Darkness did not come all at once.
It crept in layers: the fading of sound, the weight of pain.
It all pressed in on Enark.
And he dreamed. He dreamed of falling.
Not through the air, but inward—down corridors of bone and memory. His body lay still, but something deep moved within him.
Something ancient, stirred by the breath of Prime Energy.
"Ɇ₦₳Ɽ₭..." a voice whispered in the confines of his psyche.
"Who... who are you?"
"₩ⱧØ ₳₥ ł? ĐØ ɎØɄ ₦Ø₮ ₭₦Ø₩?"
"̷I̷ a̷̷m̷."
"ꁲꑒꁲꉤ꒐ꁲ꒒!"
...
Blood was everywhere.
Smeared across her hands as Enark's body left streaks along the stones. She dragged him deeper into the alley's shadow. The smell clung to the air—sharp, metallic, overwhelming.
She brought him into their home, passing through the back door to avoid prying eyes, and brought him down to the basement.
"Don't—don't look," she muttered to herself, fumbling with the cloth. "Just clean it. Just stop the bleeding."
Her hands shook as she pressed fabric against his side.
The blood pooled beneath him, dark and warm, but it didn't creep outward as she expected.
It lingered. Thickened. The flow slowed beneath her fingers.
Her breath hitched.
"That's not…" She swallowed. "That's not right."
"Mom?" The boy's voice trembled from behind her. "Is he—?"
"He's breathing," she said quickly, more to convince herself than him. "Barely, but he is."
She reached for his shirt, peeling it back to get a better look at the wound. The fabric came away heavy—but beneath it, his chest barely rose.
She pressed her ear close.
A faint rasp.
"He's... alive..."
"See?" she whispered. "I told you."
Her hands moved again, faster now, driven by panic and instinct.
"Hold the cloth, Jackson," she said to the boy without looking back.
He obeyed, watching her unfasten what remained of his shirt.
But when she removed it, she found bandages covering his entire right arm.
Layered. Old. Wrapped with care.
"That's strange…" she murmured.
She hesitated.
But blood had soaked through, turning it dark and tacky. Whatever lay beneath needed to be cleaned, and hesitation wouldn't save him.
She unwound the first layer.
Then the second.
The cloth came away slowly.
What lay beneath made her breath catch.
The arm was shaped like a man's—but not made like one.
The skin was darker, smoother in places, segmented in others, as if flesh had learned geometry. Subtle ridges ran along the forearm as veins trailed beneath the surface, faint blue lines pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
Her hand trembled.
"Mom…?" the boy whispered, craning his neck. "What's wrong with his arm?"
She swallowed hard.
"I... don't know..." she said carefully.
She expected it to be cold, but it was warm. Alive.
She wiped the blood from it gently, half-expecting it to react—but it didn't.
That was when she froze.
The bullet wound in his side was still open—ragged, torn—but the flesh around it looked wrong. Not blackened. Not swelling.
Changing.
Fine threads of new tissue crept along the wound's edges, pale and raw, pulling inward with slow, deliberate intent. Pushing the bullet out slowly.
Her fingers went numb.
"What..." she breathed. "What is he?"
His fingers twitched.
She flinched, scrambling back—
Then he coughed. Hard.
The sound tore from his throat, wet and violent, spraying blood across the floor. His body jerked beneath her hands, chest seizing as if trying to reject the act of breathing altogether.
"Oh—no, no, no—" the woman rushed closer. "Easy, easy—please—"
A breath rasped through his throat.
Then another.
Ragged and broken.
"He—he moved," the boy whispered.
She stared down at him, terror and awe warring in her chest.
"He's alive," she said again.
...
A knock echoed through the house.
The woman froze.
Jackson's head snapped up. "Mom…?"
The knock came again. Louder this time.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She looked down at Enark—at the blood, the torn flesh, the arm—then back toward the basement stairs.
"Don't move," she whispered to Jackson. "Don't make a sound."
She wiped her hands on her apron as she climbed the steps; every movement sent a tremor through her legs. At the top, she paused, listening.
Two sets of boots outside, shifting around.
She tossed her blood soaked apron to a dark corner and opened the door.
Two figures stood on her porch, clad in dark uniforms marked with the Enforcer insignia. Their faces were obscured behind smooth visors reflecting her own pale expression back at her.
"Good night," the taller one said. Calm. Flat. "Sorry to bother you at this hour, but we're looking for a man dressed in black and navy blue. Wears a blindfold."
Her throat tightened.
"I don't know anyone like that," she said.
The second Enforcer tilted his head slightly, visor humming as if focusing. "Witnesses reported a wounded individual fleeing this direction."
"I haven't seen anyone," she replied. "Just my son and me."
Silence stretched.
Then the taller Enforcer raised a pale, white-and-green reed-like stalk.
"Prime Energy scan," he said, almost politely. "Routine."
Her stomach dropped.
"That won't be necessary," she said quickly. "There's no one here."
His visor turned toward her fully.
"It will be."
He stepped forward.
It vibrated slightly.
The woman's skin prickled as they passed by her, through the doorway, and into the house.
The Enforcer paused as the stalk vibrated even more.
"Residuals detected," the second said quietly.
The Enforcer aimed the stalk where it vibrated the most, leading him to the basement stairs.
