It was a Friday evening. Cool and unnervingly quiet, almost as if the atmosphere held its breath in anticipation of what would unfold in the next couple of hours.

It had been four grueling days of intense preparation by Operation Shadowfall toward the mission to finally nab Doomblade. Intel on the psychopath had revealed he was recovering from the botched attempt for a few days before springing back to life. Considering how he never failed a mission, a recovery period didn’t sound so far-fetched; his bruised ego would have needed a lot of self-soothing to get back on track.

That gave them enough time to stage the trafficking operation and spread word through the needed corners. Those working hard on intel, making full use of the state-of-the-art drones provided by the Mayor, were pleased to discover that Doomblade had caught wind of it, and as expected, was thoroughly disgusted, wishing death upon every person involved and swearing to take them all down.

He had fallen for the hook.

So in the old shack on the lane where Shadrach lived, a young man from Gamma dressed in unruly clothing sat tied to a rickety chair, his heart pounding so hard he feared Shadrach might hear it from his house.

Denar looked every bit the homeless, stranded young man he was supposed to resemble. Sweat trickled down his temple as he glanced around the dimly lit room, lit only by a flickering bulb strung from the ceiling.

He strained against the ropes, and let out a panicked yell. “Help! Somebody, please! Let me out of here!”

The sound echoed in the empty space.

Every second felt like an eternity. As he waited, his mind raced with endless possibilities of what might happen.

Of course, he had submitted to the vigorous preparations. He had the team on standby, hidden in a nearby location out of sight from Doomblade, and would move in once the monster entered the shack. Everything was set up to ensure this would be a success. But doubts still lingered.

What if he never shows up? What if he’s too focused on going to kill Shadrach? What if he sees right through the ruse? What if I fumble? What if I say the wrong thing and he catches on? Will the team get here in time?

So many questions and worries.

But there was no turning back now. He had prepped himself for this, and it needed to happen as planned. Lives depended on it. Namely Awo, his current replacement, Shadrach and Sabrina. If this didn’t go as planned, he’d either end up dead, or one of them would.

Or, in reality, all of them could end up dead. The intel showed that Doomblade was madly out for blood this time; he had to be stopped at all costs.

So he took a deep breath, forced tears out of his eyes, and yelled once more.

“HEEEELPPPP! PLEASE, SOMEBODY, HEEEELP! I WANNA GO HOME! PLEASE! HEEEELLPPPP!”

***

Doomblade moved like a shadow, blending seamlessly into the night. His anger burned hot as he discreetly made his way down Eason Lane.

The lane where that Shadrach Gardiner journalist lived.

He was next on the list, and this time, it was going to be extra violent. He brushed his fingers against his ninja stars, seething with a hellish kind of intensity. The memory of the police officer who had ruined his attempt and dared to combat him played on a loop in his mind. Her defiance was an unforgivable insult, and there was no way he would let it go.

He would come for her later, but for now, the lesson had been learned. No mercy would be shown henceforth. None at all.

“No mercy this time,” he muttered under his breath. “Not for the journalist. Not for the officer. Not for anyone in those houses. Everybody is going down. No questions asked.”

Each step was an affirmation of this ‘no mercy’ vow. When he was finished with these enemies of justice, the streets of Sima Hills would speak his name in terrified whispers. Not a soul would dare to even consider standing in his way ever again.

He allowed himself a fleeting vision of returning to that house, the officer’s pained screams ringing in his ears as he delivered a punishment so extreme, nobody had ever seen before.

Nobody would dare even dream of standing up to me after that–

“HEEEELPPPP! HEEEEELLLLLLPPPPP!”

His dark reverie was abruptly interrupted by a sharp cry.

Doomblade froze mid-step, his head tilting toward the sound. The noise came from a dilapidated shack tucked between two warehouses—a known hideout for criminals. It had long been rumored that human trafficking operations ran through this part of the city, but the police rarely made headway.

The scream came again, clearer this time—a young man’s voice, pleading. “Please! Let me out of here! Somebody, anybody!”

Doomblade looked in its direction, his jaw tight. “Must be that trafficking foolishness. Goddamn bastards ruining people’s lives for the sake of money! Let me just get that person free. If there’s any trafficking bastard in there, he’s going down. Then it’s back to punishing the enemies of justice.”

***

He heard it—a faint scuffling sound outside.

It was almost imperceptible, but a few seconds, a strained neck and a cocked ear had Denar convinced.

Doomblade had heard his cries and was coming to his rescue. The plan was on course.

His heart rate multiplying exponentially, he whispered into the tiny wire taped to his collar. “He’s here. I think he’s here.”

The response came in his earpiece, calm and measured. It was Detective Mohamad. “Well noted. Remember the plan, Teye. Stay convincing. Keep him engaged. We won’t say a word on the comms—we don’t want to risk him hearing us. You know the codeword to give for us to move in, or if anything goes awry. You’ve got this.”

Denar swallowed hard, nodded subtly, and forced himself to yell again, his voice cracking. “Help! Somebody, please! I’ll do anything—just let me go!”

A few seconds went by.

Then the door creaked open with a slow, ominous groan.

Denar’s heart virtually stopped as a dark figure slipped inside, moving with a menacing predator’s grace.

It was him.

Doomblade.

