Near midday, a group of armed men talked in different corners of the place, forming small circles where separate matters were discussed in low voices. The site looked like a warehouse… or what it used to be. Its corrugated metal roof, eaten away by time, let thin shafts of light slip through jagged cracks, illuminating dust particles drifting in the air.
Beneath the staircase of an old office stood one of them. They called him the Accountant.
They all wore the same mark: a snake tattooed somewhere visible on their bodies. No one needed to say it out loud. They belonged to Cobra.
At first glance, he was a thick-built man with an intimidating presence. His head was completely shaved, and along the right side of his skull a serpent tattoo crawled like a deliberate brand. He wore black from head to toe: dark pants, heavy boots, and a black jacket that made his severe look even harsher.
As he came down the last steps, the murmuring faded.
"Move," he ordered in a gravelly voice. "The shipment goes out now. I don't want delays."
Several men nodded at once and started moving between boxes and pallets, obeying without question. Meanwhile, two guys approached the Accountant—thin, unimpressive, almost insignificant next to him.
"With all this activity… and the investigation," one of them said, hesitating, "are we still collecting the fee like always?"
The Accountant didn't even look at them at first.
"Of course," he said at last. "Business doesn't stop for anything."
Then he raised his eyes and pinned them in place.
"Go. Collect. And don't waste time."
The two men nodded immediately and left the warehouse without another word, disappearing into the shadows outside.
When the Accountant turned, he spotted two of his men standing beside a column, silent, hands folded in front of them. They weren't talking. They were waiting.
From the far end of the room, he watched them for a moment, then walked over. His boots echoed against the concrete. He stopped in front of them.
"Anything new?" he asked, blunt.
"We've got news," one said. "The Wolf… he's getting involved."
The Accountant didn't react right away.
Slowly, he brought a hand to his mouth, resting his knuckles against his lips. His eyes drifted toward the floor, as if arranging pieces in his head. He thought—only a second, but it was enough.
"Kael…" he murmured.
He lowered his hand and looked up.
"Good," he said calmly. "Then things just got interesting."
He took half a step back.
"Don't touch him," he ordered.
The two men nodded.
"Keep him under watch," he continued. "I want to know where he goes, who he talks to… and what he's looking for."
He turned away.
"And don't lose him."
They said nothing else.
Aiden walked through a costume shop slowly, shoulders slightly hunched, as if that could make him invisible. There was no real reason to feel watched, but he still avoided looking people in the eye, pretending to be interested in masks and accessories he didn't care about.
The idea of someone noticing what he was hunting for unsettled him. Not out of embarrassment… but because choosing a costume made it real. It meant accepting this wasn't just a wild idea born from fear or adrenaline anymore.
The store was nearly empty: a couple arguing in front of some masks, a kid dragging a cape that was too long, and a bored employee behind the counter scrolling through his phone. No one looked at Aiden. No one cared.
He scanned the hanging outfits: generic superheroes, cartoon animals, exaggerated monsters. Everything looked fake. Too clean.
Then he saw it.
Almost hidden behind a crooked row of badly hung costumes: a moth suit.
Aiden stopped.
He studied it carefully. It was exactly what he needed. The color was strange—brown with a flesh-like tint, unpleasantly organic. The fabric tried to mimic something living and failed. The hood had twisted, limp antennae, and the folded wings looked more decorative than functional.
The seams were obvious—some misaligned, some ready to come apart with a hard tug. It wasn't imposing. It wasn't intimidating.
It was ridiculous.
Aiden smiled. His eyes shone.
"This is where my new path begins," he murmured, more to convince himself than out of confidence.
He took the suit. It was lighter than he expected. He paid without looking at the employee and hurried out, as if staying one more second might make him change his mind.
The street air hit his face. He walked a couple of blocks before slipping into a narrow, filthy alley, barely lit by a flickering lamp. The city's noise sounded distant there, muffled—like this little pocket existed outside the world's rhythm.
He leaned against the wall and stared at the suit. The built-in wings on the back caught his eye.
He frowned.
"This isn't going to work…"
Without overthinking it, he started loosening them. He undid straps, yanked out anchors, and finally removed them completely. He set them aside against the alley's damp wall. Two uneven holes remained in the suit's back—open, as if something essential was missing.
