged ducked. The second came in from behind¡ªhe spun, catching the clone with a sharp elbow to the ribs, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone. The third one¡ªtoo slow. Damaged grabbed him by the throat, swinging him like a human shield just as the first clone swung again. The crowbar connected with his own copy¡¯s ribs, sending the poor bastard crumpling. Two down. The last clone lunged. Damaged let him get close¡ªthen drove his forehead straight into the man¡¯s nose. A sickening CRACK. Blood spattered. Three down. The real one¡ªthe original¡ªyelped and collapsed as his copies disappeared, the pain overwhelming his mind. That was the problem with clones. They felt everything together. Damaged stood over them all, breathing heavy, burned hands throbbing. Lenny groaned, clutching his stomach. ¡°Shit¡­¡± Damaged knelt beside him, staring him in the eyes. ¡°This is where this ends, Lenny.¡± Lenny¡¯s face twisted with guilt, his body shaking. ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­ I just needed the money, man.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Damaged muttered. ¡°That¡¯s what they all say.¡± He reached into his coat, pulled out his phone, and dialed a familiar number. ¡°Gomez,¡± he said when the detective picked up. ¡°Got two for you. A cloner and an old friend with a gambling problem.¡± Gomez sighed on the other end. ¡°Christ. You¡¯re gonna keep me busy tonight, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I do,¡± Damaged muttered, running a bandaged hand through his damp hair. He leaned back against the store counter, watching the rain trickle down the shattered glass. Another long night in the city. And it was far from over. The flashing blue-and-red lights of the police cruisers cast long, fractured shadows across the rain-slicked pavement. As officers piled into the store to round up the criminals, Damaged was already leaving. He never stuck around when the job was done. Gomez would handle the rest. Stepping onto the sidewalk, he tugged his coat tighter around him, keeping his pace casual but steady as he made his way back toward his apartment. Another job finished. Another night in the city. But after only a few blocks, something felt off. He knew the city well, knew the natural rhythm of the streets at night. The way people moved, the sounds of traffic, the way shadows stretched under streetlights. And right now? Someone was following him. Not a pro. Not subtle enough. But persistent. Damaged exhaled through his nose, slowing his steps just enough to let his shadowed pursuer get a little closer. Then, without warning, he ducked into a nearby alley, sliding into the cover of darkness. He moved fast, stepping into the crook of a doorway and pressing himself against the damp brick wall. His breathing slowed. Controlled. Silent. He waited. Seconds later, footsteps hesitated at the mouth of the alley. Then, slowly, they crept forward. Too light for an adult. Too uncertain for a trained tail. Damaged stepped out of the shadows. The kid barely had time to react before Damaged grabbed him by the hoodie, lifting him an inch off the ground and pinning him to the wall. The kid let out a yelp, eyes wide. ¡°Jesus¡ª! Wait, wait, wait! I¡¯m¡ª I¡¯m not a bad guy!¡± Damaged frowned, taking a better look at him. A kid. Couldn¡¯t have been older than thirteen. A little chubby, dressed in a rain-soaked hoodie with a tattered backpack slung over one shoulder. Damaged slowly let him drop back onto his feet, but kept his hand on the kid¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Start talking.¡± The boy rubbed his neck, swallowing hard. ¡°I¡ª uh¡ª I was following you.¡± ¡°No shit,¡± Damaged muttered. The kid took a deep breath, still nervous, but excited now. ¡°I saw you.¡± His voice sped up, enthusiasm breaking through his fear. ¡°In the fight with Timber! And just now¡ª in the store! I saw the whole thing! Dude, you were¡ª¡± He stopped himself, taking a moment. ¡°You were awesome.¡± Damaged blinked. That¡­ was new. People didn¡¯t say that about him. They avoided him. They feared him. They respected him, sure, but no one had ever looked at him like this. Like he was a hero. Damaged sighed, rubbing his temples. ¡°Kid, you really shouldn¡¯t be following people in alleys. You looking to get yourself killed?