– We 're Done
1ST P.O.V
It was late in the afternoon, the sun slanting low and casting long shadows across the campus pavement as I walked steadily toward the dorm. The weight of the day tugged at my mind after the counselor's meeting. The distant murmur of students faded into chatter, the rustle of leaves stirred by a light breeze—it all felt muted somehow, like the world was waiting for something just beyond my grasp.
Then, from behind me, footsteps quickened—urgent, uneven, catching up.
"Silas!" Amy's voice cut through the quiet air, sharp and breathless.
I didn't turn immediately—not out of stubbornness, but because a knot coiled tighter inside me. The rapid beat of her steps grew louder, closer.
"Silas, wait!" she called again, desperation threading her tone.
I slowed my pace, letting her catch up.
She stepped in front of me, chest rising slightly, cheeks flushed—maybe from the chase or something deeper. She brushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, eyes flickering up to meet mine, searching for something—understanding, forgiveness, or maybe just the right words.
"Can we just talk?" she asked softly.
I folded my arms, setting the barrier between us even as I kept my voice calm but firm. "Sure. Talk."
She swallowed, anxiety tightening her throat. "Look, what you saw... it's not what you think."
I tilted my head slightly, a half-smirk creeping onto my lips—though it wasn't the amused kind. My words came cold and sharp. "Oh? Then help me out here. Because from where I was standing, I saw you laughing with some dude. Real close. Real familiar—like I wasn't even in the picture anymore. But hey—maybe I'm wrong."
Amy blinked, startled, then met my gaze honestly. "He's just a friend."
"Right. That classic opener," I said, voice low but biting. "So, what am I supposed to think? Because clearly, I don't understand what I saw. Maybe help me out here, Amy. Just don't lie to me."
The accusation hit her like a blow. Her lips parted as if to argue, protest, say anything to soften it—but she held back. Instead, her eyes dropped to the cracked pavement beneath our feet.
A thick silence stretched between us.
After a long breath, she exhaled, releasing something she'd held inside for too long.
"His name's Denzel. We... had a thing going. It was brief and before you and I ever got close. Back when we were just classmates, and you barely said anything outside sarcasm and disappearing for hours."
My jaw clenched, muscles tightening painfully.
She pressed on, voice fragile but steady. "We tried something casual, but it didn't feel right. We broke it off. He left school for a while. But then, when you were in New York, he came back. We bumped into each other again. Talked. Then we talked more. And before I knew it, things started to fall back into place. Familiar. Easy."
I said nothing. Let her fill the silence with truth.
"He makes me laugh," she admitted quietly. "And yeah, it felt good not having to wonder where someone disappeared to every night without explanation."
That landed like a punch.
"I wasn't expecting it," she said quickly, like explaining herself before I could speak. "It just happened."
"No one just lets things happen," I muttered, voice rough withheld-back emotion. "You let it happen."
"I didn't cheat on you, Silas," she said, voice trembling but firm.
I gave her a cold, bitter smile—one that didn't reach my eyes. "Didn't have to. The moment you started whatever this was with him—while I was out there risking everything—you made your choice."
Tears welled but didn't fall. She looked up slowly, searching my face for mercy, or maybe forgiveness.
"I didn't think you cared," she whispered. "You never said anything. Never made it clear we were... official."
I let the silence stretch, heavy and raw.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe I never made anything clear.
But that didn't mean it didn't matter.
My voice dropped, distant but resolute. "I hope he can keep up with your world. Because mine's too real for games."
She reached out and lightly gripped my arm.
"Silas, please."
I didn't pull away.
But I didn't stop walking either.
Later that night, there was a patient but insistent knock at my door. Not rushed—like Devon was trying to avoid stirring up a storm.
I cracked the door open just enough to see him leaning against the frame, wearing only a white tank top, clutching a microwaved bowl of ramen with chopsticks poised mid-air.
"Yo," he said, slurping a noodle, eyes scanning me. "You good?"
I shrugged, feeling way more slouch than good. "Yeah. Why?" My voice sounded flat, shoulders heavy like they carried a city on them.
Devon didn't buy it. "Dude, you've been... off. Even for you. And Amy's been acting weird too."
