The black GMC Yukon tore down Delmar Avenue like a missile, its engine howling under the strain. Morning traffic split in panic, horns blaring as the SUV whipped between lanes, clipping mirrors and forcing drivers onto the shoulder.
Inside, three masked men shouted over the roar of the road.
"How much we got?" the driver barked, eyes darting between the rearview mirror and the maze of cars ahead.
"In the bag, in the bag!" the man in the passenger seat yanked open the duffel. Stacks of hundreds spilled onto the floor, the fresh ink smell mixing with the stench of sweat and adrenaline. "Four hundred grand—maybe more!"
"Then hold on to it!" The driver slammed the wheel hard left, nearly sideswiping a city bus.
Behind them, a line of five police cruisers held formation, sirens screaming, lights pulsing red and blue against glass facades. From above, a police helicopter's spotlight kept a jittering white circle locked on the Yukon's roof.
"Unit 2 to Dispatch," crackled a voice over the police band. "Suspects heading eastbound on Delmar—speed's pushing ninety. They're not stopping."
"Copy, Unit 2. Westbridge overpass is ahead—set spike strips."
Inside the lead cruiser, Officer Ramirez gritted her teeth, knuckles pale on the wheel. "They blow that turn at this speed, we're pulling bodies from wreckage."
Her partner kept his eyes on the fleeing SUV. "Or worse—they start shooting."
The robbers made the decision for them. The rear window of the Yukon shattered outward as one of the masked men leaned out with an AR-15, spraying the pursuing cars with wild bursts. Glass exploded across Ramirez's dash.
"Shots fired! Shots fired!"
The helicopter banked lower, its camera feed now live on every major news station in Edgeport. Commentators spoke over the images, voices tense.
"Folks, what you're seeing is happening right now on the east side of the city. Multiple armed suspects—police in active pursuit—"
And then, in the top left corner of the screen, something moved.
A shadow—sleek, needle-like—slipped between buildings, tracking the chase from above.
The dispatcher's voice crackled again: "Air 1, confirm… are we seeing a drone?"
"Negative," the chopper pilot replied. "That's—hold on—"
The shadow folded its wings and dropped.
It slammed into the intersection ahead of the Yukon with bone-jarring force, asphalt buckling, smoke curling upward like steam from a crater.
"Brake! BRAKE!" the driver screamed.
The Yukon skidded sideways, tires screaming, before coming to a dead stop.
Through the haze stepped a figure—armored in matte black from head to toe. Its design was eerily reminiscent of Skybolt's suit… but there were no glowing lines, no emblem, no voice. The faceplate was smooth, blank, a black mirror to the world.
One of the robbers cursed under his breath. "No way… he's back?"
"No… no, that ain't him," the passenger muttered, voice shaking. "That ain't Skybolt."
The suit didn't move at first. Then, slowly, it began to advance.
The rear gunman raised his rifle and fired. Bullets sparked harmlessly against the armor. The suit didn't even flinch.
The driver threw up his hands. "Okay! We give up! You hear me? We—"
A beam of red light erupted from the figure's arm, striking the gunman in the chest and hurling him backward into the side of the SUV. His body hit the ground with a lifeless thud.
The second robber bolted. Another beam flashed—clean, precise—and he crumpled mid-stride.
By the time the officers pulled up, weapons raised, the black figure had already taken to the air, vanishing into the bright morning sky.
Ramirez stepped out of her cruiser, staring at the two bodies on the pavement.
"That… wasn't Skybolt," she murmured.
And in homes, stores, and offices all across Edgeport, anyone watching the live feed felt the same cold realization—
Whoever that was… they weren't here to save anyone.
Ramirez stood frozen for a moment in the middle of the street, the wail of sirens still echoing in her ears. Officers were shouting, moving to secure the money and check the downed robbers, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the empty sky where the black figure had vanished.
She'd been on the force twelve years. She'd seen bad guys with military hardware, armored car heists gone sideways, even a man in a flying suit once—Skybolt, the press called him. But she'd never seen anything like this.
A voice broke through her thoughts.
"Detective! We gotta clear the scene—media's swarming!"
