The night was a storm carved out of fury itself.
Black clouds roared above the city, splitting apart with violent veins of lightning that illuminated the skyline in flashes of silver and ghostly white. The storm had been building all evening, and now, atop the high-rise where blood slicked the rooftop, it had reached its crescendo.
Rain fell in sheets, hammering the cracked concrete, turning dirt and dust into rivulets that bled into the drains at the edges of the roof. The wind screamed, carrying the metallic tang of spilled blood and the scent of burnt ozone left behind by each crash of thunder.
Kyle sat slumped against the cold rooftop wall, his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged breaths. His body ached with exhaustion, though not with despair. His black clothes were in tatters—holes torn through his shirt, cape shredded and whipping violently behind him with every furious gust. Blood soaked the fabric, dripping down to mingle with the rainwater at his boots. His face, streaked red, was half-shadow, half-light whenever lightning burst across the heavens.
And yet, he was alive.
Alive, because he could not die.
Not tonight.
Opposite him, five men stood in a loose half-circle, their silhouettes framed by the stormlight. Each of them was battered, broken, and bleeding, but none had loosened their grip on their weapons. Their chests heaved with the same desperation that burned in Kyle's lungs, their eyes locked onto him with hatred, determination, and the bitter stubbornness of men who had sworn themselves to a cause.
The rooftop was their arena, the storm their witness.
One man held a rusted iron chain, each link heavy enough to shatter bone. Another's knuckles were white around the hilt of a serrated machete. A third gripped a steel pipe bent at one end, its edges jagged from past use. The fourth carried a hunting axe whose blade gleamed wetly in the storm. And the last—their leader—wielded a curved sword, its edge chipped but still sharp enough to carve flesh.
They were all injured. One limped, dragging his right leg stiffly behind him. Another clutched his side, ribs broken beneath soaked bandages. A third's face was swollen, one eye swollen shut by Kyle's earlier strikes. But none stepped back. None yielded.
The wind howled, pressing rain into their faces, and still they advanced.
Kyle's lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smirk. His breaths came slower now, though the pain in his body was more memory than reality. Already, the torn muscle in his side was knitting together beneath his skin. The gash along his arm was sealing with faint, glowing threads of scar tissue before fading into nothing but faint redness. His lungs were clearing, bruises evaporating, bones realigning.
That was his curse.
That was his gift.
Regeneration.
The world wanted him dead, and yet it would never have him.
He raised his head, strands of wet black hair sticking to his bloodied face, and met the eyes of the five men. "You should've stayed down," he said, voice low, hoarse from shouting and battle. His words were nearly drowned by thunder, but the men heard them. "You're only dragging this out."
The man with the curved sword stepped forward, his shoulders squared even though his body screamed in protest. His jaw was clenched, his face streaked with blood and rain. "And let you walk away?" His voice was ragged but resolute. "Never."
Kyle tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment as another crack of lightning painted the world white. "Then you'll die on this roof."
The words carried no arrogance, no cruelty. Just certainty.
Silence followed, except for the storm. Then the chain rattled as its wielder swung it once through the air, sending droplets scattering. The others adjusted their grips, boots sliding slightly on the slick surface. They were ready.
And so was Kyle.
He pushed himself to his feet, slow but steady, every muscle groaning before snapping taut with renewed strength. The storm clung to him, his cape whipping, his outline jagged in the flash of lightning. Blood streamed down him still, but less with each passing moment. His body was fixing itself, returning him to the predator they feared.
Yet, despite their fear, they did not run.
The chain-bearer lunged first, whipping the iron links through the air with a crack like a gunshot. Kyle twisted sideways, the chain grazing his shoulder and tearing another strip from his cape. In the same motion, Kyle's hand shot out, grabbing the chain mid-swing. His arm jerked as the man tried to yank it back, but Kyle's grip was unbreakable. With a sharp pull, he dragged the man forward, his other hand snapping upward in a brutal punch that connected with the man's jaw. Bone cracked. Teeth scattered across the wet rooftop. The man collapsed with a strangled groan.
