A man in ragged, dirty clothes sprinted through a narrow alleyway, lungs burning and legs trembling. He wasn't used to running. But today, he had no choice.
His life was on the line.
SNAP—
He didn't dare look back. Something monstrous was chasing him. Panic surged through him, and he looked up, desperate for comfort from the shining sun above. Yet the light couldn't reach him—not here.
For a split second, he gave in to the urge.
He looked back.
And saw the darkness.
No, not just any darkness—gold.
A figure emerged, adorned with floating golden patterns, like fragments of embroidery dancing through the air without fabric to bind them. They shimmered with beauty, yet nothing about it felt human.
He knew what was chasing him.
The monster. The black-and-gold nightmare. The mask.
"F-Fuck—!" he choked, forcing his head forward again. He didn't want to remember. He couldn't afford to.
If he faltered—if he slowed down for even a moment—he was dead.
SWISH—
His foot caught on something.
He stumbled. Fell hard.
No, he realized too late—it wasn't just clumsiness. Something had tripped him.
His eyes flicked to the ground. A small white, stone-like block had jutted up beneath his foot. Out of nowhere.
The danger crashed back into his awareness like a tidal wave. He scrambled to get up, crawling, kicking.
Then came the scream.
A horrible, soul-wrenching sound tore from his throat as it stepped on his leg.
The weight was immense. Bones shattered.
Pain exploded through him.
Through watery eyes, he looked up—and got his first good look at the thing chasing him.
A jester.
Its clothes were an eerie blend of black and gold. Its shoes flopped absurdly, mockingly, with every step. A jester's hat drooped to both sides of its head.
And its face was hidden behind a mask.
A tragedy mask in black. A comedy mask in gold. Both fused into one grotesque visage.
The man's blood ran cold.
It spoke.
The man's blood ran cold.
"Finally caught you…"
The voice was strangely youthful—childlike, even. That only made the creature more terrifying.
"W-What do you want?!" the man screamed.
The Jester puffed out in annoyance and shook its head. In a swift motion, a long dagger materialized in its hand—seemingly formed from thin air—and it drove it straight into the man's thigh.
Before the man could cry out, the Jester clamped a thin hand over his mouth.
"Shh."
The creature raised a finger to the lips of its twisted mask—a gesture that only deepened the horror.
"Now you're going to tell me what I want to know," the Jester said, tone eerily cheerful. "Or I'm going to torture you. Straight up. I'm a very busy man. That okay?"
The childlike voice, paired with such cruelty, made the man's skin crawl.
"W-What is it that you want?!" he asked, his voice cracking as the last shred of composure shattered.
He couldn't see the Jester's real face—but he could feel its grin.
"Finally compliant? Good. Very good!" the Jester sang, clapping gleefully.
The man could swear that the thing's comedy mask moved. It seemed as if its grin turned wider, somehow.
In the next instant, the man was slammed to the ground. The Jester leaned in close, whispering into his ear:
"Little imp, little imp… tell me what the devil did with the body~"
"I—"
He choked on his words, too terrified to continue. But through sheer will, he managed to say, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Wrong answer.
The Jester's hand wrapped around his throat, choking him without hesitation. The man clawed at the grip, flailed, tried anything—but the monster's strength was inhuman. Worse than the pain was the aura—a heavy, soul-crushing pressure that gnawed at his sanity.
While one hand kept squeezing his windpipe, the Jester used the other to rummage through the man's pockets. After a few seconds, it found something.
The grip loosened.
The Jester rose to its feet, holding up a small object. It studied it carefully, turning it between gloved fingers. A keychain.
It read: Demons.
The Jester tossed it onto the gasping man's chest.
"No more bullshitting, okay?" it hissed. "I know you're part of the Big Man's empire. And I know you work under the so-called Demon of the Underworld."
It waited, giving the man a moment to breathe.
"Calling yourselves demons? What a joke. Imps would be more fitting for nobodies like you." The Jester cackled at its own insult.
"I—I swear," the man gasped, coughing. "The Demon said he killed him. He didn't bring the body. That's all I know!"
The Jester tilted its head. It was impossible to know what it was thinking. No visible skin. No hair. Not even the glint of an eye behind the twin-faced mask.
But the man could feel it wasn't satisfied.
"Argh!"
The Jester clawed at his mask, twitching violently as he turned away. "You have to be lying. You have to. Father wants the body… I have to get him the body…"
"...Father?" the man croaked.
The Jester froze. His twitching stopped. Slowly, he straightened his back and turned.
The mask was different now.
The mouth had shifted fully into tragedy, and the eyes— narrow and monstrous.
The man stumbled back. One step. Then another.
Then he turned and ran.
The Jester didn't follow.
He strolled.
But even distance couldn't save the man.