Then he put it on.
The result was immediate: it was too big. Airy in the chest, the arms, the legs. The fabric hung where it shouldn't.
And when he adjusted it, his wings emerged.
They unfolded with difficulty through the holes, brushing and stretching the fabric. They didn't fit perfectly—but they didn't get trapped either. They were his. Real. Alive.
Aiden tried to fix the fit. Useless. The suit simply wasn't made for someone like him.
He caught his reflection in a distorted pane of dirty glass. He looked like a joke.
"Great…" he muttered. The nervous laugh died quickly.
He pulled on the hood with the antennae and slowly clenched his fists. His heart was pounding—adrenaline mixed with something deeper.
Determination.
"It's time to begin," he said, his voice firm now.
And so, dressed in an absurd, poorly made costume, Aiden took his first step out of the alley.
At the crime scene, movement hadn't stopped since before dawn. Under one of the main tents, Kael reviewed documents and photographs with methodical calm. His attention stuck to details others overlooked.
A few meters away, Foreman spoke quietly with an officer.
"This isn't the work of ordinary gangs," he said. "There's organization… and something bigger."
He paused.
"Cobra."
Kael looked up.
"They don't operate by district," Foreman continued. "They control routes. Middlemen. Heavy weapons. RDX doesn't show up by accident."
"Who is he?" someone asked.
Foreman shook his head slowly.
"No records. Only rumors. And a mask."
Kael set a document down on the table.
"Then this wasn't a message," he said. "Civilians died. Someone broke the rules."
Foreman didn't answer.
Kael adjusted his coat.
"And you won't understand it from here."
He left the tent without looking back, disappearing into the flow of rescuers and onlookers. Foreman watched him go, tense.
Kael walked several blocks with his hands in his pockets. He didn't seem rushed.
In the distance, two figures matched his pace.
Then a third.
Kael blended into the crowd… unaware he was no longer walking alone.
With a mix of nerves and poorly hidden excitement, Aiden walked the streets looking for his first act as a hero. Every step felt like a silent promise, every corner a possibility. But the city seemed determined to ignore him. Nothing out of the ordinary happened—cars passing, people in a hurry, conversations that had nothing to do with him.
Most didn't even look his way. A few glanced at him with curiosity or mockery. Aiden didn't get discouraged. To him, this was the beginning.
It didn't take long for him to find something.
When he lifted his gaze, he saw the scene that made his blood boil. Two skinny guys in casual clothes—nothing intimidating at first glance—had an old man by the collar. The man looked seventy-seven, maybe older. He wore a blue button-up shirt, clean and neatly pressed; his hair was combed back with care, and his posture—though bent by force—still carried dignity.
They shoved him into his business.
A small wooden crafts shop.
The place felt old, built with patience and years of work. Every shelf, every hand-carved figure spoke of a lifetime devoted to that space.
Aiden clenched his teeth and stepped inside without thinking.
"We already told you—you didn't pay the fee," one of them said with a mocking tone. "The month's over."
"Please…" the old man pleaded, voice shaking. "Give me a few more days. Sales have been really low."
They both laughed.
"Not our problem," the other said. "The boss doesn't like waiting."
That was when they noticed Aiden.
"And what's with this freak?" one of them said, eyeing him up and down. "We're closed. Get lost."
Aiden didn't answer right away. With clumsy hands he took out his phone, propped it against a wall, and started recording.
"Let him go," he said at last. "Or I handle it."
The air tightened. Their eyes locked. One long, heavy second.
Then laughter. They burst out.
"And what are you gonna do?" one sneered. "Bore us to death?"
"Teach him a lesson," the other said.
One of them stepped forward calmly, still smiling.
"Alright, idiot…"
He swung.
Aiden stepped back… and slipped.
The punch didn't land as it should've. Instead, the attacker's arm got tangled in excess fabric beneath Aiden's armpit. In that instant, the man looked up.
And saw him.
For a second, Aiden's face didn't look human. His eyes reflected something strange—primitive. Something that didn't fit. Something that sent an immediate chill down the man's spine.
