The city's underbelly was restless. Streets that had once thrummed with petty crimes now only hummed with frustration and whispered threats. The small-time villains from the alleys—wiry men,the electric-tattooed woman, and scarred opportunists—paced nervously in abandoned warehouses, safehouses, and alleyway corners. Their operations had stalled for weeks; the streets were crawling with heroes, Solarius among them, the elite top ten keeping watch like predators over a cage of rats.
Then the word came. Not from the streets, not from each other, but from shadows far subtler than theirs. A message slipped into the network they had learned to trust—the black market channels, whispered warnings, cryptic marks, and ultimately, a summons.
It was brief, efficient, and untraceable: "The Veil has need. Come prepared. Midnight. Abandoned industrial block, sector seven."
No explanations, no reasons. The Veil rarely gave unnecessary details. Those who worked for him were either precise, ruthless, or expendable. And now, the frustrated street-level villains had to choose.
---
By nightfall, the chosen few made their way to the industrial block. Neon lights flickered across broken windows and rusting metal beams, casting long shadows that moved like ghosts. Some had knives, others small firearms, a few wore crude armor salvaged from past raids. Fear and excitement danced in equal measure across their faces—this was no ordinary job.
A wiry man, still grumbling about the surveillance, whispered to the group, "Hope this isn't another patrol trap. If this is Solarius' doing, we're fucked."
Another, electric tattoos sparking faintly across her arms, sneered. "Relax. If the Veil wants us here, it's for something big. Big enough to pay, big enough to get us noticed… hopefully not dead first."
The last to arrive was a silent, scarred figure who seemed to glide rather than walk. He didn't speak, didn't need to. Their attention was on the front entrance, where a thin wisp of violet smoke twisted along the cracked concrete. A hooded figure emerged.
---
Even from a distance, the aura was impossible to ignore. Purple tendrils of smoke coiled around the figure, shifting like a living entity, masking and revealing movement simultaneously. When he spoke, the voice carried, soft yet commanding, cutting through whispers and nervous muttering.
"You are here because the city's order has shifted," the Veil said, each word deliberate, measured. "Your current frustrations, your stalled operations, are a reflection of imbalance. You have power, small though it may be. You will be instruments. Not leaders. Not heroes. Instruments."
The villains exchanged uneasy glances. Some twitched their fingers over weapons; others swallowed nervously. The Veil's smoke moved, spiraling and curling around his boots as if testing their reactions.
"You will be given tasks," he continued, "that will stretch your abilities, challenge your instincts, and demand obedience. Fail, and the streets you know will become your grave. Succeed… and you will prosper. More than you have dared imagine in weeks of frustration."
There was no pause, no room for argument. It was not a question; it was a directive.
---
The Veil's smoke receded, revealing his mask—a smooth, featureless black surface with the Bleeding Flower insignia faintly etched on the chin. He gestured toward a series of crates and darkened alcoves.
"You will be placed in cells," he said. "Not literal ones. Observation posts, staging areas, waiting rooms of sorts. Your first assignment will be… preliminary. Surveillance. Retrieval. Coordination. Details will come through coded messages. You will act with precision. You will act in shadows. You will act without hesitation."
Some villains shifted uneasily. A few laughed, trying to mask their apprehension.
"Don't get cocky," the Veil's voice sliced through. "Obedience is survival. Skill without direction is failure. You are the tools I will sharpen."
He paused, letting the tension stretch like a cord pulled taut. The purple smoke rippled outward, brushing against their clothes, faintly suffocating, testing their steadiness. Those who wavered stepped back involuntarily; those who didn't, adjusted their posture, tightening fingers around knives, weapons, or braced fists.
"Tonight," he said finally, "you begin. Prepare yourselves. Your first movement will be soon. Watch, listen, and follow instructions. There will be no room for hesitation."
Without another word, the figure melted into shadows, purple smoke trailing behind like a living cloak. The villains were left staring at the empty space, pulse racing, minds spinning.
---
Whispers spread immediately: "What's the first job? Kidnap? Surveillance? Another hero target?"
None knew, and the Veil's design ensured they never would until the moment came. Fear was a weapon, uncertainty a chain. Yet, beneath the tension, a spark of excitement lingered. Finally, a purpose. Finally, direction. Even if the stakes were deadly, even if the chances of failure were high, the promise of power, wealth, or infamy drew them like moths to a flame.
Outside, the city continued unaware. Neon lights flickered, patrols passed, Solarius' golden silhouette crossed rooftops. Yet within the abandoned industrial block, the Veil's influence was palpable, silent, and undeniable. The small-time villains were now pieces on a board they could barely see, yet moving exactly as instructed.