From the cracked pavement beneath his feet, a sharp white spike erupted, impaling his chest. The man's body fell limp before he even had time to scream.
Death came instantly.
A figure approached. Tall, graceful, almost silent. He wore a deep purple robe, white gloves, and a pristine white mask with no features. His dark brown hair was slicked back neatly, unbothered by the alley's grime.
The Jester, whose mask had returned to its half-tragedy, half-comedy form, watched him with narrowed eyes.
He let out a groan. "Why did you do that?"
The figure paused and tilted his head. Then, in a flat, youthful voice, he answered with cool deliberation:
"He had no more use? Better to leave no witnesses."
There wasn't a trace of remorse in his tone. For him, murder was no different than sweeping dust from a floor.
"You should dispose of the body now. We'd best be on our way."
Jester groaned again, this time like a child whose playtime had been unfairly cut short.
Still grumbling, he bent over the corpse and summoned a dark flame in his palm. The fire devoured the body, reducing it to ash in seconds.
"He could have still been useful," the Jester muttered.
"Doubtful," came the immediate reply.
"We can't just go to Father empty-handed," he pressed.
But the figure said nothing. He merely stood there, unmoving. Watching.
The Jester's voice cracked slightly. "Why… Why is Father so interested in that… that UNKNOWN?" His words were sharp, spiteful. "Does… does he not want me anymore?"
His voice trembled, as if on the verge of shattering. The mask tilted down slightly, as though trying to hide something.
The figure gave no response. No comfort. Just cold silence.
But the Jester recovered quickly. His mask twisted, forming a sneer.
"You're a real Riot, you know that?" he spat.
The figure tilted his head. "Yes? I am the real Riot?"
The Jester sighed, exasperated. "No, see, it's a joke. Because—ugh, never mind."
They both turned suddenly.
They had sensed others approaching.
Without another word, the Jester slipped into the shadows, melting into the darkness of the alleyway.
The robed man landed effortlessly on the roof of a nearby building—yet he lingered, crouching low as he observed.
"Darklight! Why did you suddenly run?!" came a sharp, almost feminine voice.
"I—" Nicholas Darklight hesitated, clearly caught off guard. "Sorry. Thought I heard something…"
He paused again, wrinkling his nose and waving a hand in front of his face. "Ugh. Smelled something, too."
From above, the robed man's mask seemed to be fixated on the boy, Darklight.
There was no visible change in the robed man's posture.
Only his tone betrayed something deeper.
"…Strong," he murmured.
It was the first hint of emotion in his otherwise flat voice.
And then, like smoke carried by the wind, he was gone.
***
"Café… Grind… Order…" Nicholas read the sign slowly, eyeing the name of the café Sydney had dragged him to.
A small, cozy-looking building nestled between two apartment complexes. On one of the windows, there was a flyer that said 'LOOKING FOR NEW HIRE.'
"Is this your first time here?" she asked, curiosity laced in her tone.
"…Yeah. Is this a new place? I mean, I don't go to many cafés, but I walk around the city a lot. Don't think I've seen this one before."
Sydney tapped a finger against her chin, thinking. "It opened a few months ago, I think. That might be why."
"Mhm." Nicholas nodded, but his mind was elsewhere.
His thoughts circled back to the alleyway from earlier. He could've sworn he heard a scream. Yet when he got there, there was nothing.
Nothing… except the stench of blood and ash.
It unsettled him. Ash wasn't supposed to have a scent—at least not like that. He wanted to investigate further, but with Sydney beside him, he'd decided against it. For now. He made a mental note to go back alone.
"Earth to Darklight? Earth to Darklight?"
Nicholas blinked, snapping back to reality just in time to see Sydney waving her hand in front of his face.
"Yeah?"
"Have you even been listening to anything I've been saying?" Her tone had a slight edge to it.
"I have. You said it opened a few months ago, you've been here twice, and they've got some of the best coffee in the city." He replied coolly.
"I—" She paused, surprised. "So you were listening?"
Nicholas gave a slight shrug. "Just because it looks like I'm not paying attention doesn't mean I'm not."
"Right, right…" she muttered with a sigh. "Let's just go in, yeah?"
"Sure," Nicholas agreed.
Neither of them moved.
One second. Two. Three.
"Oh." Nicholas quickly reached for the door and held it open, realizing what she'd been waiting for.
"Thank you," she said, voice neutral. With a small nod, she stepped inside.
"…Perhaps this was a mistake," Nicholas mumbled to himself.
The inside was a blend of polished wood and muted green, warm lighting casting soft shadows across leather chairs and low tables. A faint buzz of conversation lingered in the air, paired with the faint aroma of roasted beans and vanilla.
Sydney glanced around for a moment before nodding toward a corner booth. "There. Let's sit."
Nicholas followed without a word, noting how comfortable she seemed here. She slid into the seat, already reaching for the menu, while he sank into the booth across from her.
