The rain kept falling, persistently, over the rooftops of the city.
At that hour, the sound of traffic was nothing more than a distant murmur, replaced by the constant dripping of water sliding down signs, cables, and rusty gutters.
High up on a building, just beneath a half-broken billboard that flickered between "Mario's Slice Heaven" and "ar o's Slic H aven," a hooded figure sat at the edge of the roof.
Beside him, five open pizza boxes, still steaming, were stacked in no particular order.
The rising steam mixed with the fog, filling the air with the smell of melted cheese, mushrooms, shrimp, anchovies, eggs, and much more.
No pineapple—absolutely not. That much was certain, as was the fact that the billboard shielded the mostly empty boxes from the unforgiving rain.
The boy lifted a slice that still looked intact—worthy of a man of the highest nobility making the ultimate sacrifice of eating a slice of pizza.
"Croak…" he mumbled between bites. "I guess this counts as dinner… and maybe breakfast too."
He didn't seem upset. More like calm. Cheerful even.
He liked the rain. It was like having all the noise in the world shut off for a moment.
Besides listening to music through his earbuds, of course.
He also tried checking the news—whether about him (which unfortunately, there weren't) or about the city. But at most, all he found were reports of fights between the supers who robbed the bank and the heroes.
Fights he wasn't exactly ready for. Not yet.
He looked down at the empty streets, the streetlights reflecting across puddles. Everything looked cleaner from up there.
"One month already," he thought to himself—and to no one else. "And nothing big yet. Just your typical thieves, idiots with knives, or kids and old ladies needing a hand…"
He took another slice and folded it like a taco.
And yeah, it was true—just a month or so in, and he had only run into petty thieves. The most "successful" thing he'd done in his incredibly long career was saving a pizzeria, which rewarded him with a permanent 10% discount.
He chewed in silence for a while, the sound of the rain setting the rhythm.
He opened another box. This one had chunks of meat, mushrooms, and an absurd amount of cheese.
"Definitely not worth the effort patrolling this area," the frog-themed boy thought wisely. "Nothing much happens, and the night-shift workers already know me as 'the frog who orders multiple extra-loaded pizzas.'"
He paused, smiling to himself. "They're not wrong."
He set an empty box aside, nudged it with his foot, and watched the wind carry it over the edge. The box spun a few times before disappearing into the darkness.
The sky roared again, lighting up his silhouette for an instant—soaked hood, green goggles reflecting the lightning, black boots with orange details resting on the wet concrete.
"Croak," he muttered softly without noticing.
The thunder faded. Only the rain and the buzzing billboard remained.
The boy stretched, yawned, and grabbed the last slice from the most overloaded pizza.
He looked toward the horizon: the city spreading out like the vast grey concrete jungle it was—very asleep and very alive at the same time.
"Well…" he said, standing up and adjusting his gloves while wiping them with a napkin (a useless attempt, since the rain drenched the napkin immediately). "Time to hop around some more."
He made a half-smile as he fixed his hood. "Maybe I'll find something different tonight."
With a light push from his heels, he launched forward.
His jump blended with the rain, leaving behind only the empty boxes drifting like tiny rafts in a neon sea.
The jump carried him roughly 400 meters in just a second, landing with a wet thud on the rooftop of another building—likely an apartment complex with rain-soaked trash.
The boy walked a bit, swaying with the wind. Sometimes he took small hops, not because he needed to, but because it was more fun.
Below, the city kept moving: a late taxi, a man pulling down a metal shutter, a couple running under a ruined umbrella.
From up there everything looked different. Smaller. Calmer.
"Croak," he murmured as he watched a cat slip between garbage bags. "At least someone else enjoys the rain."
He hopped to another building. Squatted, touched the wet surface, and let the rain fall directly onto his gloved hands.
He could guess it was cold—but not unpleasant.
He sat again, this time on a ledge overlooking an intersection. The traffic lights kept switching colors every so often, even though there were no cars.
He pulled a crumpled wrapper from his pocket—a slice of pizza he'd saved "just in case."
