Nothing.
That's what I felt.
Not fear. Not panic. Not even surprise.
Just… nothing.
The muzzle of a gun hovered inches from my temple, catching the light from the traffic signal above. I sat at a red light, windows down, night air swirling through the car. A man stood outside my door—young, brown hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His eyes trembled with fear, his hand shaking as he pointed the weapon at me.
But I didn't flinch.
My heart didn't race. My breath didn't hitch. I didn't even blink.
I just stared back at him. Calm. Cold. Unimpressed.
He hesitated.
Then, without a word, he jerked away and sped off into the night.
I followed.
We rolled side by side through the next intersection. His tires squealed against the pavement as he pretended to ram into me. I turned sharply, veering right, trying to ram into him with all my might.
His car spun, tires catching, before he bolted into a narrow alley and disappeared into the darkness. A motorcycle darted between us, cutting me off. I lost him.
But I saw it—clear and clean under his taillights:
TNR3735.
His license plate burned into my memory like a brand.
And just like that, he was gone.
But something else stayed.
An ache in my gut—a hollow, churning pit of something between rage and sickness. It gripped me and wouldn't let go.
I drove aimlessly, staring blankly at the road. The world blurred past.
A voice echoed in my head.
Do the right thing.
Call the authorities. Stop him before he does it again.
I pulled over to the shoulder and dialed the police.
The dispatcher answered in a monotone voice. She took my name, the plate number, the description. Then she said what I already knew.
"That was the right thing to do. Firearms have been outlawed nationwide since the American Riot of 2033."
But the way she said it—slow, like she didn't believe me. Like I was wasting her time.
"I'm at the corner of Delaney and Westlock," I said.
There was a pause. I could hear the disgust in her voice.
"We'll send someone out."
I waited.
And waited.
Three hours.
I called again.
"We're still en route," they promised.
I hung up, rolled my eyes, and started the car.
Somehow, I was more pissed about those three wasted hours than I was about the gun in my face.
When I pulled into the parking lot of North Houston University, the lot was nearly empty. I slumped into my seat and stared through the windshield at the stars. The sky was wide and endless, and all I could think about was that man. That car. That plate.
And then the thought came, uninvited, but sharp and clear:
Kill that man.
I didn't question it.
I didn't argue with it.
It was there. It was real. It felt… right.
A sudden knock shattered the silence.
I slightly tilt my head and looked to my left.
A tall man stood by my window, wearing a heavy black and gold biker jacket.
He wore a matching black-and-gold du-rag. His presence was calm—curious, almost amused.
"Hey," he said. "I saw what happened. You good? Man, I don't know what's wrong with people these days."
He smiled—easy, casual. Not a trace of judgment.
"You sure you're okay? Someone pulled a gun on you and shot—and you didn't even react."
I stepped out of the car. We both looked at the front fender. Three clean bullet holes pierced the metal like it was paper.
I stared.
Still didn't care.
He shrugged off his backpack and unzipped it halfway, As he did I caught the words on the back of his jacket:
Scythe Scourge
A snarling bear, teeth bared, holding a wicked-looking scythe.
"If you need a witness statement or something, I'm in Experimental Psychology. Design and Analysis of Psychological Research. Seven o'clock."
He walked away without another word, disappearing into the shadows of the campus.
What is going on with me?
Am I in shock?
No.
I'm clear. Focused.
Logical.
In Ethical Hacking, Professor Wade droned on about tracking software and new surveillance tech.
"If you run a plate number through XMware," he said, "you can find its IP—maybe even a home address, even the registered Wi-Fi device if it's active."
His words hit me like a trigger pull.
After class, I searched for the license plate. TNR3735.
A name popped up. A location. I wrote it down and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Where to now I ask myself?
Home Depot was fluorescent and cold.
Everything smelled like rubber, sawdust, and fertilizer.
I grabbed a cart.
Trash bags. Dirt. A shovel.
As I stared into the cart, something inside me clenched.
What am I doing?
I pushed it away and turned to leave.
The man from earlier appeared again—black and gold jacket gleaming.
"What you doing?" he asked, glancing into the cart.
"Nothing," I said. "Just looking around."