I didn't say anything right away.
"She's got her own life," I finally muttered.
He narrowed his eyes, cutting through the excuse. "You saw her with that dude, huh? The one hanging around campus?"
I stayed silent.
Devon sighed, pushed off the doorframe, and stepped inside without waiting for a welcome. "Aight, man. Time to talk."
He dropped down on the edge of my bed just as I closed the door behind him. Without a word, I turned to my desk, slid my hand into my shadow pocket, and pulled out a six-pack of beer.
Devon's eyes went wide, half amused, half impressed. "Yo—what the—?"
I tossed him a cold one. "Been stashing stuff in there since I figured out I could. Never know when a drink's gonna come in handy."
"Man, you stay wild," he laughed.
We cracked open the beers and took the first sloppy sips in silence, the kind that starts loosening thoughts.
After a moment, he asked, "You really into her?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Or… I was. I don't even know anymore."
Devon leaned back, shaking his head like a teacher sighing at a lesson hard learned. "Love's a tricky game, bro. You ever hear about me and Tasha?"
"Nah, what happened?"
"That thing crashed and burned before midterms. We were vibin'—same jokes, indie horror flicks, all that. Swore I was all in. Then bam, she ghosted me. Turns out, she was still hung up on her ex back in Philly."
I snorted, managing a small laugh. "Ouch."
"Yeah. Taught me to stop throwing my chips on people who got bags from their last trip still hangin' around."
I nodded slowly, taste of beer bitter but familiar. "Guess we all got ghosts."
We leaned back, eyes drifting to the city lights blinking outside the window. The silence spread between us like a heavy blanket.
Devon broke it, voice softer now, real talk. "Look, I'm not saying what she did was right. But bro, you're gone like... a lot. Most people don't get what that means—being with someone never fully there. And when you're here, you're tired, secretive, always watching your back. That's gotta be hard on anyone who ain't living your life."
His gaze locked on mine. "But that don't give her a free pass either. If she wanted out, she should've said it. Not let some old flame waltz back in and smile his way into her time."
He stood, pacing a bit, then turned back. "So, it comes down to this—do you think she's worth the work? Cause if not, say your piece and walk. But if you do? Talk to her. Lay it all out. Don't let it rot in your chest. That's how guys end up sad, drunk, and stuck listening to slow R&B alone at night."
I snorted again. "You speaking from experience?"
"Too many sad playlists, bro. Too many."
We clinked cans, letting the cold clang drown some of the weight hanging between us, and let the beer do what it was made to do.
[3rd P.O.V]
Sentinel crouched motionless in the deep shadows of a crumbling rooftop, the cold night wrapping around him like a second skin. Through the ARIES Node's discreet feed, whispered voices from the alley below drifted up, jagged shards of conversation slicing through the city's ever-present hum—the distant wail of sirens, the rattle of neon signs, the faint clang of a loose pipe.
"I'm telling you, Sentinel's gone for good. Deadbolt's moving pieces. The Council's setting up a meeting," one growled, voice low and rough, coated in paranoia.
"Meeting? Hell, you mean an ambush. No way Price and the Twins sit down without guns cocked," the other hissed, eyes darting nervously between shadows.
Sentinel exhaled slowly; patience was a weapon no less sharp than his steel grip. Then, without a sound, he dropped from the rooftop. A black blur in the night, his hand shot out like a grapple hook made of iron, seizing the ankle of the first speaker before either could register the attack.
The world abruptly twisted as Sentinel's vantage point shifted three stories up—gravity mocked, the thug dangled upside down over the alley's hard pavement, held fast by a vice-like grip.
"Start talking," Sentinel's voice was a low, threatening growl that swallowed the night.
"Man, I ain't—" The thug's protests were cut short as Sentinel released him.
A scream pierced the air—razor sharp but abruptly silenced as Sentinel vanished and reappeared above, catching the thug just before impact. He dangled there once more, wind tugging at his clothes, terror widening his eyes.
"I can do this all night," Sentinel warned, the echo of steel in his words.
