The room was dim, cast in the industrial yellow glow of a flickering overhead lamp. Wires hung loose from the walls like veins cut open. Monitors blinked, some showing schematics, others grainy surveillance feeds, but all of it meant nothing to the two figures standing before me. Not yet, anyway.
I stood with my back to them, arms folded behind me as the last simulation finished compiling. On the screen: Duskfall Academy. Every floor, every schedule, every hidden corridor I could get my hands on.
"This… this can't be real."
Bleaktide spoke first, the dread in his voice poorly masked by bravado. Her molten silver eyes darted across the screen.
"We're going to invade that?" Hexdrive followed, mechanical limbs twitching subtly, like even her augmentations were unsure about this suicidal mission.
I turned slowly, letting the silence build, wrapping it around their throats like a leash.
"Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon," I said. "Duskfall will burn."
Bleaktide shook his head. "You're sending us to die. That place is a fortress—every corridor laced with mana sensors, elite enforcers at the gates, at least two Class S heroes stationed on-site. And let's not forget—every goddamn hero in New York responds the moment a flare goes up. This is lunacy."
"Wrong."
I leaned against the rusted table and smirked, letting the next sentence hang like a blade:
"Nyxshade is already inside."
The room froze.
Hexdrive's jaw slackened. "...Inside as in—what?"
"As in: she's a student of Duskfall Academy."
Silence—tangible, razor-edged. Their disbelief was amusing.
"You mean to tell us," Bleaktide began, voice low with disbelief, "the Hero Killer—the one we've been feeding disinformation to, the one whose kill count keeps rising—is... going to school? A school for heroes?"
"She's been there the whole time," I said. "Living among them. Training with them. Smiling at them. While planting blades between the ribs of their colleagues by night."
"That's insane," Hexdrive muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. "How could she fool everyone? How has she not been caught?"
"Exactly," I said. "Ask yourselves that. Not one trace. No fingerprints. No magical imprint. No name. No face. Only a calling card: an origami crow soaked in blood."
They didn't speak, but their eyes were saying it for them. Something primal. Ancient. Fear.
Bleaktide folded his arms, trying to mask her unease. "Fine. She's good. But even with her—storming Duskfall is a death sentence. The security detail alone—"
"She would have carried it out without you," I said flatly. "You're not the plan. You're the bonus. This invasion's already in motion."
Hexdrive stepped forward. "If she's that powerful, then how the hell did you even meet her? What's she like? I've never sensed any mana off her. Like talking to a damn ghost."
My smile stretched thin. "That's because you were."
They both stared. I reached for the remote on the desk and clicked it. The screen flickered to life again—an old recording. Grainy. The timestamp marked it two weeks ago.
It showed the two of them—Hexdrive and Bleaktide—speaking in this very same room. The audio was clear. The two of them speaking… pausing... responding. But there was no one else in the footage. Just empty space.
"She's not there..." Bleaktide whispered.
"She was," I said. "Right behind you. Smiling. Deciding whether you were useful... or disposable."
Hexdrive paled. "No way—no. That can't be—"
The footage glitched suddenly. The last few frames distorted, warped. And then—static. She had destroyed the hidden camera, even though it had been sealed inside a spell-resistant warding stone. A tech-mage's best creation—rendered useless by her.
"She saw through it."
I let the weight of the words settle in. "She's not just a killer. She's an artist."
Neither of them spoke. Finally, Bleaktide leaned back against the wall, arms limp at his sides, expression hollow.
"She's worse than I thought."
"No," I corrected, walking back to the table and shutting off the monitors.
"She's exactly what we need."
—
The rain came soft against the dorm window, little rhythmic taps like a song only I could hear. Everyone else had gone to bed—or were pretending to. The announcement had shaken them more than they wanted to admit. Lysandra's warning still echoed in the halls, tangled in the hum of fear like smoke refusing to clear.
But in my room… silence. Peace.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, the light off, the room lit only by the city glow slipping between the blinds. My textbooks lay open on the desk, untouched. I hadn't moved since I returned. I didn't need to study.
Instead, I let the memory bleed back in.
* * *
It wasn't supposed to happen that night.
But it did.
The first time is always a little messy—emotionally, not physically. No, physically it was... clean.
He was a petty hero. Not in rank—no, Starbright was a solid B-class with good PR and better teeth. But inside? Rot. He had a habit of touching girls who didn't want to be touched. Of using his status like a weapon sharper than any blade. No one stopped him. Not the system. Not the school. Not even the other heroes.
But I did.
It started with a shadow.
I was sixteen. Still new to Duskfall. Still pretending to smile during orientation. Still listening to instructors talk about "justice" like it was a commodity. I followed him for three nights—learned his routes, his habits, his apartment with the locked rooftop.
The fourth night, I waited.
I remember the silence just before he opened the door. My heartbeat was so still, it was like I had turned it off. The switch flipped the moment he looked confused—and then afraid.
I didn't wear a costume. Not then. Just the school hoodie. Just my boots. Just a voice I'd never used before when I told him—
"Don't scream. You won't get the chance."
He moved to fight. Of course he did. Arrogance makes people forget how mortal they are.
But I had been practicing.
One strike.
Through the ribs.
Upward, into the lung.
Quick. Quiet. Surgical.
The light in his eyes flickered as he gasped. Not for air. For understanding.
He didn't get it.
I leaned in close, whispered something I've long since forgotten, and watched the life leave him. I didn't feel guilt. Or regret.
I felt relief.
* * *
I blinked, back in my dorm.
My fingers were curled into the sheets.
That was the night I became her. Nyxshade.
No grand awakening. No origin story soaked in blood and trauma. Just a decision. A choice the world refused to make, so I made it for them.
The origami crow came later. A personal touch. A signature no one could erase. Delicate paper dipped in truth—blood.
It wasn't about fear. It was about message. Precision. Pattern. Power.
And tonight, when Lysandra said my name out loud... even if she didn't know it was mine… I felt it.
Validation.
They called me Hero Killer.
The class had gone pale.
I had smiled.
A soft knock came at the door.
I didn't answer.
Let them think I was asleep, or meditating, or haunted by the news like the rest of them.
Because the truth was simple:
I was already planning my next move.
And if Duskfall was a nest of heroes…
Then I was the blade hidden under the feathered wing.
And no one saw me coming.
Not even the ones sitting beside me in class.