For a brief moment, things were calm...
He didn't like it.
He felt like he was being watched.
Nicholas shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the motion subtle but enough for Sydney to notice.
"Are the seats not comfortable enough?" she asked casually, though a hint of concern slipped into her tone.
Nicholas rubbed his eyes, an odd, crawling unease pressing at his chest. Something wasn't right. He wanted to leave—badly—but ditching Sydney now would've been incredibly rude.
"It's fine," he said with a quick smile, waving off her concern. "So… what do you recommend?" He chuckled nervously, flipping open the menu.
Sydney gave him a suspicious look, adjusted her glasses, and cleared her throat. "You like milkshakes, don't you?"
"Uh… yeah?" Nicholas narrowed his eyes. "How'd you know that?"
"So I think you should try a caffè latte," she said, neatly dodging the question.
Nicholas blinked. "A what?"
"Milk coffee."
"Oh. Why didn't you just say that?"
Sydney briefly considered slapping herself, but resisted. Barely.
"Are you two ready to order?"
The voice came so flat and devoid of life it could've belonged to a ghost. Nicholas turned to see their waitress.
A girl, not much older than they, yet very mature-looking, stood by their table. Her skin was porcelain-pale, her eyes a piercing gold that felt almost unnatural. There was a beauty spot just underneath her right eye; it was quite small but still visible. Her hair was white, with a strange golden sheen, tied into a perfect bun. Dressed in a crisp maid-style uniform, she carried herself with rigid, emotionless precision. Despite the lack of expression, there was no denying it—she was beautiful.
Nicholas stared.
The waitress's blank face twisted ever so slightly into a look of pure disgust. "Sir, I have to ask you to refrain from staring at me with such a repulsive expression."
Nicholas short-circuited. "Wha—huh?"
SMACK.
A menu collided with the side of his head.
"The hell—?!" He looked over to see Sydney scowling at him, arms crossed, righteous fury in her eyes.
"I take my eyes off you for one second and you're already causing trouble!" she hissed through gritted teeth.
Sydney turned to the waitress and gave a short, apologetic bow. "I'm really sorry about his behavior."
The waitress returned to her neutral expression. "Apology accepted. Your order?"
Nicholas watched the whole scene unfold with a deadpan stare. What did I even do? Also—wait. "Your" order? Do I not get to order?
"I'll take a black, and he'll have a café latte," Sydney said without missing a beat.
"Understood." The waitress jotted down the order and turned away without a second glance.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes as she walked off. Friendly. He kept that thought to himself—something told him even thinking too loud might get him thrown out.
"Also, Miss Prez, how come you ordered for me without even asking?" Nicholas made no attempt to hide his displeasure.
"What?" Sydney gave him a look that practically screamed: Are you seriously questioning my authority right now? "I'm the one paying, aren't I?"
Nicholas raised a brow, but then shrugged. "Fair."
An awkward silence settled between them like a fog.
They both instinctively reached for their phones, pretending to scroll, avoiding each other's gaze. Minutes passed in that digital cold war.
Geh—what do people even talk about when they run out of topics? Nicholas mentally groaned.
Eventually, he circled back.
"Sooo…" Nicholas began, his tone oddly sheepish. "...How early am I supposed to show up tomorrow?"
Sydney raised an eyebrow, studying him. "Around 7 AM should be fine."
"...Right. Cool~." Nicholas drew out the word just as the waitress returned.
"We hope you enjoy the drinks." With that, she vanished again—no insults this time, surprisingly.
Sydney brought the cup to her lips and took a single, graceful sip before setting it back down. She looked over to see how her companion was faring, only to stifle a laugh.
Nicholas was glaring at his drink like it had just insulted his ancestors.
"Just… try it," Sydney muttered, dropping her head onto the table, arms covering her face in exhausted defeat.
"Alright, alright." Nicholas brought the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip.
"Hm. This is pretty good," he admitted.
"See-"
Before she could finish, Nicholas lifted the cup and chugged the entire thing in one go.
"AAHHH!" Sydney shrieked so loud it made Nicholas flinch and cover his ears.
"Oi, keep it down! What's your problem?" he asked, wincing.
"You!" she pointed an accusatory finger. "You are my problem! You don't chug it! You're supposed to sip it and talk in between!"
Nicholas stared at her, blank-faced. "Well, that's dumb."
"You're dumb!"
Her words were sharp, but her voice held the warmth of laughter.
And, strangely enough, they both enjoyed themselves.
Roughly an hour later, they left the café.
Sydney nearly exploded from frustration after Nicholas kept trying to pay for his drink. In the end, he caved and let her.
Outside, she huffed and gave him a sideways glare.
"Miss Prez, I get the feeling you're mad at me for some reason."
"You're so difficult," she muttered, loud and clear.