¡± The boy shook his head, stepping forward eagerly. ¡°No, listen¡ª I¡ª I have powers too! Not like, super strong powers, but something kinda like yours. I thought they were useless, but after seeing you fight, I¡ª¡± Damaged held up a hand, cutting him off. ¡°Kid, slow down.¡± The boy bit his lip, nodding quickly. ¡°Start with your name.¡± ¡°Oh! Uh¡ª¡± The kid stood up straighter, puffing his chest out a little. ¡°I¡¯m Robbie.¡± Damaged arched a brow. ¡°Alright, Robbie. What do you mean, ¡®something like mine¡¯?¡± Robbie hesitated, then lifted his sleeve. ¡°Here. Let me show you.¡± Before Damaged could react, the boy balled his fist and punched the brick wall beside them. Damaged''s first instinct was to grab the kid¡¯s arm before he broke it, but before he could move¡ª A ripple spread across the boy¡¯s skin. Where his knuckles hit the wall, the flesh instantly hardened, turning dark and rough, like stone-covered scar tissue. The bricks cracked beneath the impact, but the kid didn¡¯t even wince. Robbie grinned, flexing his fingers as the hardened skin faded back to normal. ¡°See? When I get hit, or when I hit something, that part of me hardens¡ªit doesn¡¯t last forever, but for a little while, it helps me take more damage.¡± Damaged narrowed his eyes. Not permanent. Not like his own scars. But adaptive. Reactive. Robbie clenched his fist again. ¡°I used to think it was useless. What¡¯s the point of taking a punch better, right?¡± He exhaled sharply, looking up at Damaged with determination in his young eyes. ¡°But then I saw you. And I saw what you can do. And I¡ª¡± He swallowed. ¡°I wanna be like you.¡± Damaged stared at him. Like me. No one had ever said that before. He wasn¡¯t one of the Paragons. He wasn¡¯t beloved. He wasn¡¯t the type of guy people wanted to be. And yet, here was this kid, looking at him like he was something to aspire to. Then Robbie smiled. ¡°I even thought of a name.¡± Damaged¡¯s brow arched. ¡°A name?¡± Robbie nodded eagerly. ¡°Yeah! You¡¯re Damaged¡­ so I figured I could be Impact.¡± Damaged stared at him. Then he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. ¡°Kid¡­¡± Robbie leaned forward, hopeful. ¡°What?¡± ¡°¡­I¡¯m not a hero.¡± Robbie flinched, his face falling just slightly. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°No ¡®but.¡¯¡± Damaged shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t do this for admiration. I don¡¯t do it for recognition. I do it because people like you don¡¯t have the Paragons looking out for them.¡± He crouched slightly, looking the kid in the eye. ¡°This life? It¡¯s not what you think it is.¡± Robbie¡¯s enthusiasm dimmed, but he didn¡¯t back down. ¡°¡­You¡¯re wrong,¡± he said quietly. Damaged arched a brow. ¡°Oh?¡± Robbie straightened his shoulders. ¡°You say you¡¯re not a hero. But you still save people. You still fight for them. That¡¯s what a hero does.¡± Damaged exhaled sharply, standing back up. He glanced at the kid¡¯s arm again, at the calloused patches of skin. The way the kid carried himself¡ªuncertain, but willing. Damn it. He could see it now. A younger version of himself. Finally, after a long moment, Damaged reached out, gripping the kid¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Go home.¡± Robbie froze. ¡°What?¡± ¡°You heard me.¡± Damaged gestured toward the street. ¡°Go home, kid. Stay safe.¡± Robbie clenched his fists. ¡°But I¡ª¡± Damaged narrowed his eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t make me say it again.¡± Robbie hesitated. His shoulders slumped slightly, but he nodded. ¡°¡­Alright.¡± Damaged watched as the kid turned and jogged out of the alley, disappearing into the night. He stood there for a long moment, staring after him. Then, slowly, without meaning to, he smiled. Just a little. Then he pulled his coat tighter, shoved his hands into his pockets, and kept walking. The city under siege John¡¯s phone buzzed on the table beside his half-eaten takeout. He barely glanced at the caller ID before answering¡ªhe already knew who it was. "Harkin. You busy?" Gomez¡¯s voice was sharp, tense. John sighed, rolling his stiff shoulder. "Does it matter?" "No. Get moving. We need all hands on deck. The city¡¯s on fire tonight." John sat up, alert now. "Define fire." Gomez didn¡¯t hesitate. "Coordinated attacks. Small but efficient. Someone¡¯s hitting multiple targets all over the city, and we can¡¯t cover it all. The Paragons are