Location: Central City
Date: Monday, June 14th, 20XX
Central City was humming. Not just awake—alive. Heat shimmered off the asphalt like the streets were exhaling, carrying the smell of fried food and saltwater inland from the boardwalk. Seagulls screamed overhead, competing with car horns, and the chatter of tourists spilled out of cafés onto sidewalks where girls in neon bikinis drifted like bright fish in a crowded reef.
A black 1964 Mustang growled low through the traffic, its paint polished to a mirror finish that reflected the city in passing shards of light. It wasn't just a car—it was attitude on four wheels, drawing stares as it rolled beneath the summer sun.
Inside, smoke curled lazily from the cigarette clamped between the lips of the passenger. Alistair Grimm. Snow-white hair tied back with precise care. Crimson eyes hidden behind tea-shades with red lenses. His skin was medium brown, sun catching the gold in the studs in his ears. A beige blazer, black trim sharp as a blade, draped over his broad frame, unbuttoned just enough to show the floral shirt beneath. Expensive watch. Black dress pants pressed razor-straight. Brown leather shoes polished like mirrors.
He looked like trouble dressed for dinner. Handsome in a way that drew eyes too long, too curious. A kind of beauty that wasn't soft, but dangerous—the kind that promised something sharp under the surface.
Behind the wheel sat Tony. Blond hair catching the light, silver eyes cutting sideways with a grin that was equal parts charm and trouble. Bronze skin, a black dress shirt with the top buttons left undone like he thought rules were optional, white slacks tailored just right. Two rings flashed when he shifted gears one-handed. Cocky. Comfortable. The kind of man who wore danger like cologne.
The Mustang rumbled at a stoplight. The sea breeze pushed through the open windows, sticky with salt, hot enough to cling.
Tony: "Come on, Al."
Alistair: "For the last time, no."
Tony scoffed, loud, dramatic.
Tony: "Four years, man. Four. Years. Job after job after job. You ever heard of a thing called vacation? You know—sun, sand, half-naked women who don't want to kill you?"
Alistair exhaled smoke out the window, lips twitching just enough to count as a smile.
Alistair: "You're driving past all of it. Doesn't look like I'm missing much."
Tony's grin widened as he took a hand off the wheel, gesturing at a jogger crossing the street ahead. Long legs, bouncing ponytail, sports bra darkened with sweat.
Tony: "You're telling me you don't miss this? Look at that—look at that ass. That's divine architecture right there."
Alistair: "Focus on the road before we end up smeared across it."
Tony: "Nah, this is an intervention. You hear me? Not a drive. Not a job. Intervention. You're addicted, Al. To work. And I'm your sponsor."
Alistair dragged on his cigarette, the ember glowing, the ash catching the wind. He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched again—the closest Tony was going to get to laughter.
The Mustang slid into the parking lot of a steel-and-glass tower that rose above the street like a blade stabbed into the earth. Corporate logo gleaming in the sun. The world around it felt smaller. Tamer.
They parked. Doors opened. Heat hit like a slap the moment they stepped out.
Tony stretched, rolling his shoulders, sucking in the smell of hot tar and ocean air like it was freedom.
Tony: "Yes. Right now. Today's the day you face your feelings, Al."
Alistair popped the trunk. Inside, weapons gleamed. He holstered twin pistols beneath his blazer in a movement smooth enough to feel rehearsed. Tony, of course, reached straight for the revolver—and, inexplicably, a rocket launcher.
Alistair: "…Is that a rocket launcher?"
Tony (grinning): "Yes. And stop changing the subject. We're talking about your love life. Or lack of it. You've been celibate since Valeria in Los Almeas. That was what—two years ago? Three? You seriously gonna tell me she didn't ruin you after Vespa? C'mon, Al. You can't just brood your way through heartbreak forever."
Alistair shut the trunk with a sharp snap. Adjusted his blazer.
Alistair: "This is not the place."
Tony: "It's always the place. You just don't like being reminded you've got feelings under all that stone-faced, devil-eyed bullshit."
The city moved around them. Horns. Shouts. Music from a street corner saxophone weaving through the humid air. Alistair lit another cigarette. Tony twirled his revolver like a toy before slipping it into its holster. And together they walked toward the building, Central City's heartbeat pounding all around them.