They proceeded down but were met with an empty room.
The stalk instantly ceased vibrating upon reaching the last step.
"Nothing," the taller one said.
"Room is clear. Could just be the flow of energy within the air," the second one replied.
Reluctantly, the Enforcers stepped back upstairs and toward the doorway.
The taller one turned. "We'll continue the search elsewhere. If you remember anything—"
"I won't," she said.
He studied her a second longer.
Then they left.
The sound of their boots faded down the street.
Only when the silence settled did her knees give out.
She shut the door and locked it. Sliding her back to the wall as she pressed her hand to her mouth, catching her breath.
After a minute, she made her way back downstairs.
"Jackson? Jackson, where are you?"
"Here, Mom."
From a storage closet, Jackson stepped out, holding the blanket-wrapped Enark. He was fully conscious, though his body trembled.
"Hello—" Enark's words caught in his throat. His body seized as a backlash rippled through him from temporarily halting his Prime Energy—a feat he accomplished by suppressing its flow. His coughs came out ragged, wet, and violent.
Her hands pressed gently against his shoulder, guiding him back down.
"Don't talk. Please. You'll tear something," the woman said firmly.
Enark groaned as he clenched his teeth.
"Jackson, get some water," she instructed quickly. "Slowly. Don't spill."
The boy scrambled off.
Enark lay still, focusing on breathing. Each inhale was shallow—but it worked. Still, it felt wrong. He remembered the shot, the way his lung had collapsed midair.
"I should be dead," he thought.
His blindfold was gone. Cool air brushed his face. Crates stacked along the walls. A single lantern hung from a hook, its flame dimmed low.
And beside him—
The woman.
She was kneeling, sleeves rolled up, hands stained dark with blood. Her face was pale with red-rimmed eyes. Focused, while also having the look of someone forcing themselves not to panic.
"You're safe," she said softly, as if afraid the words might break him. "For now..."
"Enforcers…" Enark rasped.
Her breath caught. She glanced toward the stairs instinctively.
"They passed by," she whispered. "But they're gone. Somehow."
Jackson returned, holding a chipped cup with both hands. He hovered near Enark's head, eyes wide with curiousity instead of fear.
"You're really him," the boy said quietly. "The man in black."
Enark turned his head slightly, meeting the child's gaze. There was no hatred. No fear. Just awe.
"Jackson," the woman warned gently.
"It's okay," Enark murmured. His voice scraped like rust. "I… don't bite."
The boy smiled faintly.
The woman helped Enark drink, carefully tilting the cup. Cool water slid down his throat, easing the burn just enough to let him breathe a little deeper.
"That's it," she said. "Slow."
"Hey, mister. Why does your arm look like that?" the boy asked innocently.
"Jackson…" she said sharply, though her voice shook.
Enark paused for a moment, unsure of his answer—but then he spoke.
"I was born this way," he said hoarsely. "I don't know why. But it's always been like this."
"Does it make me look… like a monster?" he asked.
She stared at him for a long second. Then, slowly, she exhaled.
"You saved people," she said. "You saved us."
Her hands resumed their work—gentler now.
"Whatever you are… you're still bleeding."
"You're still human."
Relief washed through him so sharply it almost hurt.
Outside, distant sirens wailed. Closer this time. Above the surface, somewhere near the street.
"Have you checked this house?" a voice called.
"Already did. Nothing here," another replied.
A pause.
Enark held his breath. The footsteps moved on. Only when they faded did the woman sag back, pressing a hand to her mouth.
"That was too close," she whispered.
-----------------------------
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
Enark drifted in and out as the grinding sensation of his body repairing itself sent waves of pressure through his wounds.
When he finally woke fully, the pain had dulled into a heavy ache. His breathing, while still shallow, no longer rasped.
Dawn had not yet come, and the city was still bathed in the light of two moons.
The woman sat nearby, exhaustion etched into her face. Jackson was asleep against a crate, blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
"You're healing," she said quietly when she noticed his eyes open. "I've never seen anything like it."
Enark pushed himself up slightly, gritting his teeth.
"Don't," she warned. "You need rest."
"I can't," he said. "They'll come back."
She nodded. "I know."
He made his way to the back door before turning to face her.
"Thank you," he said, his sightless pale eyes meeting her gaze. "Both of you."
She hesitated. "What's your name?"
He paused.
"I don't have one. Not yet..."
Footsteps came up the basement steps. It was Jackson.
Jackson stirred, rubbing his eyes. "Are you leaving, mister?"
Enark nodded.
The boy stood, suddenly serious. "Are you gonna be okay?"
Enark smiled—small, genuine but tired.
"I still breathe," he said. "That's enough."
He pulled his blindfold back into place, rewrapping his arm carefully. Pain flared—but he welcomed it. It meant he was alive.
Enark recalled the words of the 'boss' before he shot him:
"See ya later, Shadow Mask."
A smirk formed on Enark's lips, already planning on settling the score.
As he slipped out into the waking city, bloodied but standing, the shadows seemed to part for him. And a woman and her son watched as he vanished into the darkness.
The city had condemned him and judged him falsely, but it was not victorious. For somewhere in the alleys, life stubbornly clung to the night. And the night witnessed it. It saw that enduring life. It saw that the shadow... still breathes!