tied up with bigger threats¡ªwe need you on the ground. Got something happening near Victory Plaza. Superpowered crew tearing up the monument. You in?" John was already grabbing his coat. "Where?" "West side. Near the old courthouse. I''ll send backup when I can, but right now, you¡¯re on your own." "Wouldn¡¯t have it any other way," John muttered, hanging up. He stepped out into the cold night air, tightening the bandages around his knuckles. The city was in chaos tonight. Time to get to work. --- The distant sounds of sirens and explosions rang through the streets as John approached Victory Plaza. The once-peaceful monument¡ªbuilt to honor fallen heroes¡ªwas under siege. From the shadows, he surveyed the three attackers. 1. A lean, wiry man with powerful rabbit-like legs, crouched low, his muscles twitching with kinetic energy. The guy looked like he could clear a city block in a single bound. 2. A massive brute of a man, his right hand replaced with a solid metal hammer, slamming it against the stone of the monument. Each strike sent deep cracks through the foundation. 3. A handful of grunts, normal thugs with minor enhancements¡ªnothing major, but enough to make them a problem. The hammer-handed thug raised his weaponized arm and brought it crashing down onto the monument¡¯s engraved names. Stone and debris flew everywhere. John exhaled through his nose. That pissed him off. The rabbit-legged guy smirked, stretching his legs before launching himself into the air in a blur of motion. Superhuman agility. He landed on top of a nearby statue, perched like a vulture. "Think we got company," he sneered, spotting John lurking in the shadows. The grunts turned, weapons raised. The hammer-wielding brute looked up from his destruction, cracking his thick neck. John stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. "This the part where I ask you to stop, or the part where we get right to the part where I break something?" The rabbit-legged guy laughed, bouncing lightly on his feet. ¡°You? You think you¡¯re gonna stop us? Ain¡¯t you the one who just gets punched a lot?¡± John smirked. "Yeah. And still standing." The hammer brute swung his massive arm, sending a shockwave through the ground. The grunts charged first, eager to get their licks in. John moved fast. One of the grunts swung a baton¡ªJohn caught it mid-swing and drove a knee into his ribs. Something cracked. He twisted the baton free, slammed it across another thug¡¯s jaw, then ducked as the rabbit guy launched himself toward him with a devastating kick. John barely rolled out of the way before the hammer brute came in swinging. The impact hit him like a truck. John flew backward into a broken column, his spine cracking against the marble. He gritted his teeth, tasting copper in his mouth. That was gonna leave a mark. He forced himself to his feet. He''d taken worse. The rabbit-legged guy grinned. "That all you got, tough guy?" John wiped the blood from his mouth. "You tell me." The rabbit guy launched at him again, legs coiling like springs. This time, John was ready. He sidestepped, grabbed a broken piece of rebar from the debris, and¡ªjust as the guy landed¡ªhe jammed it between his legs, twisting. The guy howled as his landing was thrown off¡ªhe crashed hard, slamming face-first into the pavement. John stomped his boot on the back of his head, pressing him down. "You should¡¯ve hopped away." The hammer brute roared, charging full force. John ducked low, dodging the first swing¡ªthen the second. He felt the air shift as the massive metal arm whizzed past his skull. John saw his opening. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. He threw a heavy uppercut into the guy¡¯s gut¡ªnot enough to take him down, but enough to stagger him. He followed up with a brutal elbow to the jaw, his scarred knuckles hitting like iron. The brute barely flinched. Then he swung down¡ªfull force. John raised his left forearm, letting the hammer slam into the exact same spot where he¡¯d been hit before. Pain. Blinding pain. But as the dust settled, John was still standing. The hammer-wielding thug''s eyes widened. John smirked. "I get harder to kill every time." Before the brute could react, John grabbed the man¡¯s wrist and twisted hard. A sickening crack rang out as the metal arm tore free from its hinges. The brute screamed, falling to his knees. The remaining thugs? They ran. John exhaled, dropping the broken hammer-arm beside its owner. "Stay down." The police sirens grew closer. He stepped back, surveying the damage. The monument was in ruins, but at least it wasn¡¯t leveled. The rabbit-legged guy groaned beneath John¡¯s boot. ¡°F¡ªfuck¡­ you¡­¡± John smirked, pressing a little harder. ¡°I¡¯d say you put up a good fight, but you didn¡¯t.