The glass doors of the tower whispered open, cool recycled air rolling out to swallow them whole. The lobby gleamed—polished marble floors, chrome fixtures that caught the light like razors, a wall-length digital screen cycling through the company's propaganda reel.
Alistair moved first, every step unhurried but deliberate, like the world would wait for him. Tony trailed half a step behind, still running his mouth.
At the reception desk sat a young woman with a neat bun and an enamel tag that read Juliet. She looked up, smile flickering into place the instant Alistair's shadow fell across her desk.
Alistair slid his shades down just enough for crimson eyes to catch hers. The kind of gaze that pressed without trying, promising something you couldn't quite name. He leaned forward on the counter, cigarette tucked behind his ear now, blazer shifting to reveal the watch gleaming on his wrist.
Alistair: "Andrew Walker. Pleasure's mine. I've got a meeting with Victor Williams. And this here—"
Tony cut in with a grin, leaning on the counter far less gracefully.
Tony: "Lucius Wells."
Juliet giggled—half nerves, half charmed despite herself.
Juliet: "Mr. Williams is expecting you. Elevator, ninth floor."
Alistair: "Thanks, doll."
He winked. Not gaudy—smooth. Like a secret only she'd been trusted with. Juliet's cheeks warmed as he turned, Tony shooting him a look as they strode to the elevator.
The doors slid shut, leaving them with the faint hum of air conditioning and syrupy elevator music.
Tony: "Receptionist liked you."
Alistair: "Means to an end, Tony. You know that."
Tony: "Cute, though. Just saying."
Alistair didn't answer at first. He thumbed a magazine out of one of his pistols, crimson bullets catching the sterile light as he checked the load. Perfect, as always. He slid it back in, the click sharp against the muffled music.
Tony: "Never get why you do that. You could bend the blood into bullets whenever you want."
Alistair (quietly): "Habit."
Tony's grin faded, sincerity slipping through the cracks.
Tony: "Right. Sorry."
Alistair's voice softened, just slightly.
Alistair: "Don't worry about it. The island changed us all."
Tony nodded, tension flickering behind his silver eyes.
Tony: "So we kill everyone?"
Alistair screwed silencers onto both pistols with calm precision, the sound of metal threading metal filling the small space.
Alistair: "Yep. Fast. Clean."
He holstered them, rolling his shoulders as though shrugging off the weight of inevitability.
Alistair: "And if we're unlucky, we might draw the Flash. Which would be… a pain in the ass. Another reason I'd have preferred we hadn't taken this job."
Tony: "The pay's good."
Alistair sighed, almost inaudible, eyes flicking to the floor numbers ticking upward.
Alistair: "Receptionist saw our faces."
Tony's cocky grin returned.
Tony: "Damn. Guess we gotta kill her."
Alistair's mouth curved, not quite a smile—something colder.
Alistair: "I'd prefer not to. We'll let Lucius wipe the system. No point spilling blood we don't have to."
The elevator chimed. Doors slid open. Alistair straightened his blazer, adjusted his shades, and stepped out as if the entire ninth floor had been waiting just for him.
The elevator doors parted with a soft chime. The hallway stretched ahead—long, polished marble floors gleaming like still water. Potted plants stood in neat formation against the walls, each one too carefully placed, too symmetrical, as if they were part of the surveillance. The tinted windows along the left spilled a cold blue light, the kind that made everything look like it had been drained of warmth.
Tony's shoes clicked against the floor as he strolled beside Alistair, hands shoved casually into his pockets.
Tony (grinning): "Perfect place for a murder."
Alistair didn't break stride.
Tony pulled out a cheap burner phone, dialed, and pressed it to his ear.
Lucius (over comms): "Go for Yoda."
Alistair sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his shades.
Alistair: "For the last time, your code name isn't Yoda, Lu."
Lucius (ignoring him completely): "Go for Yoda."
Tony barked a laugh, shoulders shaking.
Tony: "Oh, I'm never letting this go. Master Jedi on comms. Beautiful."
Lucius: "Focus up, clowns. You should be coming up on a set of oversized wooden doors. Real fancy, hand-carved. Meeting's in there. Try not to scuff the floors before you start shooting."