The thug gagged, swallowing his fear. "Fine, fine! Look, I'm with Deadbolt. He's got every gun in the city talking—loading up on assault rifles, shotguns, explosives. Says there's a truce meeting coming, but nobody believes it's peaceful." He swallowed hard, glancing over his shoulder. "Harbor. Rivertown. By the loading cranes. Later this week."
Sentinel's grip didn't loosen. "And Reeko?"
The thug spat on the ground below. "Dead. Off the grid. No one knows who put him down—Price's crew, the Twins, maybe even Deadbolt himself for all I know."
Sentinel's eyes narrowed. "Why the weapons haul?"
The thug's shoulders shook. "Because if this 'truce' turns out what everyone fears, it'll be a goddamn bloodbath. Deadbolt's making sure everyone's ready to be the last one standing."
A siren screamed nearby. The night deepened as Sentinel dropped the thug back on the rooftop. Without another word, he melted once again into the darkness—an unseen shadow poised at the edge of a gathering storm.
Scene 3 – Interrogation and Intel
Sentinel crouched motionless in the deep shadows of a crumbling rooftop, the cold night wrapping around him like a second skin. Through the ARIES Node's discreet feed, whispered voices from the alley below drifted up, jagged shards of conversation slicing through the city's ever-present hum—the distant wail of sirens, the rattle of neon signs, the faint clang of a loose pipe.
"I'm telling you, Sentinel's gone for good. Deadbolt's moving pieces. The Council's setting up a meeting," one growled, voice low and rough, coated in paranoia.
"Meeting? Hell, you mean an ambush. No way Price and the Twins sit down without guns cocked," the other hissed, eyes darting nervously between shadows.
Sentinel exhaled slowly; patience was a weapon no less sharp than his steel grip. Then, without a sound, he dropped from the rooftop. A black blur in the night, his hand shot out like a grapple hook made of iron, seizing the ankle of the first speaker before either could register the attack.
The world abruptly twisted as Sentinel's vantage point shifted three stories up—gravity mocked, the thug dangled upside down over the alley's hard pavement, held fast by a vice-like grip.
"Start talking," Sentinel's voice was a low, threatening growl that swallowed the night.
"Man, I ain't—" The thug's protests were cut short as Sentinel released him.
A scream pierced the air—razor sharp but abruptly silenced as Sentinel vanished and reappeared above, catching the thug just before impact. He dangled there once more, wind tugging at his clothes, terror widening his eyes.
"I can do this all night," Sentinel warned, the echo of steel in his words.
"Fine, fine! Look, I'm with Deadbolt," the thug stammered, voice rough like gravel. "He's been moving fast, like this whole city's a chessboard and he's three moves ahead. Every corner, every street—he's got guys watchin', listenin'. Said the Council's sitting down soon—but this ain't no peace talk, nah. It's a setup."
He swallowed hard, eyes flicking nervously toward the dark alley below. "Deadbolt's been arming up his crew like never before—assault rifles, shotguns, even explosives. Said if things go south, he wants his men ready to gut the city if that's what it takes. It's like a war council, man. Every shipment's in, every gun loaded, every muscle twitching."
"They're all scrambling—Price's boys, the Twins, even those loose cannons nobody knows about. Deadbolt doesn't trust a single one, but he's forced to play their game. The harbour's the stage next week—the loading cranes. That's where they're supposed to meet. But no one expects a handshake. It's all about survival now. No truce. Just whoever stands last."
He paused, swallowing thickly, voice dropping almost to a whisper. "And you wanna know something? Deadbolt trusts no one — keeps his cards close, and no one but him knows who's really pulling strings behind the scenes. This meeting? It's the calm before the storm."
A siren screamed nearby. The night deepened as Sentinel dropped the thug back on the rooftop. Without another word, he melted once again into the darkness—an unseen shadow poised at the edge of a gathering storm.
Rivertown Harbor lay smothered beneath a suffocating blanket of fog and darkness, the night air sharp with brine and burning oil. Towering cranes formed a skeleton skyline, their booms reaching over endless ranks of steel containers like arms poised to strike. The water below murmured secrets, stirring the warped planks of the pier, while distant city lights flickered against the haze—the world outside, oblivious to the storm gathering within.
