The underground bar was a den of lowlife charm, nestled beneath the crumbling shell of an old factory in Blackstone's industrial district. The place smelled of stale beer, spilled whiskey, and sweat—its air thick with cigarette smoke and the low hum of classic rock bleeding from a dusty jukebox in the corner.
Dim, flickering lights cast long shadows across the battered pool tables and mismatched furniture. Graffiti stained the cracked walls—tags of long-dead gangs and cryptic symbols that hinted at darker ties. The ceiling was low, pipes snaking across it, dripping occasionally onto the sticky floor.
At one table, a group of men crowded around a game of pool, the crack of balls punctuating their rough banter.
Rico, a bulky man with a gold chain glinting at his neck, lined up his shot. His fingers, thick and calloused, gripped the cue like it was an extension of his arm. The leather jacket stretched tight across his shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to reveal faded tattoos—snarling wolves, dice, and a dagger wrapped in barbed wire.
"Sink it, Rico!" someone hollered, already half-drunk, a beer bottle waving in the air.
Rico smirked, took the shot, and sank the eight-ball clean. Cheers erupted from the group, glasses clinking, a few smacks on the back.
"Drinks on you, big man!"
"Yeah, yeah." Rico waved them off with a grin that flashed a gold tooth. "Don't spend it all in one place."
As the laughter echoed, Darius sat in the shadows at a corner booth, nursing a glass of dark liquor. He watched the scene unfold with sharp, predatory eyes—eyes that missed nothing. The low light caught the scar that ran from his cheek to the edge of his lip, giving him a perpetual sneer. He wore a dark coat over a grey shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing inked forearms—meticulous designs, not the messy scrawls of a street thug. His voice, when it came, was smooth, dangerous, like a knife slipping between ribs.
But it wasn't until Pulsar Knight came up that the room's buzz changed.
One of the younger guys—Tony, a wiry kid with too much hair gel and a nervous energy that never seemed to settle—leaned on his cue stick and muttered, "You hear about the Knight? That tin can's been all over Blackstone. Word is he's the one who busted up those last two gigs—those warehouse robberies over on 5th and that weapons drop near the docks."
Rico grunted. "Yeah, and that big job in Cygnus City—the one at NovaTech Industries. We were this close to snaggin' some primo tech, then bam—he drops in like he owns the place, starts blasting light beams, wrecks half the joint."
There was a pause. The table grew quieter. Some looked around, like the shadows might be listening.
Darius set his glass down slowly, the ice clinking. His voice cut through the haze like a blade.
"You boys still think this is some random punk in a fancy suit?" His gaze swept the table—steady, sharp. "The Knight's more than just a problem. The boss is paying attention now. Mr. Mayor's got questions. The Big Man's got questions. And Vance—"
He smirked, a flash of teeth that didn't reach his eyes.
"Vance came to me last night. Said the higher-ups are working on something special for our little hero. A surprise. They want him alive if possible... but dead works too."
Tony swallowed, eyes darting between the others.
Darius leaned back in his chair, lifting his glass in a mock toast, the ice clinking softly in the dim.
"Let's see if the tin can dances."
The men raised their drinks, the toast ringing out low and dangerous.
———
The city sprawled beneath Kite like a sea of fractured light. Neon signs flickered with weary defiance, casting smeared reflections onto rain-slick streets below. The air smelled of damp asphalt, engine smoke, and the faint metallic tang of ozone—a city alive, but barely holding itself together. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, cutting through the night like a warning.
Kite soared above it all, gliding effortlessly over rooftops, the blue glow of the Nexus Stone in his chest pulsing like a second heartbeat. His armor shimmered faintly in the dark—smooth, sleek plates of obsidian-black laced with thin streaks of blue light.
"Still no sign of Vance," Kite muttered under his breath, scanning the streets as they blurred beneath him in streaks of grey and gold. His voice was tight, edged with frustration. He couldn't stop thinking about what Keith had told him—about the Rose Syndicate, the boss, the 'big man.' All of it coiled in his mind like smoke he couldn't blow away.
He dipped lower, the wind hissing past his helmet as he scanned the blocks below. That's when he heard it.
Shouts. Sirens. Screams.
Kite banked hard, the hum of the Nexus Stone intensifying as he surged toward the sound. Below, flashing red and blue lights strobed across a wide street, illuminating a barricade of police cars. Officers crouched behind doors, radios crackling, weapons drawn. A blocky, concrete bank sat at the center of it all, windows shattered, glass glittering across the sidewalk. Smoke coiled from the entrance, and the sharp pop of gunfire split the air.
