Prologue (Part II): Building the Watcher
Justice required more than rage. Elias learned that quickly.
The first time he went out, mask in hand and fury in his veins, he realized he was still just a man — one with no training in violence beyond old self-defense courses and instinct. He had the mind for surveillance, the tools for data, but not the body for war.
So he built himself.
The Training
He started small, brutal, and alone. He stripped his apartment bare, turning living space into a spartan gym. Old mats, a punching bag, a rack of weights, pull-up bars bolted to exposed beams. He studied combat manuals like scripture, then pushed further — MMA recordings, Krav Maga footage, military drills leaked onto the net. Every night, until his hands bled and his muscles screamed, he drilled strikes, takedowns, weapon disarms.
His blade work was rough at first, but he refined it with repetition — practicing with a steel training knife until it felt like a natural extension of his arm. Firearms he learned through practice at back-alley ranges, hidden under fake IDs. He never wanted to rely on bullets, but he knew they'd find him before long.
Pain became constant. Bruises, torn muscles, broken knuckles. But pain was fuel. And Elias welcomed it.
The Eyes of the City
The fight alone wouldn't be enough. To hunt Draegon's empire, he needed to see them. All of them. Always.
Elias began planting eyes across Meridian. Micro-cameras no bigger than a dime. Modified drones that could pass for pigeons or insects from a distance. Old CCTV feeds that he hacked, their signals quietly rerouted into his growing web.
Every new piece of tech became part of the Argus Net — a network no one else knew existed, fed into servers he kept hidden in lead-lined cases.
At first, it was crude. Static-ridden images, grainy night vision, blind spots everywhere. But Elias refined it, hour by hour, until his mask became more than a visor. When he wore it, the Argus Net synced into the lenses. He could see through cameras three blocks away. Hear conversations in rooms he'd never stepped into. Predict where Draegon's men would be before they arrived.
Meridian thought its shadows made it safe. Argus made the shadows his domain.
The Outfit
The mask was the core, but Elias knew a face alone wasn't enough. He built an entire second skin.
Armor: Reinforced mag-weave layered under matte-black plating. Not heavy enough to slow him, but strong enough to turn a knife or dampen a bullet.
Cloak: A tattered, hooded mantle designed to break up his outline, to make him blend into alleys and rooftops. It flowed with movement, making him seem larger, harder to track.
Gauntlets: Built with retractable carbon blades for close combat, pulse shocks wired into the palms for stunning blows, and compartments for drones and surveillance nodes.
Boots: Lightweight, reinforced soles, silent treads — the sound of his step as soft as breath.
Utility Belt: Custom-built. Flash drives, hacking tools, compact drones, rope-line, and blades. Everything with a purpose. No waste.
When he stood before the mirror for the first time, clad in full gear with the mask sealed, Elias Veyne was gone. He didn't see himself. He saw the Watcher.
The Lair
He lived in plain sight, but his war room was hidden in the bones of an abandoned subway station beneath his apartment complex. Accessed through a sealed hatch in the basement, the station was long forgotten — a failed construction project from decades ago, filled with dust and silence.
He stripped it bare and rebuilt it:
Racks of stolen servers hummed against the walls.
Monitors covered in scrolling data fed him constant surveillance streams.
Weapon racks gleamed with polished steel, modified firearms, and experimental tech.
A single battered desk held Marin's photograph, the one anchor to the man he once was.
This was no Batcave. No monument. It was a tomb of purpose. Every wire and weapon reminded Elias of why Argus existed — because no one else had protected Marin.
The Cover
By day, Elias still walked the city. He couldn't vanish completely — suspicion followed those who did. His job became his shield: a freelance cybersecurity consultant. He hacked firewalls for corporations, patched vulnerabilities for banks, hunted stolen identities for private clients. All legal on paper, all technical, all anonymous enough to never raise alarm.
It was more than income. It was training. Every breach he stopped, every code he cracked, every network he secured honed his skills for the war at night. His cover fed his mask. His mask fed his war.
Every hour of his life became discipline. Day fed the cover. Night fed Argus.
And as Meridian whispered with fear about the crimes Draegon's empire committed in the dark, another whisper began to stir. Of red eyes in the night. Of criminals found bloodied, chained, exposed. Of a Watcher who saw everything.
The city didn't know his name yet. But they would.
Argus was coming.