The night swallowed him whole.
Jack staggered through the narrow veins of Neon City, the alleys alive with steam, shadows, and the low hum of flickering neon. His lungs burned as if he'd swallowed fire. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue, his ribs screamed with every breath, and his body begged him to collapse. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
Every echo of his boots in the dark felt like a drumbeat announcing his failure. He had chased Luther Draque into the open, even wounded him with Warp Strike, and yet Luther's metallic arm had turned the tables in an instant. The memory replayed on loop: the explosion of energy, the crushing force that had slammed him into the ground, the weightless moment of panic as his HP bled away like sand through broken glass.
Jack clenched his fists. The phantom ache of the blast lingered on his chest. He had shielded his face with his hands at the last second, saving the mask, saving his anonymity, but not his pride. For the first time since the Nexus Walker System had awakened within him, he felt the fragility of his own existence.
The alley narrowed into a choke point, graffiti scrawled in glowing ink across the walls: tags of gangs, half-baked prophecies, the desperate ramblings of the forgotten. Beware the Tyrant. He snorted despite himself. Some already whispered that name in the streets. To them, the masked figure dragging in criminals from shadows was more phantom than man. An urban legend rising from the gutters.
But legends didn't limp. Legends didn't have their HP carved down to thirty by a single blow.
He leaned against a rusted pipe, gasping. Steam hissed around him like the city itself mocked him. For a moment he closed his eyes. The neon glow painted his mask red, bathing him in a scarlet that looked too much like blood.
Then the watch on his wrist pulsed.
No system screen flared to life, no glowing interface scrolled across his vision. Just a steady vibration, a whisper from the hidden intelligence that had changed his life. Jack glanced down, expecting another bounty notice.
But this was different.
ALERT:Recent victim identified. Female. Survivor of Luther Draque. Location: District 12, Tenement Row.
His jaw tightened. So that was it. Another of Luther's crimes come crawling out of the dark.
Jack pushed off the pipe. His body ached like a rotting machine, but the thought of doing nothing was worse. If Luther was allowed to walk freely, more victims would bleed. He would tear the city apart one body at a time.
"Not happening," Jack muttered, and vanished into a blink step that carried him deeper into the maze.
Tenement Row smelled of mold, rust, and despair. The buildings leaned together like drunkards propping each other up, their windows cracked, their stairwells broken. A single flickering streetlight threw jagged shadows across the cracked pavement. Somewhere nearby, a baby cried, its wail piercing the silence like a shard of glass.
Jack climbed the stairs of the listed address. The door was thin wood, the paint peeling in strips. He knocked, three short raps that sounded louder than they should have in the dead corridor.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
This time, footsteps shuffled on the other side. A woman's voice, sharp and brittle, cracked through the wood.
"Who is it?"
Jack hesitated. The mask stared back at him from the window's reflection.
"I'm here about Luther Draque," he said, voice low, steady.
The silence stretched. He heard the faint rattle of chains on the inside, the lock half-turning. But then her voice returned, trembling.
"Are you with the police."
"No ,but I am gathering information,evidence."
"So,you are a reporter,then."
No but I will help you to take down the man who wronged you at all costs,it will benefit both you and me."
"Go away. I don't talk to strangers. Especially not masked ones."
Her mistrust cut deeper than he expected. Jack's hand hovered near his mask. Removing it meant risk; risk of exposure, risk of losing the one shield between himself and the world's judgment. But without her trust, he would gain nothing.
Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted the mask. The cool air stung his face as if the night itself resented the reveal.
The door opened a crack. A woman's eyes stared out;hollow, ringed with shadows, the kind of eyes that had seen too much pain for one lifetime. She studied his face, searching for deceit. Then, with a creak, the door opened wider.
Inside, the apartment was bare. A couch with stuffing torn out, bottles littered across the floor, curtains half-hanging. She motioned for him to sit, though she didn't. She stood, arms wrapped tight across her chest, staring at the floor.
"It was him," she whispered. "Luther."
Jack's hands curled. "Tell me what happened."
The words spilled out like broken glass cutting her throat. How Luther had cornered her outside the club, the way his robotic hand clamped down with inhuman strength, dragging her into the shadows. How the smell of oil and metal mixed with his sweat, how his laughter echoed while she begged.He did it over and over again . She spoke haltingly, her voice cracking, but the weight of it all filled the room like poison.
Jack sat still, fists trembling. Every detail carved into him like a brand. He wanted to storm out, hunt Luther down, end him in blood and fire. But he forced himself to stay, to listen. Because that was what she needed.
Her eyes finally met his, glassy and wet. "You're going to stop him, aren't you?"
"Yes," Jack said, voice sharp as steel. "I'll end him."
She stepped closer, trembling, tears streaking her cheeks. Then, suddenly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his.
Jack froze. For a heartbeat, warmth flooded through him;the desperation, the need, the raw humanity clinging to him in that kiss. But just as quickly, reality crashed back. This wasn't love. It wasn't desire. It was trauma clawing for anything to hold onto.
He pulled back, gently but firmly, his breath ragged. "No," he whispered. "This isn't what you need."
Her eyes widened. Tears spilled. She collapsed onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. Her sobs filled the silence, each one stabbing Jack deeper than any blade.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, voice breaking as he backed toward the door. "I can't… not like this."
And then he was gone, mask back in place, the door shutting softly behind him.
The alleys welcomed him back with open arms. He walked with heavy steps, the echoes of her story still cutting into his chest. Above him, the neon glow painted everything in shades of red and violet.
He leaned against a wall, staring at his hands. The faint scar across his chest had already begun to vanish—healing from the level-up, the system knitting him back together. But no system could heal what she had suffered.
Jack's fists clenched. He wouldn't let it happen again.
The watch pulsed. Another notification scrolled across its face, brief and cold.
Intel update: Luther Draque — cybernetic enhancement confirmed. Right arm: high-density alloy prosthetic. Weakness: electrical overload. Excessive voltage required to disable.
Jack exhaled slowly. So that was the secret. No wonder his Warp Strike hadn't broken through. That arm wasn't just a weapon—it was an engine of destruction, resistant to brute force. But electricity… that was different.
He tilted his head back, staring at the slice of night sky above the alley. Stars drowned beneath the neon haze, but he didn't need stars. He needed resolve.
He thought of the woman's tears, her broken voice. He thought of Luther's laughter, the metallic grip crushing him down into the pavement.
Jack whispered into the darkness, words meant only for himself.
"This isn't over. You're mine, Draque. I'll find a way."
The city groaned around him, alive with whispers, with shadows, with blood.
Jack pulled his mask tight, the figure of the Tyrant reborn in the alley's glow. Then, silent as smoke, he vanished into the night, retreating deeper into the sprawl to gather strength, to sharpen his blade for the hunt to come.
The legend of the masked hunter grew that night, carried by whispers in the streets, by the eyes that watched him vanish, by the fear of those who wondered where he would strike next.
And somewhere in the city's veins, Luther Draque laughed, his metallic hand glinting red.
The hunt was far from over.