¡± The sirens wailed louder, lights flashing as the police arrived. John let the kid go, stepping back as Gomez and his men poured into the plaza. Gomez took one look at the destruction. ¡°Jesus. You made a mess.¡± John cracked his neck. "They started it." Gomez sighed. ¡°Any idea why?¡± John looked down at the battered criminals, then up at the ruined monument. Something wasn¡¯t adding up. They weren¡¯t just wrecking things for the hell of it. This was planned. Organized. John exhaled, shaking his head. ¡°Not yet.¡± But he would. The city burned. Not in flames¡ªnot yet¡ªbut crime had erupted like a controlled detonation, hitting multiple districts at once. Coordinated, precise, overwhelming. The Paragons were the elite, the ones who handled world-ending threats. But tonight? The war was in their streets. And even they were struggling to keep up. --- Downtown ¨C The Tunnel¡¯s Chase A black armored van tore through the streets, weaving between cars, police sirens blaring in pursuit. Inside? Armed criminals, cybernetic enhancements pulsing beneath their skin. But they weren¡¯t getting away. Not from The Tunnel. A portal snapped open in front of the van¡ªand The Tunnel stepped out casually, rolling his shoulders. The driver cursed, jerking the wheel¡ªtoo late. The van plunged into the portal and vanished. A second later, it reappeared twenty feet in the air¡ª upside down. It slammed into the pavement, crushing itself under its own weight. The Tunnel sighed, stepping forward, twirling his mustache. ¡°Never fails,¡± he muttered, dusting off his coat. ¡°Always forget to look down.¡± A thug stumbled from the wreck, his cybernetic arm transforming into a plasma cannon. He fired¡ªbut The Tunnel was already gone. A portal snapped open beside him, and The Tunnel stepped out behind the criminal, tapping him on the shoulder. ¡°Boom.¡± The thug turned¡ªand caught a spinning roundhouse kick to the jaw, knocking him out cold. The Tunnel adjusted his coat. ¡°One down.¡± --- South End ¨C Mist¡¯s Hunt Begins The rooftops belonged to her. Where the other Paragons were soldiers, bruisers, or strategists¡ªMist was the assassin. Agile. Silent. Deadly. She moved like a phantom, slinking across the ledges, watching the scene below. A black-market arms deal was going down in the ruins of an old apartment complex. Six men. All armed. They never saw her coming. She became vapor¡ªdrifting toward them like an unnatural fog. A gunman tensed, feeling the air grow thick, damp. His fingers twitched on the trigger. Too late. Mist reformed behind him, daggers in hand. One blade slid across his throat, precise, efficient. She caught him before he fell and dissolved again, reforming mid-air above the next thug. A flick of her wrist¡ªa throwing dagger buried itself in his eye. The last three criminals panicked, raising their weapons. She let them fire. The bullets passed harmlessly through the mist she had become. A second later, she was behind them. A blur of silver steel¡ªthree bodies hit the floor before they could even scream. Mist knelt over one of them, wiping her blade clean. She wasn¡¯t the strongest. She wasn¡¯t the fastest. But she was the one you never saw coming. --- Industrial District ¨C Timber¡¯s Rampage A warehouse explosion rocked the docks, sending flames licking toward the sky. Inside, a gang of armored mercenaries¡ªclad in experimental exo-suits¡ªmoved through the wreckage, looting crates of high-tech weapons. They had tactical precision. Advanced gear. Timber had an axe. The huge Paragon crashed through the doors, his battleaxe swinging wide. The first mercenary¡¯s body armor crumpled like tin foil, sending him flying into the crates. Timber stomped forward. "You''re all under arrest!" he bellowed, cracking his neck. A mercenary fired a plasma rifle, the bolt slamming into Timber¡¯s chest. He staggered back¡ªthen looked down at the burn mark. "Yeah. Bad idea." He hurled his axe. The weapon spun through the air like a buzzsaw, cleaving through two mercenaries in one go. Timber caught it mid-swing as it returned to his hand. The remaining thugs backed away. Timber grinned. ¡°Now it¡¯s fair.