The yard of Warehouse 47 looked like a godforsaken battlefield—the ground cracked like dry skin, pools of blood reflecting the flashing lights of distant vehicles, the air heavy with the stench of burnt gunpowder, melted rubber, and exposed flesh. My chest rose and fell in short, controlled breaths, the elemental at my core burning like an internal furnace that turned each exhale into hot steam.
The shield was firmly on my left arm, its surface still warm from previous impacts, the repulsive force field buzzing low like an irritated insect. I could feel the bruises forming beneath the cloak—dark, painful marks on my ribs, arms, thighs—but the reinforced fabric had absorbed the bulk of the force. Without it, I would be broken. With it, I was still standing.
Amygdala was five meters away from me, breathing like a wounded bull. Blood trickled from his broken nose, mingling with the sweat dripping from his chin, and a deep cut on his forehead left a red line that ran down his cheek like a grotesque tear.
He had dropped the steel beam moments before—the twisted metal now lay crooked on the asphalt, useless against my agility—and now he was using only his fists. Each punch he threw was a shockwave: the air shifted violently, the ground trembled, and the sound was like muffled thunder.
He came again, his right fist descending like a wrecking hammer. I dodged to the left, my body spinning in a movement Sensei had hammered into my head during those virtual nights—a short side step, weight transferred to my back foot, torso bent just enough to let the blow pass inches from my face.
The wind from the punch ruffled my hair under my helmet, but I was already counterattacking: a right cross to his chin, my fist propelled by the hip rotation and the elemental heat. The impact was dry—a crack of bone against bone—his head dangling to the side, blood spurting in an arc.
I didn't stop.
A straight left to the already broken nose—more blood, more grunts. An uppercut from below, aiming for the exact spot under his chin where the blow could shatter his jaw. My fist landed hard—I felt the tremor run up my arm—and his head snapped back, eyes blinking in momentary confusion. I capitalized: a spinning kick to his left rib, my right foot slicing through the air like a blade.
The impact echoed—a crack of ribs splitting—and he doubled over slightly, air escaping in a hoarse groan.
But Amygdala wasn't human. He didn't retreat like the others. He roared, his left hand sweeping like a bulldozer shovel. I dodged backward, my body bending at the waist, and redirected his arm with my shield—not a direct block, but an angled touch that guided the blow to the side, opening his guard.
Counterattack: punch to the exposed liver, shield striking the already cracked rib. He roared louder, bending even further, but counterattacked with a downward punch that I barely managed to redirect—shield pulsing with repulsor, deflecting his fist to the ground, cracking the asphalt into a web of fissures.
The fight turned into a brutal dance of striking exchanges. He attacked like an avalanche—heavy, slow, but devastating fists. I responded with precision: dodging, circling, redirecting.
A high punch came—I ducked, my shield lightly touching his arm to guide the blow into the void, opening space for an uppercut to the solar plexus. He grunted, doubling over. I followed up: a straight punch to the nose, a cross to the temple, a kick to the thigh. Each of my strikes was calculated—vital points, joints, already injured muscles—while his were brute force, trying to crush me with sheer volume.
I could feel the progress. The lessons from Black Canary and the virtual hours with Sensei were starting to show: I was taking fewer hits, giving more. He would graze me—a slap that grazed my shoulder, leaving a deep bruise under the Cloak—but I dodged most of them, redirecting the rest with my shield. The repulsor field wasn't infinite—it was at 42% battery—but I only used it in critical moments, saving it for when I really needed it.
He came in with a left hook—I dodged to the right, body spinning, and countered with a kick to his cracked rib. Crack—more blood in his mouth. He roared, right fist dropping. I redirected with my shield—perfect angle—his arm going over, opening up his chest. Punch to the liver, shield to the rib, uppercut to the chin. He staggered for the first real time—knees trembling, breath hoarse like a sputtering engine.
I could see the fatigue in him: slower movements, bloodshot eyes losing focus. My body ached—bruises spreading across my torso, ribs throbbing with every breath—but the elemental healed enough to keep me standing. I circled faster now, taking advantage of the mobility he lacked. A high punch—I ducked, shield hitting my ribs. He grunted. Kick to the thigh—he limped. Uppercut to the chin—head dangling.
I pulled the stun gun from my belt—modified in the basement, voltage increased tenfold, battery reinforced with a solid-state cell. I shot him in the chest—wires digging into his thick skin. I activated it: he trembled violently, his body convulsing as if struck by lightning. I pressed the button—continuous shock—he drooled, his eyes rolled back, the beam crashing to the ground with a clang.
