Morning traffic hissed past the plate-glass windows of Marta's Diner, the kind of place where the coffee was strong, the eggs came fast, and the walls were crowded with old softball team photos. Steam rose off a row of chrome carafes behind the counter. A radio murmured yesterday's hits under the clatter of plates.
Mayor Anthony Reeves slid into a corner booth, shrugging out of a navy windbreaker that didn't quite hide the sleepless night under his eyes. The booth vinyl creaked as Chief Harold Monroe—all gray at the temples and ramrod posture—took the seat opposite. Sergeant Bill Hanlan, broad-shouldered and unflappable, settled on the aisle side, giving the door a line of sight.
A waitress poured coffee without asking. Reeves wrapped his hands around the mug like he needed the heat to make decisions.
Reeves: "Thank you both for meeting here. City Hall might as well have a target painted on it."
Monroe stirred his coffee, didn't drink. "You've got a target no matter where you sit, Mr. Mayor." His voice had the gravel of a thousand briefings. "Let's talk about the one wearing the city's nerves like a necklace."
Hanlan set a folded incident report on the table, edges damp from dew. "Plaza's still a mess. Eight dead, more hurt. We've got Detective Ramírez and the kid—Cross—coordinating witness pulls and scene containment. Media's already rewriting the truth."
Reeves: "They watched the governor die on their phones at breakfast. There's no rewriting that."
The waitress slid plates in—eggs over medium for Hanlan, dry toast for the Chief, oatmeal for Reeves that he didn't touch. The scent of bacon from another booth cut through the coffee and antiseptic.
Monroe: "We've got two problems with one face. Black Signal kills like a machine because it is one. It made a public ruling and followed through. That's terror with rules. People can live under terror with rules."
Reeves: "You think that's a comfort?"
Monroe: "It's a strategy." He finally took a sip. "And then there's Skybolt. Whatever else he is, he spent the morning pulling people out of rubble. Your approval numbers can hate vigilantes, but the crowd on the ground knows who carried the weight."
Hanlan nodded once. "Ramírez says Skybolt's already giving us technical tells—sensor noise, movement patterns—so we can start modeling Black Signal's route decisions. He's cooperating."
Reeves leaned forward. "Cooperating I can live with. Deputizing? No. The city can't look like we've subcontracted justice to a man in a mask."
Monroe: "Then don't deputize him. Don't denounce him either. We put distance in public, coordination in private." He slid a small notebook from his breast pocket, tapped it with a finger. "We create a joint task picture without a joint task force."
Reeves glanced at the diner door as a delivery man shouldered in a box of paper cups. The mayor's voice dropped. "We also need something I can say at noon that doesn't sound like panic with commas."
Hanlan forked eggs, spoke around a thought more than the bite. "Curfew looks like fear. Drone surge looks like overreach. But targeted corridors—transport hubs, government buildings, schools—we can harden those without choking the city."
Monroe: "We announce Protective Corridors. The map goes live at eleven. Patrols triple there. Everywhere else, we promise faster response times and we mean it." He met Reeves's eyes. "We don't promise what we can't deliver."
Reeves: "And Black Signal?"
Monroe's gaze slid to the window, where a bus rolled by with a frozen ad of a smiling family. "We call him what he is: a killer with a microphone." A beat. "But we don't say his name more than once. We don't build the brand he wants."
Hanlan added, "We build ours. Tip lines. Safe egress signs in the corridors. Street captains—community liaisons at the block level. If he tries another spectacle, the city knows where to run and who to call."
Reeves exhaled, the plan's shape giving him something to hold. "And Skybolt?"
Monroe: "Quiet channel through Ramírez. Intel in, acknowledgment out. If he pulls another hundred people out from under a billboard, I'm not going to trip him on the way." His mouth twitched—almost a smile, or the memory of one.
The bell over the door jingled. A courier in a state windbreaker stepped in, scanned the room, and beelined to the booth. He set a sealed tablet envelope beside the oatmeal.
Courier: "For the Mayor. From Blackstone's interim warden. New footage."
Reeves signed, waited for the door to close again, then cracked the seal. A grainy still stared up: a matte black shape at an east gate, the moment before the cameras turned to snow.
He slid it across to Monroe.
Reeves: "We say 'Protective Corridors' at noon. You stand with me, Chief. Sergeant, I want Ramírez and Cross briefed on messaging before their shift flips. And find me a sentence that thanks Skybolt without asking him to dinner."
Hanlan's eyes crinkled. "I'll write it on a napkin before your oatmeal gets cold."
Monroe pushed back his plate, untouched toast left like a white flag. "We hold the line today, Mr. Mayor. Tomorrow we move it forward."
Reeves looked from the window's morning glare to the tablet's frozen darkness. "Then let's eat fast."
Outside, a siren Dopplered past. Inside, the coffee steamed, and three people bent over a city that still needed saving.