He stared at me for a moment. Then reached into his waistband.
And pulled out a gun.
My breath hitched—not from fear, but recognition.
"What are you doing with that?" I asked. "Guns are outlawed."
"It's one of the very few left," he replied. "My brothers made it."
He handed it to me. The cold weight sent a jolt through my hand. Goosebumps rose along my arms.
He grinned.
"Give it back tomorrow… or meet me here."
He slid me a slip of paper. An address.
It was a club I'd been to once on a date.
Only the first two floors were public. The upper floors were invitation-only.
He left, hopping on a gold-glowing motorcycle that purred like thunder.
That night, I drove to the address I'd written down from XMware. Parked across the street.
Project Mac rattled my windows, each bass hit syncing with the rush in my veins.
Boom. Boom. Clap. Boom. Bop. Boom.
I watched the house. Waited.
Then—there he was.
The man stepped out and climbed into his car.
My heart matching the beat.
Boom. Boom. Clap. Boom. Bop. Boom.
I got out, walked fast, almost running.
Gun raised.
He looked up—eyes wide with recognition.
Froze.
All the sounds in the world died.
"Please," he said.
"Give me your gun," I replied. My voice was flat. Empty.
He handed it over without a word.
"Put that umbrella out the window," I said. "And open it."
He obeyed.
I took a breath.
Started to turn away.
Hesitated.
POP POP.
The umbrella jerked. Holes ripped through the fabric.
Soft breathing then a low-pitch whistle. Then—
POP POP.
The shaking in my hands stopped.
The umbrella danced.
The car's interior was splattered in dark, wet red.
Nick taught me how to do this.
Former Delta Force.
Toughest bastard I ever knew.
He trained me to fight. To shoot. To kill if I had to.
I never thought I'd use it.
But it never left me.
A light turned on in the house.
I ran.
Got in the car.
Drove.
I didn't know where—I just knew I had to go.
Maybe if I got rid of the gun, I could stop thinking about it.
The club was dark, silent, surrounded by shadows. The bouncer at the door was massive. His glasses glowed gold as he scanned me.
"Fourth floor," he said.
That shocked me more than the shooting.
I took the elevator up.
Didn't feel guilt.
Didn't feel fear.
Just… nothing.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The fourth floor was all windows. The city glowed below like a circuit board.
Eight figures stood in black and gold jackets—each one unique, worn like a second skin.
Smooth jazz played softly in the background.
At the center sat a large desk.
A man turned to face me.
"You actually came," he said. "You don't mess around."
I stepped forward. Pulled the gun from my pocket.
Placed it on the table.
They didn't react.
"I've got another," I said, reaching for the second.
He raised a hand. "Give that one to Skull Kid."
A skinny person stepped forward, wearing a mask with wide, glowing yellow eyes made of layered screens. The smile on his face was warped—inhuman.
"You know what happens if they find out you had a gun?" skull kid asked.
"No."
"Fifty years and two death penalties," skull kid said. "One for this life. One for the next. They'll wait for your cells to regenerate. Then kill you again. Or just put enough holes in you to make sure that never happens."
"What if that guy survives, do we have to clean up your mess?" someone asked.
I shrugged.
"He won't."
The man behind the desk grinned.
"You know your next move?"
I shrugged again.
Two men moved. One punched me—hard.
Ringing in my ears. Stars in my eyes.
I came to and grabbed his waist. Threw him down.
Another charged.
I spun—meia lua de compasso.
He dropped hard like a sack of potatoes.
Then Cleon moved.
His kick crushed my ribs like glass.
Pain. Real pain.
I collapsed.
And for the first time that night…
I felt alive.
He smiled. Lifted me.
Hit me again. Again.
Then he stopped. A woman approached.
Injected me with something cold and burning.
My ribs snapped back together.
I gasped, amazed.
"What… what is that?"
"She's studying to be a doctor," Cleon said. "Her name's Lokasenna. Goes to NHU too."
Then he stepped forward.
"I'm Master Chief of the Scythe Scourge. Cleon."
He picked up a jacket.
Same colors. But this one had a hood and shimmered—like the night sky.
It was beautiful.
He held it out.
"Welcome to the family, Radahn."