"Eh? That came out of nowhere. You picking a fight?"
She shot him a death glare.
"That was a joke. My mistake," he corrected quickly.
She crossed her arms. "Didn't I say it was my treat?"
"I know, I know," Nicholas said, glancing away, a bit sheepish. "I just thought… since I actually liked it, I should pay for it."
His voice was unusually sincere, and Sydney blinked at him, unsure how to respond. "Uh-huh." She let it slide, chalking it up as Darklight being weird, again.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Darklight. Don't be late." Her tone turned sharp again, the signature icy glare returning.
There it is. That scary stare again. Nicholas gave an awkward smile. "Yeah, I'll be there… It's getting late. Want me to walk you-?"
"Eh? Walk me where? Home?" she asked, surprised.
He raised a hand. "No, just to the bus station."
Sydney turned away, exhaled deeply, then looked back at him. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll be fine. Besides…"
Her expression soured as she pointed a finger at him. "You've pissed me off enough today!"
"Eh? I wasn't trying to."
"That just makes it worse, doesn't it?"
"A—" Nicholas paused, then nodded. "No, no. You're right."
She giggled and gave a small wave.
Nicholas lifted a hand in return but didn't wave back.
He still had something to take care of.
And he hadn't forgotten that feeling from earlier.
The sensation of being watched.
The sun was beginning to set, though it remained bright enough to navigate. Good. It would be better to investigate before nightfall.
He thought returning to the alleyway would spark fear. Dredge up anxiety. But surprisingly, it didn't. Maybe the last month's worth of trauma had dulled something in him. Maybe he'd developed a tolerance for horrible things.
He shined his phone's flashlight down the narrow corridor, cautiously advancing. He could have created a mask to see better—one that amplified vision—but he'd made a promise to himself not to rely on his power too much. Not until he understood it fully.
Only use it when absolutely necessary.
Ever since the fight with that wendigo-like creature, he hadn't felt right. Afterward, he'd vomited up a thick, black sludge. He didn't know what it was, only that it was wrong. A side effect. A warning.
So, he chose to abstain at least until he could figure out what the power was doing to him.
After the incident in the Villain District, something inside him had shifted.
He felt... indifferent. More than before.
He didn't like it. Then again, he didn't like a lot of things, did he?
"Blood…" he muttered, casting the beam of light across the ground. Faint crimson stains trailed toward the back wall.
He winced, covering his nose. That smell again.
Not of something burnt—but something worse. Something rotten, sinister, suffocating.
It was familiar. Too familiar.
Lucian.
The man who had supposedly been "awakened" with a dark-type attribute. Said he could create a suffocating black fog. But Nicholas knew better. Lucian's power wasn't fog—it was Darkness. The same as his own.
Only Lucian didn't understand what he had. He'd barely scratched the surface.
Nicholas had scratched deeper because a voice had told him.
The power of darkness will grow as your understanding of the world grows.
That's what the voice said. But why him? Why not Lucian? Why hadn't he heard it too?
"Where am I even going with this…" Nicholas sighed, shaking his head. "Right. Point is, I'm not the only one with this power. That means… others might have it too."
He crouched beside the bloodstains. The stench was thicker here. Almost like it clung to his lungs.
"Whoever was here… used darkness." He didn't know how he knew that.
He just knew.
'Is it like a stand user thing?' He mused to himself.
The sky was dimming. Time to go.
As he stepped out of the alleyway, he muttered aloud, "City's getting more dangerous by the day… and the heroes aren't doing anything about it."
He bit his thumb. "Do I have to be the one to act?"
SLAP
"Gack—!" Nicholas recoiled as someone struck his back with enough force to knock the wind out of him.
A familiar voice followed: "Nicholas, my boy!"
He spun around, startled, only to find a man with neatly combed brown hair, a stubble beard, and round glasses. His obsidian eyes gleamed with kindness.
"Oh. It's just you, Uncle Edwards." Nicholas exhaled, easing his tensed shoulders.
Despite his slightly chubby build, Edwards had somehow managed to sneak up on him. Like a well-fed ninja.
The man beamed. "Of course it's me. How are you, Nicholas? Your father? Your brother?"
"They're doing good."
"...And you?"
Nicholas glanced back toward the alley. For a second, he swore he saw someone standing there. But when he looked again—
Nothing.
"Ahaha… Could be better," Nicholas replied, forcing a smile. "Kinda feels like I'm going crazy."
What else was he supposed to say?
Edwards gave him a look of concern but said nothing.
Meanwhile, on a rooftop nearby, a figure in a deep purple robe stood silently. A faceless white mask stared down at the boy below.
"...Interesting," the robed man whispered.
At that very moment, Nicholas felt it.
A horrible chill. A foreboding spike of unease in his gut.
Geh– I have a feeling something bad is gonna happen. Soon.