¡± --- Sentience vs. The Mob Sentience did not feel fatigue. He did not feel fear. He only processed efficiency. As the criminal mob swarmed around him, Sentience moved with inhuman precision. His synthetic limbs twisted unnaturally, dodging attacks at the last millisecond. A thug swung a crowbar¡ªSentience caught it mid-air. Metal shifted, his fingers morphing into spikes, piercing through the weapon and breaking it in half. The thug stepped back in terror. "Illogical response," Sentience said. "You should be running." Before the man could move, Sentience jabbed a metal hand into his chest¡ªnon-lethal, but enough to shatter ribs. The fight ended in seconds. Sentience stood among the wreckage, processing the battle¡¯s efficiency rating. 91%. Could be better. --- The Streets ¨C Cerberus Leads the Charge Cerberus was made for war. He was the spearhead, the strategist, the executioner. And tonight, he was all three at once. His right head¡¯s eyes burned red-hot, unleashing a heat vision blast that tore through an escaping getaway car. The vehicle flipped and crashed into a street lamp. His left head tracked movement, analyzing tactical weak points. Five armed criminals. Enhanced. Not a challenge. His central head focused forward. Cerberus moved fast, covering the distance in seconds. One thug fired¡ªCerberus caught the bullet mid-air. His right hand crushed it into dust. The nearest thug swung a baton¡ª Cerberus ducked, countering with a brutal uppercut that sent him flying. The rest didn¡¯t last much longer. When the dust settled, Cerberus stood alone. His left head surveyed the wreckage. His right head exhaled smoke. His central head frowned. Something bigger was coming. --- The Hollow ¨C Centipede Watches The underground club was still open, but the usual carefree criminal energy was gone. Centipede swirled his drink, watching the news feeds. "The Paragons are stretched thin," Ogre grunted. "You wanna make a move?" Centipede sighed. "Not yet. Someone¡¯s shifting the balance. And that? That concerns me." Ogre cracked his knuckles. "If they come knocking?" Centipede smirked. "Then we make sure they regret it." --- Victory Plaza ¨C Damaged in the Fire John leaned against the broken monument, watching the police finish rounding up the criminals. Gomez approached, looking exhausted. "This isn¡¯t a crime spree," Gomez muttered. "It¡¯s a damn coordinated effort." John nodded, already suspecting as much. ¡°What¡¯s the next move?¡± Gomez exhaled. "You tell me. You''re the one in the trenches." John scanned the ruined streets. Something bigger was at play. And if no one else was gonna stop it? He damn sure would. --- Across the city, the Paragons fought their battles. The police struggled to contain the chaos. The criminals were getting bolder. And in the shadows? Someone was pulling the strings. The first to strike The room was dark, lit only by a few dim overhead lights casting long shadows against the concrete walls. It was a hidden space, somewhere deep beneath the city, where the screams of the outside world couldn''t reach. At the center stood the man in the black mask. His suit was sharp, pristine¡ªtoo perfect for a man orchestrating the chaos that had gripped the city. He stood with a casual confidence, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his head slightly tilted as if listening to something unseen. Across from him, six figures loomed in the darkness. Their forms were obscured, silhouettes against the dim lighting. Their breathing was the only sound filling the void, deep and measured, each presence radiating power in its own unique way. The Black Mask spoke, his voice smooth, amused. "We''ve softened them up. The city is raw, bleeding. The Paragons?" He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Stretched thin. Exhausted. Distracted by the mess we made with the fodder." His head tilted slightly, observing his audience. "And now, finally, it''s time for the real event." He stepped forward, placing one gloved hand on the long steel table before him. "It''s time for my six favorites to enter the field." The room remained silent. Then, one by one, the figures moved. A low growl rumbled from one. Metal clicked from