I get out of the taxi, the door shutting with a dull thud that echoes faintly in the cool night air. The driver doesn't linger — he pulls away, leaving me alone under the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. The city feels different at night. Not just quieter, but sharper, like every sound is a signal and every shadow is watching. I take a slow breath, feeling the crisp bite of the air in my lungs, and set out toward the nearest building's fire exit.
The metal rungs are cold under my hands as I climb, each step ringing faintly in the stillness. My heart is steady, but there's a low hum of anticipation in my chest — the kind of feeling you get before the curtain rises, before the first move in a fight. At the top, I enhance my limbs, feeling the familiar surge of prana flood my muscles, and leap from balcony to balcony. The city unfolds beneath me in fragments — lit windows, dark alleys, the occasional flash of headlights — until I reach the rooftop.
I situate myself at the edge, crouching low, and enhance my eyes. The world sharpens instantly. The darkness peels back, revealing detail after detail — the glint of glass shards on the pavement, the faint steam rising from a manhole, the subtle sway of a sign in the breeze. I can see for kilometers, at least four, and the sheer clarity is intoxicating. I scan slowly, methodically, taking breaks to avoid burning through my reserves too quickly.
It's maybe twenty minutes before I spot them — three figures moving with the jittery, furtive energy of people about to do something stupid. They're clustered near the front of a small store, one of them fumbling with the lock. My pulse quickens. This is it. My first real test.
I enhance my legs and leap, the wind rushing past my ears as I land on the rooftop across the street. My eyes track them easily now, every twitch and shift of their bodies clear as day. I position myself above them, the moon at my back, casting my shadow down like a warning. For a moment, I just stand there, letting the image burn into my mind — the lone figure above, the prey below. Aura farming, like all the greats before me.
Then I drop.
The impact of my landing startles them, their heads snapping up in unison. I don't waste the opening. I blitz forward, my body moving faster than their eyes can follow. My fist connects with the first man's face — there's a satisfying crack as he crumples. The second takes a punch to the sternum, the air leaving him in a choked gasp. The third gets a brutal kidney shot that sends him to his knees, clutching his side.
I run Structural Analysis on all three, my mind flicking through their vitals. Alive. Hurt, but not fatally. Good enough. I strip them of their belongings — two cheap knives, 400 yen, and, bizarrely, a stick of dynamite. Pitiful haul. No wonder they were robbing a store.
The adrenaline hits me like a wave. My hands are steady, but my heart is pounding now, and there's a strange lightness in my chest. This must be what all those self-insert MCs feel when they take down their first bad guys — that heady mix of triumph and invincibility. I leap back to the rooftops, scanning again, hungry for more.
It doesn't take long. A few blocks away, movement catches my eye — more figures, more trouble. I move quickly, but as I get closer, I realize this isn't a simple mugging. It's a gang war. Two groups, weapons in hand, squaring off in the street. Still riding the high from my first fight, I don't hesitate. I drop into the nearest man, projecting a reinforced kitchen knife mid-fall. The blade bites into his arm, and my follow-up punch sends him sprawling.
Every head turns toward me. For a heartbeat, there's confusion. Then, without a word, they form an unspoken alliance — me first, each other later. They rush me.
The first man I hit goes down, but another takes his place instantly, blocking my next strike. Pain flares in my back as someone kicks me from behind. I'm surrounded now, blows coming from every direction. I give as good as I get, but fatigue is creeping in. My body will give out before my circuits do, and that's a death sentence.
"Fuck it." I project twenty knives at once, sending them spinning into the crowd. The strain on my circuits is immediate, but the sudden barrage buys me space. I blitz forward, snatching one knife from the air and driving it into a man's gut, then pivoting to do the same to two more. The rest dodge or take glancing hits, but I keep the remaining blades circling above me, ready to strike.
I fight like that for five grueling minutes, weaving Kiritsugu's ingrained skills into every movement. Anyone who tries to flank me gets a knife to the ribs. Anyone who presses too close meets reinforced steel. When it's over, twenty men are down, bleeding and groaning. I'm breathing hard, my limbs heavy, but I'm still standing. A smile tugs at my lips — I survived.
Headlights wash over me, killing the smile instantly. Three cars roll up, doors opening to spill out eighteen more men, all armed. My body is screaming for rest, but my mind is too far gone into recklessness.
They charge. I reinforce both arms and project an AK-47 into each hand. The weight is perfect, the balance familiar thanks to Kiritsugu's memories. I squeeze the triggers. The alley erupts in thunder and muzzle flash. The gang members are caught completely off guard, and the scene turns ugly fast. Blood pools on the pavement, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. My stomach twists, but I keep firing until both guns click empty.
When the last casing hits the ground, I dismiss the projections. The silence that follows is deafening. I stagger toward the wall, wanting nothing more than to sit, but the faint wail of sirens cuts through the night. Someone heard the gunfire. Of course they did.
My circuits are screaming now, every projection, every reinforcement adding to the strain. I force one last reinforcement into my legs and leap, bounding from window to window until I hit the rooftops. I run, jumping from building to building, putting as much distance between me and the scene as I can.
A few blocks away, I collapse. I let the reinforcement drop, my circuits sighing in relief even as my body howls in protest. Every muscle aches, every bruise throbs. I try to stand, but my legs won't cooperate. The rooftop is hard and cold beneath me, but I don't care. My first night as a vigilante has wrung me dry. I close my eyes, and sleep takes me.
When I wake, the sun is warm on my face. My body feels whole again, my circuits rested and ready. For a moment, I just lie there, enjoying the quiet. Then a wrongness creeps in — subtle at first, then undeniable. I sit up slowly, squinting against the light, and it hits me.
I'm me. Not Shirou Emiya. Morning has come, and with it, the mask has slipped.
Ah, hell.