The others didn't falter.
The machete-wielder came from Kyle's right, swinging wild. Kyle dropped, the blade whistling above his head, then surged upward with a headbutt that split the man's brow. Warm blood joined the rain as Kyle shoved him backward. But the moment he turned, the bent steel pipe caught him across the ribs.
The impact staggered him, a grunt ripping from his throat as the pain blossomed. He staggered, but only for a heartbeat. His body was already repairing the damage, ribs knitting back together with a low, internal ache. He lashed out, fist snapping into the man's stomach, doubling him over.
The axe-bearer came next, blade cleaving down with savage force. Kyle caught the haft mid-swing, the wood splintering beneath the strain of their grapple. For a long moment they struggled, rain pouring between their faces. Then Kyle twisted, forcing the man off-balance, and drove his knee into the man's chest. Something cracked—ribs, sternum, maybe both. The man collapsed to the slick concrete.
Only two remained.
The pipe-wielder, stumbling upright again, blood bubbling from his lips. And the leader, the one with the curved sword.
Kyle wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, chest rising steady now. "Still here?" he muttered.
The pipe-wielder charged first, desperate and reckless. Kyle sidestepped, twisting the man's momentum into the wall with a sickening crunch. The pipe fell, clattering uselessly. The man slid down beside it, coughing crimson.
Only the leader remained.
The storm howled louder, as though the heavens themselves demanded the final act. The sword gleamed as the man raised it, his body trembling but his gaze unwavering.
Kyle stood across from him, silent.
The world narrowed to two figures on a rooftop. Thunder cracked, lightning burned the sky, rain lashed down like bullets.
The leader screamed—a sound of rage, grief, and defiance—and charged.
Kyle moved to meet him.
Their clash rang out like thunder of its own. Steel scraped against flesh, fists against bone, the rooftop trembling beneath their battle. The man slashed wild, his strikes fast but sloppy, desperation guiding his hand. Kyle absorbed one cut across his arm, another along his chest, but each wound sealed almost as quickly as it opened.
The leader's eyes widened with horror as the truth sank in.
Kyle caught his wrist, twisted, and the sword clattered to the ground. A second later, Kyle's fist drove into his gut, doubling him over, and then another strike smashed across his jaw, sending him sprawling to the rooftop.
The man lay there, chest heaving, staring up into the storm. Kyle stood above him, rain dripping from his chin, his expression unreadable.
"You fought well," Kyle said softly, almost regretfully. "But you can't kill me."
The man coughed, blood mixing with rain as he laughed bitterly. "Then you'll never be free." His eyes burned with something Kyle couldn't name—hatred, yes, but also pity. "You'll keep fighting… forever."
Kyle didn't reply. He didn't need to. The truth of those words had haunted him for years.
The leader's strength faded, and his body went still.
Silence returned to the rooftop, save for the storm.
Kyle stood alone among broken men, his own body already whole again. The cuts across his chest were fading, the bruises on his ribs dissolving. Only the stains on his clothes remained, proof of what had happened here.
He lowered himself back against the wall, breathing deeply, letting the rain wash the blood from his skin. His black cape clung to him, heavy with water, holes fluttering in the gale. His eyes, dark and tired, drifted toward the sky.
The storm above seemed endless.
But it was nothing compared to the storm within him.
His enemies were gone. For now. But there would always be more. There was always someone hunting him, always another night like this one waiting around the corner.
And in that moment, as thunder rolled over the city and lightning tore the heavens apart, Kyle's mind slipped backward.
Ten years.
Ten long years since the beginning. Since the night that had changed everything.
The rooftop vanished from his vision, replaced by memory. His heart slowed, his breath steadied, and the storm faded into the echoes of a different time.
The time when it had all begun.