another. Someone cracked their knuckles, a sound like breaking bones. The Black Mask''s voice remained smooth. Controlled. Certain. "Go." "Make them fear us." The figures stepped forward, disappearing into the shadows. The city never had a chance. The Paragons had barely caught their breath after the chaos from the previous night when the real war began. It started with one man. And by the time people realized what was happening¡ªit was already too late. --- The First Strike ¨C The Executioner Screams tore through the air. The first victims were civilians, caught in the streets as the Executioner began his rampage. A blur of blackened steel and raw muscle, he moved without hesitation, his colossal cleaver carving bodies in half like they were nothing. The police tried to respond. Tried. Bullets pinged off his skin, the ones that struck true only making him angrier. Stronger. He laughed. A deep, guttural sound that made the blood freeze in anyone who heard it. More officers fell, their bodies splitting apart with horrifying efficiency. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. He was a monster in motion¡ªunstoppable. Unchallenged. Until Timber arrived. The massive Paragon crashed onto the battlefield like a meteor, his battleaxe already in motion before his feet even hit the ground. The impact shook the street, splitting the pavement as The Executioner raised his cleaver to block. CLANG. The force sent a shockwave rippling outward, shattering nearby windows. The two men¡ª**both mountains of muscle and power¡ª**locked eyes. Timber grit his teeth. ¡°You¡¯re done.¡± The Executioner grinned beneath his hood. ¡°Am I?¡± They clashed. Axe met cleaver, metal shrieking against metal. Timber was faster than he looked, stronger than most could comprehend. He fought like a warrior, every swing measured, every movement tactical. And at first? It worked. The Executioner staggered under the blows, forced back step by step. His cleaver was heavier than Timber¡¯s axe, slower, unwieldy. Timber saw an opening¡ªwent for it. His axe carved across The Executioner¡¯s side, splitting flesh, spilling blood. The brute let out a roar of pain¡ª ¡ªand then grabbed a wounded officer off the ground and broke his neck in one motion. The Executioner¡¯s muscles surged, swelling, rippling. Timber¡¯s eyes narrowed. Oh. That¡¯s his power. The Executioner came back swinging¡ª and Timber barely got his axe up in time. The impact sent him sliding back five feet, his boots digging trenches into the cracked pavement. The Executioner laughed. "Oh yeah," he growled, rolling his shoulders, his wound already sealing itself. "That¡¯s more like it." Timber wiped blood from his lip. Shit. The fight had just begun¡ªand already, he knew this wasn¡¯t going to be easy. The Executioner took a slow step forward, dragging his massive cleaver along the shattered pavement, the sound a horrifying metallic scrape that sent shivers through the surviving police officers. Timber rolled his shoulders, flexing his grip on his battleaxe. He could feel the weight of the fight pressing down already¡ªhe was winning, but the moment the Executioner killed someone, he came back stronger. That was a problem. Before Timber could press the attack again, a circular portal shimmered into existence next to him¡ªa ripple of golden light cutting through the smoky air. The Tunnel stepped through, twirling his mustache, looking only mildly annoyed. "This city¡¯s going to shit." His voice was light, but his eyes were sharp as they landed on the carnage. He took in the blood-streaked pavement, the crumpled bodies, and the towering brute standing across from Timber. "Huh. Who¡¯s the big guy?" Timber didn¡¯t take his eyes off The Executioner. ¡°A dead man walking.¡± Tunnel exhaled, nodding. "Yeah, that¡¯s fun and all, but there¡¯s something we gotta handle first." Timber clenched his jaw. ¡°If you¡¯re about to say some Paragon shit about not causing too much destruction¡ª¡± Tunnel waved him off. ¡°No, no. I mean we got a bigger problem. Like, a ¡®people are dying¡¯ problem.¡± He gestured at the wounded police officers and civilians barely clinging to life behind them. Timber¡¯s grip tightened around his axe. He hated to admit it, but Tunnel was right. The Executioner was dangerous enough already. If he killed even one more person, this fight could turn completely. Timber turned to Tunnel, speaking fast. ¡°Listen. He gets stronger when he kills. I can hold him off, but if he drops more bodies, I might not be able to stop him.