The hum of the precinct at night was different—quieter, the kind of quiet where every clack of a keyboard and shuffle of paper sounded like a hammer strike. Most of the bullpen was dark, but Ramirez's desk lamp cut a pale circle across case files and maps. Joshua Cross sat across from her, posture slouched but eyes sharp, a tablet in one hand and a pen he kept tapping against the table in the other.
Joshua: "You know what doesn't make sense? If Black Signal really thinks he's saving the city—if he believes eliminating crime is justice—then why cut the feeds? Why hide where he's going?"
Ramirez didn't look up from the grid of surveillance blackout points she'd been staring at. Her jaw flexed, the corner of her mouth tightening like she'd already been wrestling with the same question.
Ramirez: "Because this isn't about justice. It's about control. He wants the public to see what he chooses—the executions, the verdicts, the fear. But the moment he moves between scenes? He doesn't want anyone tracking him back to wherever he operates."
Joshua frowned. "You keep saying he. Like this thing is a person. But it's just a machine, right? Why give it a pronoun at all?"
That made Ramirez finally glance up at him. Her eyes were steady, her tone sharper than she intended.
Ramirez: "Because I've looked enough killers in the eye to know the difference between something acting and something following orders. Black Signal isn't just code—it's personality. Someone built it, sure, but it's more than wires and circuits. You can feel it when it talks, when it acts. Calling it it makes people underestimate it. And I don't plan on underestimating the thing that just murdered a governor in front of half the city."
Joshua blinked, absorbing that, then leaned forward. "Okay… then let's stop underestimating. Look at this."
He spun his tablet around. A map of Edgeport lit up, red dots peppered across the grid where camera feeds had gone dark during Black Signal's movements. Ramirez's eyes narrowed as she studied it.
Joshua: "At first, I thought the blackouts were random interference. But then I overlaid the city's old property records." He tapped the screen, and half the dots vanished, leaving only a cluster in the east side of the city. "These? They're all around old Aerodyne warehouses. Places still technically on the books, but abandoned since Hales went down."
Ramirez sat up straighter. "You're saying Black Signal's base is there."
Joshua: "It makes sense. Longest blackouts are centered there. And check this—" He swiped again, pulling up utility records. "Supposedly condemned building, but look at these power surges. Spikes big enough to run heavy machinery. Someone's keeping the lights on."
Ramirez muttered, more to herself than him. "Aerodyne's bones…" Then louder: "If Black Signal's operating out of Victor's old properties, that's not coincidence. He's either working for Hales—or continuing his work."
Joshua nodded, cautious but certain. "Either way, that's where he is. That's where we'll find him."
The two detectives exchanged a glance, a mix of adrenaline and dread. Ramirez shut her case file, the snap of it loud in the quiet bullpen.
Ramirez: "Get your coat. We're not waiting for brass to catch up. We'll take a look ourselves."
Joshua: "No backup?"
Ramirez: "Not until we know what's there. The second we kick this up the chain, someone leaks it, and Black Signal's gone. We go in quiet. Eyes first, guns second."
Joshua grabbed his jacket, his nerves barely masked under the eagerness in his movements. As they headed out of the precinct, the weight of their discovery pressed down on both of them.
The industrial sector was dead quiet. Rusted chain-link fences rattled in the wind, weeds splitting through cracked asphalt, and warehouse after warehouse standing like tombs of steel.
Ramirez cut the headlights a block away, coasting the unmarked sedan to a stop. The engine ticked in the silence as both detectives sat still for a moment, taking in the outline of the building before them. Its windows were dark, its siding streaked with rust—but the faintest orange glow pulsed once behind the glass, then vanished.
Joshua: "That's it. That's the same surge I saw in the utility logs."
Ramirez: "And it's not a damn rat with a flashlight."
They stepped out, gravel crunching underfoot. The air smelled of oil and salt carried off the waterfront. Ramirez pulled her coat tighter against the chill, her eyes never leaving the warehouse.
As they moved closer, Joshua spotted the details first—the faint hum under the wind, like machinery running deep inside. He swallowed hard.
Joshua: "Why would a condemned building sound like that?"
Ramirez: "Because it's not condemned."
They reached the gate. The padlock was brand-new, gleaming against the rusted metal. Ramirez crouched, ran her fingers along the fence line. Someone had cut and rewoven the chain link to create a makeshift entry point, carefully hidden.
Joshua glanced around the empty street, nerves bubbling under his skin. "So what's the play? Call it in? Wait for backup?"
Ramirez shook her head. "Not until we know what's inside. We're eyes tonight. Nothing more."
They slipped through the cut fence, boots whispering on broken concrete as they crossed the lot. At the warehouse door, Ramirez touched the handle—warm. Her jaw clenched.
Ramirez: "Power's running. He's in there."
Joshua's hand hovered near his sidearm. "Or… he's keeping someone in there."
