Seattle City, Washington DC
The Windsor house didn't feel like a den.
It was too clean. Too open. Glass, steel, warm lighting that reflected off polished floors. A place built for people who expected tomorrow.
Anne Windsor moved easily through the space, smiling as if Mark were an old friend finally found.
"I'm really glad you came," she said, setting another plate on the table. "You don't know how hard it is to see someone carry this alone."
Mark nodded, unsure what to say.
Dinner was quiet in a comfortable way. No staring. No questions. Just food, clinking cutlery, the low hum of voices.
The television murmured in the background.
At first, Mark ignored it.
Then he didn't.
"…breaking news from downtown Seattle. An ongoing bank robbery has left multiple employees and civilians trapped inside—"
Mark's hand froze mid-air.
The camera cut to shaky footage. Police lights. A familiar building.
Then the caption appeared.
ETHAN SWINTON — BANK OWNER — HELD HOSTAGE
Mark stood so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"That's my dad."
The room changed.
Anne's smile vanished—not in shock, but in understanding.
Every Windsor at the table went still.
Not because of the robbery.
Because they knew what came next.
Anne rose slowly. "Mark… listen to me."
"They're just robbers," another said quickly. "They want money. They won't hurt anyone."
Anne stepped closer, her voice steady but urgent. "You can't go out there. Not tonight. It's the full moon."
Mark's breathing grew uneven.
"You don't understand."
"I do," Anne said softly. "And that's why I'm asking you to stay."
"You can't control it out there."
"You'll expose yourself."
"You'll break the vow."
Each word pressed in on him.
Mark's fists clenched, trembling.
"They're pointing guns at him," he said, voice cracking. "He doesn't even know what's happening."
Anne reached for him—but he stepped back.
His eyes were wet now. Not fear. Not anger.
Helplessness.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I really am."
The words barely left his mouth before he turned.
The back door slammed open.
By the time Anne reached the threshold, he was already gone—his scent burning through the night, wild and panicked.
Anne stood there for a long moment, moonlight spilling across the floor.
Mark's phone vibrates while he's halfway down the street.
Mom.
He answers while moving.
"Mark—where are you? Come home. Please."
Her voice is tight. Controlled. Terrified underneath.
"I saw the news," Mark says, breath steady. Too steady.
"I'm coming home."
He hangs up before she can say anything else.
That lie sits heavy in his chest.
He cuts into a corner hardware store.
The bell rings. No one pays attention.
Mark walks straight to the tools aisle. No hesitation. No browsing.
His hand closes around an axe—not decorative, not flashy.
Solid. Balanced. Sharp enough.
The clerk starts to say something.
Mark drops cash on the counter and is already gone.
Police cars choke the street. Red and blue lights smear across glass and concrete. Officers shout into radios. Civilians are being pushed back.
Seattle National Bank.
He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, wraps it around his lower face, ties it tight. His eyes stay visible. Focused. Cold.
Axe in hand.
Mark walk towards the Bank.
"HEY—STOP!" someone yells.
He breaks into a sprint.
Not human-fast.
Too fast.
Two officers try to intercept him—Mark slips between them like smoke. One reaches out and grabs nothing but air. Another stumbles, confused.
"What the hell—"
Mark is already at the steps.
Someone screams, "GUN—!"
Mark doesn't care.
He kicks the glass doors open.
The sound hits first.
Shouting. Crying. A drill whining against metal.
Four robbers.
Masks. Rifles. Nerves shot to hell.
They see him.
For half a second, everyone freezes.
Then—
Gunfire.
The first burst tears through where Mark's head was.
He moves.
Not dodging like a trained fighter.
Dodging like an animal that feels death before it happens.
Bullets punch holes in marble. Glass explodes. A desk splinters.
Mark slides, rolls, comes up behind a pillar. His heart isn't racing.
It's howling.
One robber screams, "WHAT IS THAT?!"
Mark steps out.
The axe comes down.
Mark presses his back against the pillar.