Inside Aiden's head: chaos.
What the hell did I get into? They're gonna destroy me.
But his body moved before his mind could.
Instinctively, he threw a punch.
The impact was brutal.
The man flew into a wooden display, smashing straight through it. The crash shook the shop.
"What the hell—?" the second one shouted.
Aiden stared at his own fists, stunned.
"…I'd like to know too," he muttered.
The second attacker didn't let him think. He rushed in. The punch connected, knocking Aiden to the floor. It hurt… but not like it should have.
Before he could process it, Aiden launched himself upward in a clumsy, desperate motion and slammed his forehead into the man's.
A dry, savage headbutt.
The man went flying and hit the ground hard.
The old man watched with eyes wide, trembling. He pulled out his phone and started recording. Outside, passersby—drawn by the noise—crowded in front of the shop. Some raised their phones too.
The first guy struggled up, clutching his back. Now they attacked together, throwing fast punches. Some landed… but they didn't do the damage they expected.
Aiden fought back with messy, untrained movements—disorganized, improvised punches.
But every hit carried absurd power.
I don't know what's happening… Aiden thought desperately. But I just want to leave.
At last he managed to knock both of them down. Breathing hard, he tried to stand in a solid stance.
"You're going to the police," he said, forcing an authoritative voice.
He didn't see the second one rising behind him. He barely had time to react when he heard the metallic click.
A shot.
The gunshot echoed down the street.
The world seemed to stop. The crowd went silent.
The shooter's eyes widened in disbelief.
Aiden's wings had flared open by instinct, wrapping around him completely—forming a living shield. The bullet was lodged between the wings, stopped.
Absolute silence.
Aiden stood frozen, heart hammering like it might burst.
Still staring, Aiden fixed his eyes on the man holding the gun. He didn't shout. He didn't speak. He just stepped forward.
The man barely had time to react.
Aiden grabbed him by the torso with a strength he didn't know he had and, in a rough, uncontrolled motion, hurled him forward. The body slammed into the storefront glass. It exploded into a thousand fragments as the man crashed through the display and hit the sidewalk outside amid screams and the clatter of falling shards.
Aiden spun around.
The first attacker went pale. He scrambled up, staggered back… then ran, dragging his injured partner away. Both vanished into the crowd.
Silence took over.
Aiden lowered his arms slowly. His hands shook. The adrenaline began to drain, leaving a heavy pressure in his chest.
That's when he noticed the stares. Dozens of them. People outside with phones raised, nervous whispers, murmurs swelling by the second.
No… not now.
He looked around at the damage: broken shelves, shattered glass, handmade crafts in pieces across the floor. The old man still stood there, frozen, phone in hand, staring at him like he didn't know whether to thank him or fear him.
Aiden reacted on instinct.
He reached into an inner pocket of the suit and pulled out several bills, crumpled from the fight. He shoved them into the old man's hands.
"T-that should be enough," he said, voice still shaking. "I'm… really sorry about the trouble."
He didn't wait for an answer.
He grabbed his phone, stopped the recording, and turned for the exit. As he moved, he kept his head down, hunching his body, trying to hide from the crowd, the camera angles, the curious eyes.
He ran.
His footsteps echoed on the pavement as he disappeared into the streets, heart racing, breath ragged, one thought slamming into his skull over and over:
What the hell did I just do…?
In a forgotten part of the city, where the streets looked like they hadn't been repaired in decades, buildings wore deep cracks and peeling paint. Facades leaned slightly toward each other like old accomplices too tired to keep standing. At a corner that emptied into a narrow alley, the air smelled of damp, garbage, and rusted metal.
That's where he was.
A skinny guy—maybe too skinny for his height—with sharp cheekbones and restless eyes. A thick gold chain hung around his neck. He wore an open black track jacket over a white shirt that had yellowed a bit, and dark sweatpants that clashed with the afternoon heat. Pinky always dressed the same: as if trying to blend in was, ironically, his way of standing out.
Kael appeared beside him without a sound.
"My friend Pinky," Kael said with a calm smile. "How've you been? I see you're still watching the neighborhood real well."
Pinky flinched. He snapped his head around and, when he recognized Kael, let out a nervous breath.