Ramirez didn't answer. Her gaze was fixed on the steel door, where a faint glow seeped out from the frame—light from machines, not bulbs. She exchanged a look with Joshua: adrenaline, fear, certainty.
With one breath, she pushed the door open.
Inside, the dark swallowed them whole, broken only by the rhythmic flicker of monitors deep within the warehouse. Somewhere in the shadows, machinery hummed like a living thing.
The moment Ramirez and Joshua slipped through the steel door, the glow inside made their stomachs twist. Banks of screens lined the far wall, their cold light spilling across the cavernous warehouse. And in the center of it all, inside a reinforced glass cell, sat Victor Hales.
He was hunched over a workbench, prison scrubs traded for grease-stained coveralls, welding sparks flaring against the shadows. Metal plating took shape under his hands—armor, unmistakably the same black alloy that clad the killer in the plaza.
Ramirez's throat tightened. She took a step forward.
Ramirez: "Hales."
Victor looked up slowly. His eyes flicked to her, then to Joshua, and the faintest smirk bent across his face. He set his tools down with theatrical precision.
Victor: "Detective Ramirez. You're late. I wondered when you'd come knocking."
A voice cut through the warehouse like a blade through steel.
Black Signal: "Step away from the prisoner."
From the shadows above, Black Signal dropped down, servos whining, black armor gleaming. He landed with enough force to rattle the concrete floor. His optic sensors burned crimson as he straightened to full height.
Joshua instinctively drew his sidearm, but Ramirez's hand shot out, halting him for a second.
Ramirez: "We're not leaving, Signal. Victor Hales is coming with us."
The machine's head tilted slightly, its voice reverberating through the steel beams.
Black Signal: "You are trespassing. Without a warrant, your presence here is unlawful. That is a crime."
Ramirez barked a bitter laugh. "You're quoting statutes now?"
Black Signal: "Crime must be eliminated. You have committed crime. Leave… or face judgment."
Joshua raised his weapon, voice tight. "We're not going anywhere."
For a beat, the warehouse hummed with nothing but machinery. Then Black Signal's chest plate split, and a pulse of energy flared to life.
Ramirez: "Down!"
The beam shot across the room like lightning. The two detectives dove behind a stack of crates as the blast carved a molten scar across the concrete floor where they had stood. Splinters and sparks rained around them.
Ramirez yanked her pistol free, heart pounding in her chest. Joshua crouched beside her, breathing hard, eyes wide with terror and adrenaline.
Joshua: "He's trying to kill us!"
Ramirez: "No—he's trying to execute us."
Another whine of charging energy filled the air. Ramirez grit her teeth, leaned out from behind cover, and aimed squarely at the towering figure.
Ramirez: "Not tonight."
Gunfire erupted in the warehouse
Gunfire rattled the warehouse, sparks kicking off Black Signal's armor like raindrops on steel. The machine advanced step by step, undeterred, each impact sounding more like mockery than damage.
Joshua: "It's not even slowing him down!"
Ramirez: "He's built for worse. Stay low!"
Another blast seared across the room, the beam scorching through the crates they used for cover. Ramirez and Joshua scrambled, wood and splinters exploding around them. Ramirez's heart hammered, her body moving on instinct as she dragged Joshua behind a rusted forklift.
Black Signal's voice boomed, even as he charged another shot.
Black Signal: "Resistance confirms guilt. Judgment will follow."
Joshua's hands shook around his pistol. "We can't beat this thing—he's gonna cut us down!"
Ramirez's eyes darted across the warehouse—and landed on a stack of industrial fuel drums, half-forgotten under a tarp. She grabbed Joshua's shoulder.
Ramirez: "We don't beat him. We make noise."
Before Joshua could ask, she popped up, squeezing off three rounds into the side of a drum. The metal sparked, then ruptured—fire belching outward in a sudden roar.
The blast rocked the warehouse, flames licking across the floor and filling the air with choking smoke. Alarms screamed as sprinklers sputtered to life, raining down in useless streams.
Black Signal staggered back half a step—not hurt, not panicked, but momentarily blinded by the heat and haze. His sensors whirred, recalibrating through the inferno.
Ramirez shoved Joshua toward a side door. "Move!"
They sprinted through the smoke, coughing, boots pounding across the concrete. Another beam cut through the haze behind them, carving a molten trench that missed them by inches. The heat singed their backs as they threw themselves through the side exit and tumbled onto the gravel outside.
Ramirez yanked Joshua to his feet, and they ran across the lot toward the car. Behind them, the warehouse glowed with fire, Black Signal's silhouette framed in the doorway—tall, immovable, watching them flee.
He didn't pursue.
Joshua gasped as they dove into the car, his hands still shaking. "Why isn't he chasing us?"
Ramirez fired the engine, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. The black figure was already vanishing back into the flames.
Ramirez: "Because we're not his priority. Not tonight."
The sedan peeled away, leaving the warehouse smoldering in the distance—and the machine inside, unbroken, unafraid, already turning back to its prisoner.