¡± Tunnel raised an eyebrow. "Shit." Timber gestured to the survivors, his tone serious. "Get them out of here. Take anyone still breathing and portal them the hell away from this fight. Keep them alive. I don''t care where¡ªjust go." Tunnel looked at him for a second, then nodded. "On it." Without another word, he flicked his fingers, tracing an arc through the air. A swirling tunnel of golden energy opened across the street, leading to safety. He turned to the scattered survivors. "Alright, all aboard the express train to not dying. Move your asses!" Cops and civilians¡ªsome limping, others dragging unconscious bodies¡ªrushed toward the portal. The Executioner growled, realizing what was happening. His grin widened. "Oh, no you don¡¯t." He lunged forward¡ª but Timber was faster. His axe slammed into the Executioner¡¯s side, carving deep, the force of the hit sending the brute crashing back through a wrecked police cruiser. CRASH. Timber took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. "Not today, asshole." The Executioner rose slowly from the wreckage, cracking his neck. "Fine," he rumbled, a wicked smile spreading beneath his hood. "I¡¯ll just kill you instead." Timber grinned. "Try me." Timber braced himself, planting his feet wide as the Executioner charged. The brute¡¯s massive cleaver carved through the air, aiming to take Timber¡¯s head clean off. CLANG! Timber met the strike with his axe, sparks flying as metal screamed against metal. The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, cracking the pavement beneath them. They broke apart¡ªand then slammed into each other again. Each blow shattered stone, each attack felt like an earthquake. The Executioner was faster now, stronger now, his body swollen with power from his kills. Timber could feel it¡ªthe weight behind his swings had doubled since the start of the fight. I can¡¯t let this drag on. Timber ducked under another wild swing, rolled to the side, and brought his axe down in a brutal counterstrike¡ª ¡ªbut the Executioner caught it with his bare hand. For a split second, Timber felt his stomach drop. The Executioner grinned, his grip tightening around the blade. ¡°Nice try.¡± Then he yanked Timber forward¡ª ¡ªand slammed a knee into his ribs. CRACK. White-hot pain exploded in Timber¡¯s chest as something snapped. The force sent him flying, crashing through a streetlight before landing hard on the cracked pavement. For a moment, he couldn¡¯t breathe. Ribs. Broken. Maybe punctured a lung. The Executioner stalked forward, rolling his shoulders, completely unbothered by his injuries. ¡°Come on, Paragon. Get up.¡± Timber gritted his teeth, forcing himself to his knees. His vision blurred, pain radiating from his chest. His arms felt like lead. I need one more hit. One clean shot. The Executioner raised his cleaver, ready to end it. And then¡ªTimber saw his opening. With one final burst of strength, Timber lunged forward¡ªnot at the Executioner, but at his own axe, still embedded in the pavement. He ripped it free¡ªand with a roaring, last-ditch swing, he buried the axe directly into the Executioner¡¯s chest. THUNK. For the first time all fight, the Executioner staggered. He looked down at the weapon lodged deep in his chest, black blood pouring down his torso. Timber panted, barely staying upright. ¡°You¡¯re done.¡± The Executioner growled, taking a step forward¡ª ¡ªand then collapsed onto his knees. His hands grasped weakly at the axe, but the damage was too much. His body was failing. For a moment, he looked up at Timber, eyes burning with hatred. "This... isn''t... over." Then, his body slumped forward, finally still. Silence. Timber took a shaky breath, finally allowing himself to drop to the ground. His whole body was screaming. He tried to stand¡ª failed. Shit. He was out. He heard footsteps. Tunnel¡¯s voice. ¡°Damn, big guy. You look like hell.¡± Timber coughed, smirking weakly. ¡°Yeah? You should see the other guy.¡± Tunnel crouched next to him, pressing two fingers against his earpiece. "HQ, Timber''s down. We need evac." Timber let his head rest against the pavement. He¡¯d won. But he was out of the fight. And somewhere in the city¡ªthe other five were still coming.