Stone dust rains down as bullets chew into the marble inches from his head. He closes his eyes—not in fear, but focus.
The world sharpens.
Heartbeats become drums.
Gun clicks sound like hammers underwater.
Breath turns slow. Heavy. Controlled.
He leans out.
Runs.
Not fast.
Explosively.
One robber sees him first and panics.
He fires.
Mark leans—the bullet slices past his cheek, close enough that the heat kisses his skin. Another step, another shot. Miss. Miss.
Then the others react.
Three rifles open up at once.
This time Mark doesn't dodge.
He meets it.
The axe moves before thought.
Metal screams.
CLANG.
A bullet hits the blade and ricochets sideways, smashing into a desk.
CLANG—CLANG.
Two more shots deflect, sparks bursting in the air like fireflies. One bullet splits in half, fragments embedding into the wall behind him.
The robbers freeze.
That hesitation costs them everything.
Mark is already inside their firing line.
The axe swings—not wild, not angry.
Precise. Brutal.
He slams the flat of the blade into the first man's chest. Bones crack. The robber flies backward, skidding across the floor, unconscious before he stops moving.
The second tries to aim.
Too slow.
Mark grabs the rifle barrel, yanks the man forward, and headbutts him. The sound is wet and final. The man drops.
The third turns to run.
Mark throws the axe.
It spins once.
The handle clips the man's knee.
He collapses screaming.
Silence crashes down.
Hostages stare. Some crying. Some praying. Some too shocked to move.
Mark stands in the middle of the bank.
Chest rising. Eyes glowing just a fraction too bright.
The last robber slammed into the floor, coughing, eyes bulging in panic.
"Please—wait—" he rasped.
Mark didn't answer.
He knelt, stripped the gun from trembling fingers, then another, then another. His hands were steady even though his heart wasn't. Zip-ties snapped tight around wrists and ankles.
The robber stared at him, voice breaking.
"W-who the hell are you?"
Mark paused just long enough to meet his eyes.
"Someone who ends this," he said—and stood.
His ears caught it again.
Footsteps above.
Two people whispering.
One voice barking orders.
And then—
A familiar heartbeat.
Mark's throat tightened.
Dad.
For a second—just one—his hands shook.
Then training took over.
Upstairs, the two guards were bored.
"Man, this is taking too long," one muttered.
"Relax," the other said. "Boss said five minutes and we're—"
The first stick hit.
The man choked, eyes wide in confusion, hands clawing at his neck as he dropped.
The second guard turned, mouth opening—
The second stick cracked behind his ear.
He collapsed without a sound.
Both bodies hit the floor almost together.
Mark caught his breath, jaw clenched.
Inside the office—
The leader paced, gun waving as he shouted into his phone.
"I don't care what the cops say! We leave when I say—"
The bank manager whimpered.
"Please… please, we've done what you asked…"
Ethan Swinton stood rigid, hands raised, trying to keep his voice calm.
"Listen," Ethan said slowly, "you don't have to do this. Take the money. Just—just let these people go."
The leader laughed, sharp and cruel.
"You think I need advice from a suit?"
He turned toward the door—
It exploded inward.
The floor rushed up to meet him as Mark drove him down, the impact rattling the room. The leader screamed once before his head hit tile.
Silence.
Broken only by breathing.
Fast. Uneven. Human.
The bank manager stared at Mark like he was seeing a ghost.
"You… you're not police," he whispered.
Ethan's eyes locked onto Mark's covered face.
Something inside him knew.
"Who are you?" Ethan asked, voice shaking—not with fear, but recognition he couldn't explain.
Mark didn't answer.
He turned to them, voice rougher now.
"It's done," he said. "Get out. Both of you. Now."
The manager didn't need to be told twice.
Ethan hesitated.
"Son—" he started, then stopped himself, confused by his own word choice.
Mark's jaw tightened.
"Go," he said quietly.
Ethan nodded—slow, uncertain—and followed the manager out.
At the door, he looked back once.
Mark was already gone.