Ramirez blinked, nodded, and stepped back as the press vans began to screech to a halt at the perimeter. A dozen cameras pointed her way, reporters shouting questions she ignored. She ducked into her unmarked Dodge Charger and pulled away, lights still flashing.
Edgeport Police Headquarters – 10:42 a.m.
The bullpen was a wall of noise—phones ringing, printers spitting paper, officers swapping theories about the "black Skybolt" that had just aired live across every channel. Ramirez strode through, jaw tight, until she reached her desk.
Captain Rhodes was waiting there, a hulking man with graying hair and a stare that could cut through armor.
"You were on scene," he said without preamble. "Talk."
Ramirez dropped her keys on the desk and sat. "It wasn't Skybolt. Similar build, similar tech—but this one didn't give warnings, didn't restrain. It executed those men in cold blood."
"Intentional?"
She met his eyes. "One hundred percent."
The captain frowned, glancing toward the muted TV in the corner replaying the footage on loop. "City Hall's already blowing up my phone. The mayor wants answers before panic sets in. You're lead on this, Ramirez. I want identification, motive, and location yesterday."
"Copy that," she said, but her mind was still on the blank, featureless mask. No voice. No hesitation.
As the captain walked away, Ramirez opened a fresh case file on her computer and typed two words into the subject line:
BLACK SIGNAL.
Edgeport Police Headquarters – 10:45 a.m.
Ramirez was still typing notes into the new "BLACK SIGNAL" case file when a shadow fell over her desk.
She looked up to see Sergeant William "Bill" Hanlan—a tall, broad-shouldered man with deep lines carved into his weathered face. Twenty-three years on the force, and he still carried himself like the beat cop who'd once walked the city's roughest blocks.
Hanlan wasn't a micromanager. If he trusted you, he let you do the job without breathing down your neck. And he trusted Ramirez.
"Ramirez," he said, voice like gravel after too much black coffee. "Got someone I want you to meet."
From behind him stepped a young man—fresh-faced, clean-shaven, still with that unjaded gleam in his eyes. Couldn't have been long out of the academy.
"This is Joshua Cross," Hanlan continued. "Twenty-three. Sharp kid. He's your new partner."
Ramirez rose and gave Joshua a firm handshake. "Detective Ramirez."
"Uh—Josh is fine," he said with a small smile, clearly trying to make a good first impression.
She grabbed her coat from the back of her chair. "You're driving."
Josh blinked. "Driving? Where are we going?"
Ramirez was already walking toward the exit. "Blackridge Penitentiary."
He hurried to catch up. "That's where—"
"Victor Hales," she finished for him. "You've read the case files. If this new black suit out there is built off Skybolt tech, he's the first person we talk to."
Josh hesitated. "You think it's one of his guys?"
Ramirez glanced back at him as they reached the garage. "I think if anyone in this city knows exactly what we saw today… it's him."
She slid into the passenger seat. "Let's go see what the king of Aerodyne has to say from behind bars."
Blackridge Penitentiary – Interview Room
The heavy steel door clicked shut behind them as Detective Ramirez and Joshua Cross took their seats at the small metal table. A thick pane of reinforced glass divided the room, the faint hum of the prison's ventilation system filling the silence.
Ramirez leaned back in her chair, eyeing her new partner. "So, Josh. Fresh out of the academy—where'd you come from before that?"
Josh cleared his throat. "Born and raised in Edgeport. Did three years in the National Guard, then applied to the department. Always figured detective work was where I'd end up."
She gave a short nod. "That military discipline might come in handy. Just remember—when it comes to Hales, let me lead. I've dealt with him before. He's… not like other people you'll talk to."
Josh smirked faintly. "Understood. I'll take notes and watch how the veteran does it."
A faint buzz sounded from the door on the far side. Two guards appeared, escorting Victor Hales into the interview booth.
He looked different.
A jagged scar now traced from his temple down to his jawline, the skin still pink from healing. One eye was ringed in fading purple bruising, and there was a stiffness in the way he moved. Prison life had clearly gotten to him—at least physically.
But his demeanor? Unshaken.
He walked with the same measured confidence as if he were still in his corporate penthouse. A faint, knowing smile tugged at his lips as he sat down on the other side of the glass, smoothing the collar of his prison-issue jumpsuit as though it were a tailored suit.
