Location:Earth: United States of America: New York: Brooklyn: Apple bank.
The air inside the Apple Bank was thick with the metallic scent of gunpowder and the frantic, shallow breathing of forty terrified civilians. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the Brooklyn branch, but it offered no warmth to those pressed against the cold marble floor.
"Quick boys, we got to move," the man in the lead barked. He was a jarring sight—clad in a matte-black leather onesie that looked more like tactical fetish gear than a heist outfit, a submachine gun slung casually over his shoulder. He paced the lobby like a caged predator, his boots clicking rhythmically against the tile.
His crew didn't look up; they were too busy shoving stacks of hundred-dollar bills into heavy nylon duffels. They moved with a practiced, desperate speed, their own black leather suits creaking with every movement.
Suddenly, the low hum of the city was punctured. A distant wail rose in pitch, multiplying until a symphony of sirens converged on their location. Red and blue lights began to dance against the bank's interior walls, reflecting off the polished surfaces.
The leader froze. He moved to the huge glass windows, squinting against the glare of the morning sun. "Shit," he muttered, the leather of his mask crinkling around his mouth. "The cops."
He spun around, his voice rising to a panicked roar that echoed off the high vaulted ceiling. "The cops are here! That means the supes would be here any minute from now! Move, damn it!"
Outside, the scene was a chaotic gridlock of black-and-whites. Officers took cover behind open car doors, their weapons trained on the entrance. A heavy-set sergeant gripped a megaphone, his voice booming through the glass. "We are the cops! You are already surrounded! Drop your weapons, surrender, and place your hands where we can see them!"
Inside, the desperation hit a boiling point. "Fuck the cops!" one of the gunmen screamed, his finger twitching on the trigger of his SMG.
"We've got hostages!" another shouted. To prove the point, he lunged toward a row of desks, grabbing a young woman by her blazer. He jerked her upward, using her body as a shield and pressing the cold muzzle of his barrel against her temple.
"Please... please don't hurt me," the woman sobbed, her hands shaking so violently she could barely clasp them together.
"Shut up!" the robber screamed into her ear, his eyes darting toward the windows.
Across the street, the atmosphere was just as tense. A young officer, barely a year out of the academy, gripped his service weapon so hard his knuckles were white. He looked at the seasoned veteran beside him.
"What should we do, Chief?" the young cop asked, his voice cracking.
The Chief didn't look at him. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigar, and lit it with a steady hand. He took a long drag, exhaling a cloud of blue-grey smoke into the crisp New York air. "In this situation," he said calmly, "we wait for the supes."
"But people might die!" the young man countered, his eyes wide with disbelief. "We have a shot from the perimeter! If we wait—"
"If we move now, then people will die, not might," an older officer interrupted, leaning over the hood of the cruiser. He gave the rookie a grim, pitying look. "You don't know how it works, kid. You rush a guy with an S-class quirk or a trigger-happy merc, and you're just counting bodies. We hold the line. The heroes clean the mess."
Inside the bank, the "experienced" man holding the hostage was losing his nerve. He could see more tactical vans pulling up. "What are you punks still doing? Move before the supes arrive!"
One of his companions paused, leaning against a heavy bag of loot. He gave a dark, muffled chuckle behind his mask. "Chill, bro. We've got a super of our own, don't we?"
He gestured toward the back corner of the lobby, near the high-security vault. Standing there, as still as a granite statue, was a massive man. He was bald, his head crisscrossed with jagged white scars that spoke of a lifetime of violence. He didn't wear a mask; he didn't need to. His arms were crossed over a chest that looked as wide as a refrigerator.
"Yeah, he's called Brute for a reason," another criminal added, a grin spreading under his hood. "A C-class villain. He can handle whatever mid-tier hero they throw at us."
Brute finally spoke. His voice was a tectonic rumble, deep and devoid of emotion. "He is right. You should hurry up."
"Huh?" The lead robber looked confused, his brow furrowing. Before he could ask what Brute meant, the atmosphere in the room shifted.
The heavy, reinforced glass doors at the front of the bank suddenly swung inward. There was no sound of a lock breaking, no shatter of glass—just a sudden, violent gust of wind that sent deposit slips flying through the air like snow.
"What's that?" the robbers shrieked.
In an instant, every gun in the room was leveled at the empty doorway. The robbers huddled together, their hearts hammering against their ribs. Even Brute uncrossed his arms, his massive hands clenching into fists as he stared intently at the entrance. The silence that followed was deafening.
"Come on," a voice sounded from behind them. It was cool, melodic, and laced with a teasing edge. "You guys aren't that slow to realize that I'm in already, are you?"
The criminals spun around so fast one of them tripped. Sitting leisurely on the high marble teller counter, kicking his boots back and forth like a bored student, was a figure that hadn't been there a second ago.
"Fire!"
The lobby erupted into noise. The robbers opened fire blindly, the muzzle flashes illuminating the dim interior. Bullets shredded the wooden cabinetry and shattered the glass partitions behind the counter, raising a thick, choking cloud of plaster dust and pulverized paper.
They emptied their magazines until the clicking of dry firing pins filled the room.
"Is he dead?" one asked, coughing through the dust.
"Dunno," another replied, his hands trembling as he tried to reload.
Brute squinted through the haze, his voice dropping an octave. "To move in that quick, he is probably a speedster. Whoever it is... should still be alive."
From within the settling white cloud, the slow, rhythmic sound of clapping emerged. Clap. Clap. Clap.
"Excellent deduction," the voice said, sounding perfectly bored. "Though a bit off, but excellent. For someone called a brute, you are quite smart."
A figure stepped out of the debris. As the dust cleared, the full visage of the man was revealed. The criminals didn't just stop—they recoiled. Two of them dropped their bags of cash, the money spilling unheeded across the floor. Even Brute's face went from a mask of aggression to a pale, sickly shade of grey.
On the floor, the civilians reacted differently. A collective gasp of hope and adoration rippled through the hostages.
"Look, Mommy! It's Apex!" a small boy whispered, nudging his mother. The woman didn't speak; she just clutched her son, tears of overwhelming gratitude streaming down her face. "Yes... I see him," she managed to choke out.
He was an icon of power. A long black cape billowed slightly behind him despite the lack of wind. His suit was a deep, midnight black, emblazoned with striking red, claw-like symbols across the chest. His short silver hair caught the light, and his gold eyes shimmered with a predatory confidence. He stood there, a slight smirk playing on his lips, looking more like a god than a man.
"How is that possible?" the robber holding the hostage screamed, his voice reaching a glass-shattering pitch. He dragged the woman back several steps, his knuckles white against his gun. "You should be in Chicago! We checked the news! You were at the gala!"
Apex tilted his head, his gold eyes locking onto the gunman. "Yeah, well," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "The distance can't make me ignore their cries for help, can it now?"
The hostage-taker began to hyperventilate "Don't move Apex or I shot her in the damn head, and why are you guys just gawking, open fire!" He yelled at this fellow robbers.