Alistair's gaze flicked to the double doors at the end of the corridor. Expensive wood, polished to a mirror finish. He adjusted his cuffs, already cataloguing exits, camera placements, shadows.
Tony: "Relax. What's your deal with this guy anyway? You wouldn't shut up about him last week. Going on and on about how he… what was it… 'bucks the system'?"
Lucius' voice sharpened, bristling.
Lucius: "The greasy bastard is the reason my limited edition, once-in-a-lifetime, never-gonna-be-sold-again XXXG-00W0 Wing Gundam Zero model kit will never be mine. You understand me? Never. He bought nine of them. Nine. Who the hell needs nine?"
Tony's laugh echoed down the hall, loud enough that Alistair cut him a sharp look.
Tony: "Oh my God. All this hate because of an action figure?"
Lucius (snapping): "Model. Kit. Limited-run. Mint condition. If you see one in his office, do me a favor—liberate it. Call it… emotional damages."
For the first time since stepping off the elevator, a flicker of a smile ghosted across Alistair's lips.
Alistair (dryly): "We'll add petty theft to the body count. Noted."
Tony pushed the doors open, the sound of hinges cutting through the quiet room. His claws extended from his fists with a faint metallic snap, gleaming in the harsh light like silver knives—an almost imperceptible warning.
Men and women, young and old, turned toward the intruders, their chatter dying instantly. The long table, polished to a mirror sheen, reflected their startled faces.
One man, red in the face with outrage, jumped up from his chair.
Man: "Who the hell are you guys? Do you have any idea who the people in this ro—"
Before he could finish, a crimson-hot bullet streaked across the room. It hit him square in the mouth. His body crumpled with a wet, sickening thud, eyes wide in frozen shock. Screams erupted, high-pitched and desperate, echoing against the marble walls. Alistair Grimm's gun glimmered in his hand. The shot had been precise, surgical, controlled.
Alistair's crimson eyes scanned the terrified crowd. His aim shifted smoothly, the gun now pointing toward the table—but away from the already fallen man. A faint curl of smoke drifted from the barrel. He casually pressed a cigarette to his lips, the ember glowing softly.
Alistair (calm, almost teasing): "Hush. We're here for one reason, and one man."
His gaze locked on the elderly figure at the head of the table. Every movement was controlled, calculated—a predator surveying the prey before the strike.
Tony (shrugging, voice casual): "You all are just collateral, unfortunately."
A woman at the table's edge raised her trembling hands, desperation lacing her voice.
Woman: "Is it money you want? I'll pay double, no—triple, whatever you're being paid—just let me go!"
Alistair tilted his head, crimson eyes glinting like polished rubies. Slowly, deliberately, he fired. The shot was clean, precise. She crumpled to the marble floor with a soft, final thump.
Alistair (cold, almost playful): "We'd like to accept the money… but that wouldn't look good for us, money-wise."
Tony leaned against the doorframe, claws still gleaming, spinning a small knife lazily in his other hand.
Tony (grinning): "Mr. Stein sends his regards."
Silence fell like a heavy curtain. The only sounds were the faint hiss of spent gunpowder and the low hum of the building's air system. Marble reflected the chaos: bodies sprawled, blood pooling, and the elegance of the room marred by violence.
Alistair exhaled smoke, flicking the ash into the nearest bloodstain. Every movement was casual, but every motion carried lethal intent—an unspoken warning: underestimate him at your own peril.
The elevator dinged softly as it descended. When the doors slid open, the lobby stretched before them, a polished expanse of marble and glass. Alistair's gaze flicked toward the receptionist one last time. She was tapping away at her keyboard, unaware of the chaos that had just unfolded above her.
Alistair gave her a slow, casual wink. She glanced up, flushed, and quickly looked away, her fingers hovering nervously over the keys. For a brief moment, their eyes met again, and she offered a shy, tentative wave.
She didn't know. And she wouldn't know—not for hours.
Tony swung the doors open with a grin, the sunlight cutting across his blond hair as they stepped outside. The city smelled faintly of salt and exhaust, the ocean breeze mixing with the hot asphalt. People wandered along the sidewalks, some still glancing curiously at the sleek black Mustang parked at the curb.
Alistair and Tony slid into the car. The engine growled as Tony twisted the keys, the tires squealing slightly as they pulled onto the street.