He took a bite.
"Croak. Still good."
He may or may not have shrugged indifferently.
"More or less."
He turned on the device on his wrist—a small invention of his. Basically just a big phone acting as a tiny computer, nothing too fancy.
He checked the news again. Still nothing. Not a single mention of him. Not a single mention of robberies either.
Except the bank fight, which had been going on for hours and still hadn't ended.
"Eh, I guess not showing up in videos is… croak… good. Means I'm not screwing up. Maybe."
He powered off the device, closed it, stood back up, stretched. Ready for action—if it ever came.
Then the wind shifted, bringing a metallic smell mixed with smoke.
He stopped. Sniffed the air.
"That's not pizza."
Then he heard it: a dull explosion not far away, muffled by the rain.
"Eh… croak… maybe my prayers for action have been croaked."
A couple of orange lights reflected in puddles two blocks away.
Another explosion—shorter—followed by a scream and the sound of metal clashing.
The boy raised an eyebrow, cracked his neck, and smiled with a playful glint behind his goggles.
"Well, that sounds like someone just croaked… the peace of the night."
A bit anxious and excited, he bent his powerful frog legs and launched himself forward, soaring through the rain-soaked buildings.
The rain hit harder now, as if the sky itself wanted to bury the chaos under noise.
He arrived within seconds, settling on a ledge where he could see the scene below.
An armored truck, its bank logo half torn off, was sprawled across the street. Emergency lights flickered, mixing with the orange glow of flames escaping the engine.
Two figures in black suits and reflective helmets guarded the back. They didn't look like simple thieves—they moved with precision, wielding weapons that hummed under the rain.
And apparently it wasn't just two—it was seven. At least the ones below.
Frogstrike could see three more atop nearby buildings, watching for any meddling super (like him).
The hooded boy stayed perfectly still, breathing deeply. Rain slid off his hood almost like it belonged there.
Thankfully, he was invisible—literally and figuratively. Impossible to see, hear, or smell. Otherwise they would've caught him, which would've been annoying.
"That's not money…" he thought as he watched the attackers open the truck's cargo, while the rooftop guards scanned the surroundings. "Unless banks now store glowing stuff… glowing enough to leak out of a sealed container."
One of the men pulled something wrapped in a metallic tarp. A cylindrical capsule, barrel-sized, covered in blue lights. They used it to scan one of the crates buried under cash—probably a security measure, he guessed.
The boy tilted his head, curious.
"Great. My first 'serious villains' and they're raiding what is possibly a secret experiment, possibly belonging to a highly questionable pond of morality and intent."
He raised his hand, letting the rain fall onto his invisible, gloved fingers.
He stepped back, bending his legs.
Below, one of the attackers looked up, confused.
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" the other replied, not taking his eyes off the cargo.
"Those noises—"
"Don't be an idiot. No supers. If there were, they would've warned us already." Knowing what his partner meant, he answered, while the first tried contacting the rooftop team.
Hhrshshrs static was the only reply.
So he prepared his weapon and began speaking:
"Guys, I think so—"
Before he finished, a dull, wet thud echoed behind them.
He turned… and only saw a black boot with orange soles before he was launched into the side of the truck.
The other barely screamed before a tongue wrapped around his arm and yanked him into the darkness.
From the ledge, the hooded boy landed with a muffled splash, droplets scattering around his feet.
"Good evening, little tadpoles," he said with a wide Cheshire-style grin. "How about the neighborhood amphibian handles this?"
A bolt of lightning lit the street, revealing his full silhouette—hood, green goggles, soaked kneepads, and a stance not entirely human.
The attackers stepped back—only to draw their weapons… or powers, in some cases.
"Oh, come on, don't get too bogged down," he said, cracking his neck.
"I promise not to croak. Well… not much."
And with a leap, he launched himself at them again.
The rain swallowed him once more, leaving behind only the echo of impacts, splashing water, and a faint, almost inaudible sound hidden beneath distant thunder.