Bang!
Glass shattered across the quiet street, the sharp crash echoing between the buildings as a slender figure was thrown through a window and slammed onto the pavement below. Her body hit hard, skidding slightly before going still. Above her, Gotham's night sky stretched out cold and indifferent, its dim glow reflected faintly in her wide, lifeless eyes.
A single tear traced slowly down her pale cheek.
For a long time, nothing moved. Her chest didn't rise, didn't fall, and the silence around her deepened until it felt suffocating. Then the first sound broke through it.
Meow.
A black cat slipped out of the shadows of a nearby alley, its eyes gleaming as it padded toward the body. It stopped beside her, staring quietly, its tail flicking once. The cry echoed again, longer this time, and it was answered.
More cats emerged.
One after another, they crept out of the darkness, their forms blending into the night as they surrounded the woman's body. Their eyes reflected faint light, dozens of small glimmers watching in silence. The air turned strange, heavy with something unspoken, as their cries layered together into a chorus that felt almost unnatural.
At the corner of the street, Locke slowed to a stop.
He had been passing by with a cart full of discarded bottles, the glass clinking faintly with every step, but the eerie sound drew his attention immediately. His gaze swept over the cluster of cats, then shifted to the figure lying motionless at their center.
For a brief moment, he simply watched.
Then, as if sensing his presence—or perhaps just losing interest—the cats began to scatter. One leapt onto a wall, another slipped into a drain, and within seconds they were gone, vanishing back into the same shadows they had come from.
Only the woman remained.
Locke let out a faint breath. Once, seeing a body like this would have made him reach for his phone and call the police without hesitation. Now, in Gotham, it barely slowed him down. Death was too common here, too casual, like something the city exhaled with every passing hour.
He adjusted his grip on the cart and stepped into the alley, the bottles clinking softly as he moved.
Then—
"Ah!"
The sound tore through the stillness.
The woman's eyes snapped open, her pupils shrinking violently as her chest heaved in a sudden, desperate breath. Her body jerked as if pulled back from somewhere far away, and her hands flew to her head as a wave of pain crashed through her.
She was alive.
At the far end of the street, three men turned into the alley, their loud laughter cutting through the quiet. They wore the same careless mix of street fashion—leather jackets, piercings, loose swagger—that marked them as trouble before they even spoke.
One of them noticed her immediately.
The grin that spread across his face was slow and unpleasant. Without a word, the three of them drifted closer, their laughter lowering into something more focused.
Patrina struggled, her limbs weak and unresponsive as she tried to push herself upright. No matter how hard she tried, her strength refused to come back fully, leaving her trapped in a half-sitting position on the cold ground.
The men exchanged glances, their surprise quickly turning into something uglier.
"Well, well," the one with a lip piercing said, crouching slightly as he looked her over. "What's wrong, beautiful? Need a little help getting up?"
"No need," Patrina said, her voice tight despite the lingering confusion and fear twisting inside her. She didn't understand what had just happened—how she was breathing again—but she knew enough to recognize danger when it stood in front of her.
The man didn't stop.
His hand reached out casually, fingers closing around her shoulder as if her refusal meant nothing. The moment he felt the softness beneath his grip, his expression shifted, turning openly lewd.
"Let go," she snapped, forcing her arm up to shove him away.
But her strength wasn't there. The push barely moved him, and the weakness creeping through her body only made her situation worse.
"Heh," the man chuckled, showing a row of yellowed teeth. "We're just trying to help. You don't appreciate it?"
"Yeah," another added, stepping closer. "Let's take care of her tonight. Make sure she's safe."
Laughter followed.
Six hands reached toward her at once.
Patrina's breath hitched, and her eyes closed tightly. She had survived something impossible only to fall straight into something just as horrifying. The thought twisted in her chest, bitter and helpless.
Then—
Nothing.
No hands touched her.
The expected weight never came.
Seconds passed, and confusion replaced dread. Slowly, cautiously, she opened her eyes.
The scene in front of her froze her completely.
A man stood between her and the three attackers, his back turned toward her. He wore a black windbreaker and a western-style hat, his figure tall and steady. In his gloved hands, two of the men were suspended in the air, lifted effortlessly by their throats as if they weighed nothing.
The third lay on the ground.
His eyes were wide, frozen in shock, blood leaking from his mouth, nose, and ears. His body twitched faintly, and on his chest was a visible indentation, as if something had crushed his sternum inward with a single strike.
Patrina's mind raced.
"Help—!"
One of the men being held let out a strangled cry, his voice hoarse with panic. Locke's gaze shifted calmly between them, his eyes dark beneath the shadow of his hat.
"You're unlucky," he said quietly. "I was on my way out. But your laughter carried all the way down the street. Thought I'd come join in."
"Fuck you—!"
The man choked on his own words, tears and mucus running down his face as terror took over. He struggled uselessly, his feet kicking in the air.
Locke didn't even react.
He released one of them.
The man's body shot backward like a cannonball, slamming into the wall with a thunderous impact. Stone cracked, debris scattered, and the sound cut off instantly.
The second man remained in Locke's grip.
Locke wrinkled his nose slightly, his gaze dropping. A dark stain spread down the man's pants, and the sharp, unpleasant smell reached him immediately, amplified by his heightened senses.
Disgust flickered across his expression.
He let go.
The man collapsed and was sent flying with a casual kick, his body skidding across the ground before going still.
Locke waved his hand lightly in front of his face, as if trying to disperse the lingering smell, then turned around.
"Oh," he said, voice calm. "Looks like there's been a misunderstanding."
Patrina was already sitting upright now, a dagger clenched tightly in her hand, its blade pointed directly at him. Her breathing was uneven, her eyes sharp with caution.
"Why did you kill them?" she demanded.
"Kill?" Locke tilted his head slightly, spreading his hands in a faintly helpless gesture. "I don't like men who bully women. And from the way they acted, I doubt this was their first time."
Patrina didn't lower the knife.
"Thank you," she said after a moment, but the wariness in her tone didn't fade. She had just watched him crush a man's chest with a single strike and throw two others around like they were nothing. That wasn't something any normal person could do.
Her instincts screamed at her to stay alert.
Before she could react further, Locke moved.
His figure blurred, breaking into afterimages as he crossed the distance between them in an instant. Her body reacted on instinct, her arm snapping forward as she thrust the dagger toward him.
He caught it easily.
"Not the best way to repay someone," he said lightly.
With a simple motion, he took the dagger from her hand and slid it back into the sheath at her waist. Then, without waiting for permission, he bent down and lifted her onto his back.
Patrina struggled, startled. "Where are you taking me?"
"Where do you live?" Locke asked, walking steadily down the quiet street.
She hesitated for half a second, then shot back, "What? Planning to carry me to your place instead?"
He snorted softly. "You're attractive, sure. Doesn't mean I'm starving."
"You—"
Her retort died halfway through.
The city around them grew quieter as they moved deeper into an older district. Buildings loomed on either side, their walls worn and aged, some of them looking like they had been standing for decades without proper care.
Under her guidance, Locke found the address.
The apartment building was old, the hallway dim, the air faintly stale. He carried her inside, placed her gently on a worn sofa, and pulled a blanket over her without a word.
Then he turned to leave.
"Wait!"
Her voice stopped him at the doorway.
But Locke didn't turn back.
He stepped out into the hall, closed the door behind him, and in the next instant his figure dissolved into a blur, vanishing into the darkness of the corridor.
....
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