Tony (stretching, rubbing his stomach): "Man… I'm starving. I could demolish a snack right now."
Alistair leaned back, his crimson eyes catching the sunlight streaming through the windshield.
Alistair (smirking, calm): "Deep-dish pizza."
Tony slowly turned his head toward him, eyes narrowing with mock horror—and maybe a hint of genuine offense—the kind that could spark wars.
Tony (voice rising, dramatic): "Deep-dish is not a pizza, Al. It's a pie. A sinful, tomato-and-cheese-laden abomination masquerading as pizza. You're angering the Italian blood in me!"
Alistair tilted his head, letting a teasing grin play across his lips. The sunlight glinted off his platinum-white hair.
Alistair (smirk widening): "I might even add pineapple on it."
Tony's hands slammed down on the steering wheel, teeth gritted, as if Alistair had personally insulted his ancestors.
Tony (shouting, half-laughing): "FUCK YOU, pretty boy!"
Alistair chuckled softly, the sound low and smooth, like a cat stretching in the sun. He leaned back, one arm casually draped across the seat, eyes glinting with amusement.
Alistair (mock serious): "Oh, come now. You'll forgive me. Deep-dish and pineapple is a crime only to the unrefined."
Tony snorted, shaking his head as he hit the accelerator.
Tony: "Refined? Refined would be not murdering nine people before lunch."
Alistair (raising an eyebrow, playful): "Details, Tony. Mere details."
The Mustang roared down the boulevard, weaving past joggers and tourists. The ocean glimmered off to the side, the salty breeze carrying the faint scent of fried food and sunscreen. Horns honked, birds squawked overhead, and the city felt alive—unaware of the storm that had just passed above.
Alistair exhaled a plume of smoke from his cigarette, letting the ember glow in the sunlight.
Alistair (murmuring, almost to himself): "Somewhere, a good deep-dish waits for us. With pineapple."
Tony groaned dramatically but couldn't hide the twitch of a smile at his partner's audacity.
Tony: "I swear… one of these days, pretty boy, I'm going to put anchovies on your slice just to see your face."
Alistair just laughed, a low, amused sound that seemed to hang in the air long after the Mustang had disappeared around the corner.
POV: Barry "The Flash" Allen
Today was already shaping up to be one of those days. The kind where coffee doesn't help, and bad news has a way of multiplying.
By the time the call came in, it was already midnight. The cleaning crew had stumbled onto the scene, and now the area was crawling with flashing lights, yellow "Do Not Cross" tape, and the low hum of police radios. Reporters jostled at the perimeter, trying to angle for a shot, their cameras snapping incessantly, but the officers on guard made sure nobody got too close.
Barry lifted his badge, the metallic glint catching the floodlights.
Barry: "Barry Allen, Forensic Department."
The officer nodded and stepped aside, letting him pass. The chill of the night air bit at his skin, the scent of wet asphalt and lingering exhaust hanging heavy.
Inside, the elevator chimed softly as it rose to the ninth floor. Each ding of the floor marker seemed slower than the last, as if the building itself were warning him.
The doors slid open. Silence. Except for the distant hum of fluorescent lights.
Corpses. Covered in white sheets, some slumped in grotesque positions. Officers murmured in hushed tones, their flashlights dancing over the marble floors and polished wood accents of the office. Barry felt the weight of the scene settle into his chest.
Forensic 1 (whispering, voice tight): "It's… like nothing I've ever seen before."
Barry stepped closer to one of the bodies, crouching carefully. The sheet slipped slightly under his fingers. A single, clean hole in the man's mouth. No shell casings, no bullet lodged anywhere. It was as if the man had been struck by invisible force.
He scanned the other bodies. Claw marks—deep, jagged, deliberate—lined arms and torsos. Some of the wounds were fresh, others seemed almost ceremonial. Barry's gut twisted.
This wasn't just a crime scene. This was a statement. And whatever—or whoever—had done this… wasn't human.
Barry exhaled, steadying himself. His gloved hand hovered over a notebook, fingers itching to jot down every detail, but his mind kept circling back to the impossible.
No shells. No bullets. Claw marks where no one should have claws.
He swallowed, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline that always preceded his instincts kicking into overdrive. Something about this place… something about this case… screamed danger.
And he had a sinking feeling that this wasn't over.