Somewhere amidst the gloom, a rat darted from the base of a container, startled by the crunch of tires on gravel. Headlights punched jagged holes in the fog: three black sedans glided into the yard, engines purring with understated menace. The doors opened in perfectly timed order. Madame Price stepped out first—her silhouette regal in the night, the silver of her hair catching the faint glow of harbor lamps, eyes reflecting calculated patience and disdain. Her security detail fanned out, each movement rehearsed, each glance sharp.
A minute passed—a tense, loaded silence—before battered SUVs and muscle cars rumbled into sight from the southern end. Doors slammed. In the mist stepped the Twins, Lash and Muzzle. Lash was a predator carved from shadow, scanning sightlines, marking escape routes, fingers caressing the hilt of a combat knife sheathed at his side. Muzzle, ever hungry for chaos, wore a wild smirk, twirling one of his twin SMGs while the other hung loose at his hip—cocksure, reveling in anticipation.
Price waited at the center of the chaos, tension crackling like static. Her voice, low and precise, cut through the fog: "Where is he?"
Lash's reply was like ice. "Deadbolt has a flair for drama. Likes to taste the tension."
Muzzle clicked his tongue, a savage grin spreading. "Or maybe he's gutless. Likes watching us sweat."
One of Price's men shifted, drawing the tiniest inch of steel from his jacket. Lash caught the movement with a quick flicker of his gaze—he missed nothing.
From the distant tide came a roar, swelling as a matte-black SUV cut through the silence. It parked, doors aligned perfectly with Price's convoy—a predator taking position. Deadbolt climbed out, broad and looming, a tactical coat bristling with reinforced panels and hidden weapons. His eyes swept the group, calculating, missing nothing.
Flanked by a dozen men, Deadbolt strode forward. "Apologies for the delay," he said, voice echoing off steel. "Had to make sure everyone was… properly motivated."
Price held his gaze, stifling a smile. "You mistake fear for motivation. Only rookies do that."
Deadbolt's grin was a wolf's. "I'd rather deal with rabid dogs than tired lions. Tonight: we settle everything. No more uncertainty."
He raised a gloved hand. At the signal, soldiers emerged from the deeper shadows, rifles drawn, boots crunching softly on the gravel.
Lash's eyes never moved, but his fingers drummed a signal on the hilt of his blade. In an instant, the Twins' own squad materialized, slipping between containers, weapons at the ready. Muzzle tilted his head in mock surprise, chuckling. "Guess we all RSVP'd."
Price, unfazed, lifted one hand, and her men ghosted from the spiraling fog, forming a tight semicircle, their silence more lethal than any threat.
Deadbolt stepped into the open, addressing them all. "Three crews, one harbor. We could carve up territory… or I could just bury you both and take it all."
Muzzle's grin widened, flicking his SMG between Deadbolt's men in taunting arcs. "Talk's cheap, big man. Bullets cost extra."
Price regarded them both with regal disinterest. "We're not here for theatrics. This city needs order. You can bend, or you can break."
A burst of laughter rippled through Deadbolt's men—harsh, cynical. Before anyone could answer, Deadbolt snapped his fingers.
From behind the containers, more figures appeared. Weapons gleamed; barrels pointed in every direction.
Lash's jaw tightened. "Your move, Price. Diplomacy or carnage?"
Price stepped back, chin raised. "If it's carnage you prefer, I don't plan to dirty my hands."
A single gunshot cracked the fog, shattering stillness.
Then chaos.
Gunfire erupted in volleys—brief, violent flashes shattering the fog, painting men in fleeting, spectral light. Screams tore the air as bodies flung themselves for cover, bullets clanged off steel, and shadows blurred into indistinct forms. The sharp stench of cordite stung nostrils; burning oil mingled with salt air.
Enforcers formed a wall before Price, retreating in practiced formation toward her sedan. She moved through them with calm certainty, sheltering behind bodies that fell in waves. One of her lieutenants staggered, gun in hand, before a burst sent him twisting to the ground.