He picked up the phone with slow precision, locking eyes with Ramirez first, then flicking a curious glance at Josh.
"Well," Victor said, voice smooth and unhurried, "isn't this a pleasant surprise. Detective Ramirez… and a new face. What can I do for Edgeport's finest today?"
Ramirez didn't waste time. She leaned forward, phone pressed to her ear.
"Who's in the suit, Hales? The black one that's been executing people in my city."
Victor's expression barely moved, but his eyes lit with quiet amusement.
"Executing?" he echoed, voice smooth. "That's such a… loaded word. People are killed every day, Detective. Why is this particular case sitting you up at night?"
Ramirez kept her tone firm. "Because it looks like Skybolt. And that's no coincidence."
Victor tilted his head slightly, studying her through the glass. "Ah. So you think I have a hand in this—because it resembles my work? That's thin ice you're skating on."
Josh shifted in his seat but stayed silent.
"You built Red Winter," Ramirez pressed. "And now there's a suit on the streets with a darker, meaner version of that tech. You expect me to believe you don't know who's behind it?"
Victor leaned forward just enough for his scar to catch the light. His tone dropped, measured and deliberate.
"I expect you to believe… exactly what you can prove. And right now, Detective, you have proof of nothing. A shadow in a suit doesn't tell you who's casting it."
Ramirez's jaw tightened. "Then tell me straight—did you design it?"
Victor allowed a small, knowing smile. "Designs have a way of traveling, especially when people want them badly enough. You should be asking yourself not where it came from… but what it's here to do."
He sat back, fingers drumming lazily on the counter, as if the conversation amused him more than it concerned him.
Ramirez let the silence stretch, then leaned in, voice low but sharp.
"You know what gets me, Hales? You denied knowing who Skybolt was. Denied involvement in the bar bombing. Denied half the things we threw at you… and yet, here you are—life sentence. So why keep denying? What's the point now?"
Victor's smile didn't waver, but his eyes hardened.
"The point," he said slowly, "is that truth and proof are not the same thing. People like you—law, justice, whatever you want to call it—you live and die by proof. But the truth… the truth can sit in plain sight and still belong to the man who knows how to protect it."
Ramirez's brow furrowed. "So you're protecting someone."
Victor chuckled quietly, leaning back in his chair. "Or something. Or maybe I just enjoy watching you try to read a game you don't have the rulebook for."
Josh shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Ramirez, but she didn't break eye contact.
"You think this is a game?" she asked.
Victor's voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing her to lean closer to the glass. "Detective… everything's a game. The ones who survive are the ones who keep their pieces on the board."
Ramirez's gaze narrowed. "You keep denying everything, Hales. Who's in that new suit, who Skybolt is… all of it. And yet here you are, serving life without parole. Doesn't that ever make you wonder if keeping quiet was worth it?"
Victor leaned back slightly, calm as ever. "Wondering is for people who can't accept reality. I accept mine."
Ramirez didn't blink. "You didn't win, you know. There's one person you couldn't get rid of—and he's the reason you're in here."
Victor's eyes stayed on her, but there was the faintest pause in his breathing.
"Noah Stroud," she said. "He testified in court. His words helped seal your sentence."
The pause was there—just a beat too long—before Victor's mask slipped back into place. "Stroud is irrelevant. People cling to heroes in a courtroom, Detective. The truth doesn't matter—only the story they believe."
Ramirez tilted her head. "And the story they believed is the one that put you here."
Victor's smirk was small, controlled. "Then I suppose they'll find out how short-lived stories can be."
Victor glanced toward the observation window, then back at Ramirez. "We're done here," he said flatly, rising from his chair. He turned to the guard at the door. "Take me back to my cell."
The guard stepped forward, unlocking the door, but Ramirez's voice cut through. "Hales—one last time. Who's in that suit?"
Victor didn't even look at her. His hands were already behind his back as the cuffs clicked into place. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, but no answer came.
The guard led him out without another word. The heavy steel door swung shut, leaving Ramirez and Joshua alone with nothing but the faint echo of Victor's departing footsteps.
Joshua shifted in his seat. "He's not gonna talk, is he?"
Ramirez's eyes stayed on the door. "No. But that silence? It says plenty."