My name is Henry Rhodes, and all my life, I've believed I was the strongest.
But right now, I'm lying on the cold asphalt—bruised, battered, and bleeding under the pale, indifferent glow of the streetlights. The night wind bites at my skin like a pack of wolves, and every breath feels like fire in my lungs.
For the first time in years, I can't move.
For the first time in years, I'm afraid.
I've fought thugs, delinquents, and every kind of scum that thought they were tough. And I've always come out on top. Always. But the man standing in front of me… no, the thing standing in front of me—he's not normal. He's something else. A monster in human skin.
But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's go back to where it all began.
Ever since I was five, I've lived at Mrs. Lina's Home—an orphanage tucked in the quieter parts of New York. The building's old, the walls creak, and the paint's long faded, but it's still the warmest place I've ever known.
Mrs. Lina herself? She's an angel in human form. The kind of woman who can scold you and still make you feel loved in the same breath. Her smile could thaw glaciers, and her hugs—God, her hugs—made even the worst days feel survivable.
Most kids there grew up happy. They found new families, new hope, and new dreams.
But me? I was different.
The void my parents left behind wasn't because they abandoned me. They didn't walk out—they were killed. Victims of a clean, professional assassination. I still remember the smell of iron that night. The way their lifeless eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. I remember my small hands trembling as I reached for them, thinking maybe—just maybe—they'd wake up.
That was the moment something inside me broke… and something else was born.
I realized if I ever wanted to be safe, I couldn't rely on kindness or luck.
I needed strength. Real strength.
So, I trained.
Ten years of sweat, pain, and obsession. I pushed my body until it screamed. I broke bones and kept going. Every scar was a reminder of why I couldn't stop. By fifteen, I could crush concrete with a kick and outmaneuver grown men twice my size.
Then the rumors started. People began whispering about a silver-haired boy who fought like a demon—merciless and unstoppable. That whisper became a name, and that name became a reputation.
They called me Silver Killer.
The nickname spread faster than I expected. From the slums to the backstreets, from underground fighting rings to shady clubs, everyone knew it. At first, it brought me a twisted kind of fame. But fame in my world doesn't buy you peace—it paints a target on your back.
Two more years passed. My fists hardened, my instincts sharpened, and my arrogance bloomed right alongside my skill. By then, I was confident enough to think nothing and no one could touch me.
Turns out, life loves proving me wrong.
It was late one night when everything changed.
The streetlights cast long, orange streaks across the wet pavement. The air was cold, the kind that fogs up your breath. I was heading home from the local mart, plastic grocery bags swinging in one hand, mind lost in the usual noise of the city.
Then I saw them—men in black leather jackets, loitering by the corner. Scarred faces. Tired eyes. The kind of people you could tell had seen too many fights and survived them all.
I tried to walk past. I'd learned not to pick unnecessary fights. But one of them stepped out, blocking my path.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a mustache stretching from nose to cheek, his face half-hidden under the shadows. From the way the others stood behind him, he was clearly their leader. And from the way he looked at me, I could tell he wasn't planning to move.
He turned to a man beside him.
"Does he fit the description?" His voice was deep, rough, like gravel grinding under steel.
The lackey nodded.
That's when I knew—they weren't random punks. They were here for me.
"So you're the Silver Killer, huh?" the leader sneered. "Doesn't look like much."
I scanned the circle forming around me. Thirteen men in total.
My heart rate didn't spike. My breathing stayed calm. I'd been in worse odds before—or so I thought.
"You gonna answer me, kid?" the leader growled, leaning closer. His breath stank of tobacco and cheap beer.
I slowly lowered the groceries to the ground, keeping my gaze locked on his.
Then, without warning, I drove my fist straight into his face.
Crack!
His body lifted off the ground and crashed into the wall behind him. Silence fell for half a second before chaos exploded.
The rest of his men roared and charged.
I moved first. Spotted a weak point in their formation, darted through it before they could close in. My body acted on pure instinct—no hesitation, no thought.
The first two came at me swinging pipes. I sidestepped, grabbed one by the collar, and slammed my elbow into his jaw. He dropped instantly. The second barely had time to react before my knee met his ribs with a satisfying thud.
Three more rushed in, shouting curses. I spun, letting my heel connect with the nearest one's face, sending him flying into his comrades. The rest froze, hesitation flickering in their eyes.
I didn't give them time to recover.
I shot forward, my fists a blur, each punch landing clean and heavy. Seven more fell like dominoes.
The last one, desperate, grabbed a steel pipe and swung wildly. I ducked under it, feeling the air cut past my ear, then kicked him square in the jaw. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Just like that—it was over.
Thirteen men, down.
I let out a breath, flexing my sore knuckles, then crouched to pick up my groceries. My eyes drifted to their bodies, scattered like trash bags across the street. Something about the whole setup felt… off.
I checked their pockets. A few wallets, some cash, a few phones.
Then I found something in the leader's coat—a sleek, black card with the letters A.A.O printed on it in silver.
"What the hell is this?" I muttered, flipping it over.
Before I could think further, a cold hand rested on my shoulder.
"They call you the Silver Killer," a man whispered behind me, his voice smooth, quiet, and dripping with malice, "but you don't kill."
Every muscle in my body froze.
I hadn't heard footsteps. Not a single breath. Not even a shift in the air.
That realization alone terrified me.
I spun around instantly, jumping back on instinct. My heart pounded like a war drum.
How had he gotten so close?
He stepped into the light. Black jeans. White jacket. A neck warmer covering his mouth. But it was his eyes—sharp, calm, unblinking—that made my stomach drop.
"You've trained your body well," he said, voice still unnervingly composed. "It knew I was going to attack."
I could feel sweat pouring down my face. My breathing grew shallow. My instincts screamed danger. This man wasn't a thug. He wasn't even an assassin. He was something far beyond that.
"I've heard the rumors about you," he continued, slowly rolling his shoulders. "I wanted to see them for myself."
Then he disappeared.
No sound. No movement. One second he was standing still—and the next, he was right in front of me.
All I saw was a blur.
Then came the impact.
BOOM!
His fist connected with my chest, and the next thing I knew, I was airborne, crashing through a wall like a rag doll. The world spun. Dust filled my lungs. Pain shot through every nerve in my body.
I could barely keep my eyes open, but through the haze, I saw him walking toward me—slow, deliberate steps echoing in the silence.
He stopped a few feet away, looking down at me with cold disappointment.
"All it took was one weak punch?" he muttered.
His words hit harder than the punch itself. My vision dimmed, the edges of the world fading to black. And as consciousness slipped away, one thought burned itself into my mind—
The man standing before me wasn't human.
He was a monster wearing human skin.