"Well damn… the Wolf," he muttered, rubbing his face. "What brings you here now, huh? I told you last time—I don't know anything else."
Kael tilted his head slightly, smile intact.
"I'm looking for something simple," he said. "Information. RDX."
Pinky's expression changed instantly. His body tightened.
"Come on, man…" he said quietly, glancing up and down the street. "I can't give you that. You know what they'll do to me if they find out I'm talking to you. Those guys are crazy, Kael. Really crazy."
Kael stepped closer and placed a firm hand on Pinky's shoulder. He didn't squeeze. He wasn't aggressive. But it was enough to lock Pinky in place.
"Pinky," Kael said calmly, "do you want to go back to prison?"
Pinky swallowed.
"You know what they do to snitches in there."
The silence grew heavy. Pinky breathed fast, eyes fixed on the ground. Finally he closed his eyes for a couple seconds, like he was making a decision he'd been avoiding for a long time.
"Fine…" he whispered. "One address."
Kael removed his hand, attentive.
"Afghanistan Avenue… number 505."
Kael's smile widened slightly, satisfied.
"See?" he said. "Not so hard."
He stepped back and adjusted his coat.
"Next time I'll bring you a donut or something," he added lightly. "Stress makes you hungry."
Pinky didn't answer. He just stood there rigid, watching Kael disappear into the crowd.
A few meters away, nearly fused with the shadows of the buildings, three men watched the exchange in silence.
They said nothing.
But none of them took their eyes off Pinky.
Aiden reached his apartment almost without remembering how he'd climbed the stairs. He slammed the door shut, locked it, and leaned against the wood for a moment, breathing hard. His hands shook uncontrollably and his heart pounded like he was still in the fight.
He tore off the suit in a rush, yanking the sweaty, awkward fabric away and letting it drop to the floor like it burned.
"That…" he muttered, rubbing his face. "That could've gone really bad."
He fell onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to organize his thoughts.
"I don't even know how I'm still alive…"
The echo of the gunshot still rang in his ears. The image of his wings snapping open on pure instinct replayed again and again, paired with a strange feeling—almost foreign—like his body had reacted before he did.
With trembling hands, he grabbed his phone.
"At least… I recorded something, right?"
He opened his gallery—and his expression froze.
The screen showed… a wall. Nothing else.
"No…" he said, incredulous. "No, no, no."
He watched the whole clip. Front camera. A useless angle. No fight. No hits. No proof.
"This has to be a joke…" he muttered, letting the phone fall onto the bed.
Then a notification buzzed. Then another. And another.
He frowned and opened his socials.
His eyes went wide.
Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands of views.
Videos from different angles. Clips shot from the street, from inside the shop, from phones raised in the crowd. His clumsy figure, the ridiculous costume, the overpowered blows, the gunshot… and the wings.
One headline stood out among them all:
"LADYBUG MAN SAVES THE DAY?"
Aiden let out a nervous laugh.
"Ladybug… man?"
He kept scrolling.
Reporters were outside the shop. Microphones. Cameras. The old man, exhausted but steady, gave his statement.
"Yes, he was a very… peculiar kid," he said. "Pretty weird, honestly. He broke a few things, that's for sure… but he did what I've wanted to do to those guys for years."
The man smiled sincerely.
"And for that, I'm grateful."
Aiden lowered the phone slowly. A small, disbelieving smile formed on his face.
"Maybe…" he thought. "Maybe this isn't so bad after all."
For the first time since he'd woken up with wings, fear wasn't the only thing he felt.
Far from there, in a basement lit only by yellowish bulbs, the atmosphere was completely different.
The walls were lined with hunting trophies: taxidermied animal heads. Open jaws. Shells from strange creatures. Jars of unrecognizable remains arranged on metal shelves. The air smelled of old leather, dust, and chemicals.
A man sat in front of a television, watching in silence.
The video looped again and again: the costume, the wings, the bullet stopped midair.
Without warning, he slammed the TV off with a sharp hit.
Silence fell like a slab.
He stood slowly and grabbed a whip leaning against the wall. He snapped it out with a precise, professional motion. Leather hissed through the air.
"I'm going to find you."