The weapon malfunctioned. Smoke rose from the battery, the smell of burnt circuitry. I threw it away and charged forward: combo—right to the stomach, cross to the chin, straight to the nose, uppercut to the solar plexus. He staggered, but attacked—slow punch. I dodged, redirected with my shield, and struck: punch to the liver, shield to the ribs.
He was losing—my blows were piling up, he was panting. I circled around, hitting vulnerable spots: liver, ribs, knees. A punch to the liver made him double over; a shield to the cracked rib made him roar.
I saw the end approaching. He gasped for air, his chest rising and falling in spasms. I took advantage: I jumped on his back, my left arm around his neck—a modified guillotine choke—my right hand pulling on the reinforced metal chain of his utility belt. I had created those chains with transmuted alloy—thin, light, but as strong as steel cables. I wrapped it around his neck, pulling with all my might—muscles in my arms and back tensing to the limit, elemental energy burning hot to give me more power.
He struggled, his hands reaching up to try and pull me away. I held on tight, legs locked around his waist, body pressed against his back like a shadow. I pulled—harder—the chain biting into his thick skin. He roared, staggering, hands clutching at air. His face turned purple, eyes bulging, tongue hanging out. He fell to his knees—a thud that cracked the asphalt—then onto his stomach.
I didn't let go. I pulled harder, until his body went completely limp. I slid down from his back, panting, sweat dripping down my face beneath my helmet. I removed the special handcuffs from my belt—reinforced with the same alchemical alloy, thick as anchor chains, but light in my hand. I fastened his wrists behind his back, the metal clicking with a definitive sound.
I stood up, legs trembling, chest rising and falling. I looked at the fallen giant—unconscious, breathing hoarsely, face purple and swollen. My first real villain defeated: a monster with the strength to crush cars, brought down by technique, equipment, and persistence. I was sweating like never before, my body aching, bruises spreading across my torso and arms, but alive. Gasping, exhausted, but victorious.
I looked across the courtyard. Artemis was there, standing on a container, bow still in hand. She had just fired her last arrow—one I had created especially for her: a high-intensity flashbulb tip, illuminating a 30-meter area like an artificial sun. The flash was so bright that my HUD automatically darkened, protecting my eyes. The Shadow Thief's shadow barrier failed—darkness dissipating like smoke in the wind—revealing the hooded figure exposed. Artemis seized the opportunity: a compulsive arrow—a reinforced tranquilizer dart tip—hitting his chest. The villain fell, motionless.
She turned to me. Our eyes met across the distance—a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. I retrieved my equipment: grappling hook back on my belt, broken stun gun tossed to the ground, magnetic shield on my back. We moved quickly—scaling an adjacent building, bodies pressed against the shadows, fleeing the sound of approaching sirens.
We reached the roof of a neighboring building, far enough away to breathe. Artemis looked at me—she saw the sweat, the visible bruises on my exposed arms, the weariness in my shoulders. "You're exhausted," she said, her voice low but firm. "Come with me. My house is closer."
I nodded, too weak to argue. We descended the fire escape—silent steps, avoiding creaking—passing by her mother's window unseen. We entered the small, dark apartment. She locked the door and turned on a dim light in the living room.
"Take off the top," she said, already heading towards the bedroom.
I hesitated, my face growing hot beneath my helmet. "What?"
She returned with a military first-aid kit—an olive-green box full of bandages, antiseptics, and painkillers. "Take off your jacket and shirt, you idiot. I saw what happened to you back there. I'm not going to leave you bleeding on my couch."
I removed the helmet first—plates disassembling and attaching to the jacket—then the reinforced jacket, leaving my torso bare. The bruises were visible: dark marks on my ribs, arms, and abdomen—some with superficial lacerations where the fabric had given way slightly. My face was intact thanks to the helmet, but there was a bruise on my temple and a small cut on my eyebrow.
Artemis paused for a second, her eyes scanning my torso. She said nothing, but a blush rose to her cheeks—subtle, almost imperceptible. She approached, kit in hand, and began to treat me: antiseptic on the lacerations, bandages on the more severe bruises, her fingers light but precise, touching my skin.
"You fought well," she murmured, her voice low. "But you almost killed yourself."
I smiled wearily. "It was worth it."
She finished, sitting down beside me on the sofa. We lay in silence, our bodies close, the weight of the night descending upon us. The first real mission was over—and I knew it was only the beginning.
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