***

The vigilante’s silhouette was imposing—broad shoulders, clad in a dark, ominous hoodie and tattered jeans, and his face obscured by a mask with piercing eyes that were devoid of any kindness.

Denar froze, forcing himself to keep breathing. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body remained rooted in the chair, bound by both the ropes, his terror, and his commitment to the mission.

Doomblade moved closer and closer to him, his steps silent and deliberate. He tilted his head slightly, studying Denar like a hawk assessing its prey.

“Who tied you up?” Doomblade’s voice was low and gravelly, yet strangely calm.

Denar stammered, putting on his best impression of a terrified trafficking victim. “I-I… I dunno, sir. I… I was kidnapped, I’m from Gamma, and some strange men, they just picked me up, threw me in a van, and brought me and some others here. They left me coz I kept screaming for help. They said they’d come back to kill me if I didn’t comply. Please, please, I don’t wanna die. Please, help me, please!”

Denar brought his A-game to this, utilizing his Gamma accent to full effect while looking frightened to the bone. Many who would see him in that moment would be fully convinced he was speaking the truth.

Doomblade regarded him for a moment longer, seeming to study him. Then he looked around, noting the state of the room. It looked like some major trafficking activity had taken place, with receipts and notes all around, as well as old clothes and half-eaten plates of food. This was not the first time he had entered a shack housing trafficking activities, and there was no doubt in his mind that this was just another one of them.

Denar held his breath, praying hard that the monster before him bought into the act.

Please let him buy into it. Please let him believe me. Please…

Doomblade then took out a ninja star. And raised it.

Denar’s stomach sank.

Oh shit! This is it. He’s going to kill me. He didn’t buy into it…

The star sliced through the ropes binding Denar’s wrists and ankles. The precision of his movements was unnerving, but as accurate as could be. In seconds, he was free.

His heartbeat returned to normal. Doomblade was well and truly in the net.

Doomblade stepped back, tucking the ninja star into its pouch. “Get out of here,” he ordered flatly, turning toward the door. “Go back to your city.”

Denar’s heart returned to quick mode. It was time to seize the moment.

“Wait!” he blurted, his voice shaky but earnest. “Th-th-thank you! You… you s-s-saved my life. I owe you.”

Doomblade paused, his back still to Denar. He didn’t respond, but the slight tilt of his head suggested he was listening.

Denar’s mind raced. This was his chance to stall, to draw Doomblade into a conversation.

Still seated in the chair, his voice shook as he further went on. “I’m sorry, sir. I-I’m… I’m just curious… Are you the great Doomblade they speak of?”

Doomblade grunted. “Uh-huh.”

Denar quickly rose to his feet. “Amazing,” he continued, his voice still shaky. “I-I-I’ve heard so much about you… uh, wh-what is it that drives you… if-if… if I might ask?”

Doomblade turned and stared at him, the room thick with tension. His heart raced as he prayed Doomblade would engage him, and the team would make their move before it was too late.

The silence stretched thin and taut. Then Doomblade pointed at the door. “Get out of here. Leave,” he ordered, his voice cold and final. “That isn’t your concern. Just go back to your home. Now.”

Denar hesitated, pretending to fumble as if recovering from his ordeal, while his mind raced.

He had to keep him talking. Else the plan would fail. And someone else would be dead before the night ended.

Then a thought struck him.

Memories of his declaration in the video came to mind…

 If you stand against me, you stand against justice itself…

Of course, the man saw himself as the sole arbiter of justice. He was a tyrannical beast. And there was nothing a tyrant loved more than praise.

Time to use his ego against him…

Taking a deep breath, Denar let his voice soften. “You’re right, sir,” he began, his tone tinged with admiration. “This isn’t my concern. But…I can’t leave without saying something else.”

Doomblade narrowed his eyes and folded his arms. He didn’t speak, and looked a bit irritated, but his silence urged Denar to continue.

“They keep talking about you since they brought me here,” Denar started, his voice trembling just enough to sound authentic. “And it… it sounds like… like the people of Sima Hills—” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “—they don’t understand you. I heard it all as they kept us here. Talking about how everyone in the city hates you and what you do. They call you evil, but… I don’t think that’s the full story.”

Doomblade stiffened, but Denar pressed on, sensing he was close to hooking him. “I mean, look at what you just did. You saved me. A ‘bad guy’ wouldn’t have done that. I think…I think you’re just misunderstood. A good man doing what no one else has the courage to do.”

The tension in the room was almost unbearable. Doomblade didn’t move, but Denar could sense a subtle shift in his posture: he was less rigid, almost contemplative.

A few moments of silence, and Doomblade, with his head down, finally spoke, his voice low and full of bitterness.

“The people of Sima Hills are ungrateful fools,” Doomblade spat, his tone harsh. “Dumb, blind sheep who think their so-called ‘heroes’ will protect them. Heroes with no good in them. They don’t deserve to understand me. They don’t deserve me.”

Denar tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity. “Maybe they don’t deserve it,” he uttered carefully. “But…I’d like to. You don’t have to tell me, but…if you wanted to, I’d listen.”

For a moment, Doomblade was silent, his mask hiding whatever expression might have crossed his face.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more measured. “You really want to know?”

Denar nodded slowly. He had him hook, line and sinker.

“Yes, I do.”

Wow, Denar’s managed to grab his attention! Good job. We’re probably gonna find out his motivations now…