Lash and Muzzle dove into the fight. Lash's knife flashed, blurring between ribs and throats as he weaved through the mayhem. Muzzle fired short, precise bursts, all smile gone—his focus now rapacious, intent on survival and murder. The Twins fought as one, tearing open Deadbolt's ranks, but bodies pressed in from all sides.
Atop a container stack, Sentinel watched everything—every skirmish, every shifting alliance. The HUD inside his helmet painted the scene in vectors and heat signatures, highlighting threats and tracking movement. His breathing slowed, world narrowing to purpose.
No innocent blood on the ground, he checked, eyes scanning.
Let the predators sort themselves—for now.
He crouched, tension winding through his muscles, counting shots and measuring distances. Price spotted him, her face hardening in realization. She tapped her driver—her car peeled away as bodies shielded her.
Deadbolt's gaze lifted; he found Sentinel's outline, raising his chin in recognition. He retreated without flinching, pulling a remote from his coat and pressing its screen. "Change of rules, hero," he murmured, tossing it into the chaos.
Detonations rippled outward—fuel tanks, cars, and cargo shuddering with the force of chained explosions. The shockwaves upended armed men, blew container doors wide, and rained steel fragments across the dock.
From behind the wreckage, the armored drone deployed—a squat monster of steel plates and whirring turrets. Lasers scythed the yard as missiles slammed into the containers, sending shrapnel careening. Its targeting reticles searched for heat, for movement. Friend or foe made no difference.
Sentinel dropped—a silent comet plummeting into hell.
Teleport bursts cracked the night like static. He landed amidst Deadbolt's soldiers with thunderous force—disarming two soldiers in a blur. Elbows struck jaws, forearms broke wrists. His armor absorbed stray bullets.
Shadow blades materialized on his forearms, glowing with spectral blue energy. Twin curved short swords flashed with sharp light as he sliced through rifle barrels, shattering them. From his left hand, a shadow whip lashed out, wrapping around an enemy's throat and yanking him off balance before he could react.
Knives flickered in Lash's hands as he approached. Sentinel summoned twin shadow daggers—ethereal, razor-sharp. He parried Lash's strikes with fluid grace, the knives clashing, often cutting deeper.
The shadow whip lashed repeatedly, disarming foes and tripping advancing soldiers. Muzzle sprayed wildly with twin SMGs. Sentinel conjured a shield-like barricade of twisting shadows, absorbing bullets as he blinked between cover. Shadow spears briefly erupted beneath Muzzle's feet, forcing him to jump back and lose footing.
Lash lunged in for a vicious stab; Sentinel's shadow dagger caught the blade mid-air with a resonant clang. Spinning, Sentinel drove a shadow sword into Lash's ribs, the blade shimmering cold energy. Lash staggered.
Muzzle swung a machete; Sentinel caught the arm with a whip lash, yanked the weapon away, and crushed the foe's ribs with an elbow. As Muzzle opened fire again, Sentinel released a volley of shadow shurikens that struck Muzzle's SMG arms, forcing a weapon drop.
Each teleport left ghostly shadow trails flickering, confusing enemy aim.
Suddenly, a missile slammed into a nearby crane. Molten debris rained. Sentinel used his shadow whip to swing between containers, clearing distance.
He threw shadow knives that embedded in an enemy's throat and chest, then teleported, driving a shadow sword through another foe's back.
Lash charged fiercely; Sentinel formed a shield of shadow blades, blocking, then cracked his whip, snapping Lash's arm.
Muzzle lunged; Sentinel twirled, slashing with shadow swords, slicing armor and flesh.
Shadow tendrils erupted from the ground, binding Muzzle mid-lunge. Sentinel delivered a knockout jab.
With a sweeping motion, shadow swords dissolved into fog. Sentinel vanished back into darkness.
Breathing hard, Sentinel scanned the wreckage. Deadbolt and Price had vanished. The drone fired relentlessly as fires bloomed across the harbor.
He tapped his comm: "Rivertown Harbor. Multiple gang leaders present. Drone hostile. Requesting heavy backup."
Sirens echoed closer. Sentinel stepped into the mist and disappeared.
Fire painted the harbor steel red as the drone continued its fatal sweep—unrelenting, merciless.