Kite hovered above for a moment, taking it in.
"Hostage situation detected," Ai chimed in his ear, its dry, clipped tone a familiar anchor in the chaos. "Heavily armed, nervous, trigger-happy. Just your kind of party."
Kite's lips twitched into a smirk beneath his helmet. "A little excitement never hurt anyone... well, except the guys I'm about to punch."
He dropped into a dive, slicing through the night like a bolt of living light. His boots hit the pavement with a resonant thud, a small shockwave rippling outward and rattling loose debris across the street.
The cops flinched, some shouting, some aiming their weapons.
Kite raised his hands in mock surrender, the glow of the Nexus Stone flickering brighter. "Relax, boys—just here to crash the party."
Without waiting for a reply, he launched forward in a blur, surging toward the bank's entrance.
Inside, chaos reigned.
Two hostages—a man in a crumpled suit and a woman clutching her purse like a lifeline—cowered behind an overturned desk. One thug, wild-eyed and sweating, barked orders, waving a pistol dangerously close to the woman's face. Another was loading a duffel bag with cash, while two more stood guard near the shattered windows, rifles clutched tight.
Kite didn't wait. He surged in, light crackling across his gauntlets.
"Hey!" His voice rang out, bold, reckless, cutting through the panic like a blade. "Who ordered the hero delivery?"
The nearest thug spun, firing in a panic. The bullet zinged past Kite's head—close, but not close enough. Kite lunged, grabbing the man's arm and twisting it sharply. The thug yelped, his wrist cracking audibly, the gun clattering to the floor.
Kite followed up with a punch—a bright, crackling burst of light exploding from his fist as it connected with the man's chest. The thug flew backward, smashing into a display case with a crash.
"One down," Kite muttered, already moving.
The others scrambled. One tried to drag the woman hostage upright, pistol to her temple, but Kite was faster—he darted in, grabbed the man by the back of the collar, and yanked him backward like a ragdoll. The man's head snapped back with a grunt, and Kite delivered a spinning kick to the side of his face, sending him sprawling.
A burst of gunfire exploded behind him. Kite twisted, throwing up a light shield just in time—the bullets pinged harmlessly off the crackling blue energy.
"Careful, fellas," he called out, grinning beneath the mask. "You're gonna put someone's eye out."
The last thug tried to make a break for it, bolting toward the exit with the duffel bag in hand. Kite dashed after him, energy crackling under his boots as he closed the distance in a blink. He tackled the guy just outside the shattered door, the two of them skidding across the rain-slick sidewalk. The bag burst open, cash spilling everywhere—green bills flapping in the wind like leaves.
Kite pinned the man down, fist crackling with energy. "You're welcome, by the way."
By the time it was over, the hostages were safe, the thugs groaning on the floor, and the front of the bank looked like a war zone—shattered glass, scorched floor tiles, papers fluttering everywhere.
Kite straightened, breathing hard, the Nexus Stone's glow slowly dimming. The buzz of adrenaline faded just enough for him to hear the police behind him.
A cluster of officers approached cautiously, weapons lowered but not exactly friendly.
"Nice of you to drop in, Knight," one officer muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "We had it handled."
Kite crossed his arms, cocking an eyebrow beneath the mask. "Oh yeah? Looked like it."
Another officer scoffed, glancing around at the wreckage. "You left a mess, kid. Half the bank's trashed."
Kite's smile twisted into a smirk as he took a step back, light humming at his fingertips. "I saved lives. That's what matters, right?"
No one answered. The officers exchanged glances—uneasy, disapproving. One muttered under his breath, "Freakin' vigilantes... always think they know best."
Kite exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping before he launched upward, vanishing into the night with a streak of blue light.
———
Hours later, Kite lay sprawled across his bed, the glow of the Nexus Stone faint and steady now, like a tired heartbeat. His room was dark, save for the dim light of his phone screen casting a pale glow over his face.
His thumb flicked across Mindsphere, the posts scrolling in an endless stream of opinions, rumors, and half-truths.
"Pulsar Knight: Hero or Menace?"
"Bank was a disaster zone. They should've just let the cops handle it."
"He saved lives, man. My cousin was in there—he's a damn hero."
"Who is this guy? Some kind of alien? Government experiment?"
Kite's eyes lingered on a post showing a blurred image of him mid-fight—light flaring from his fists, the hostages cowering behind him. The caption read: "Pulsar Knight saves the day—or wrecks it. You decide."
Kite sighed, dropping the phone onto his chest, staring at the ceiling as the city's distant hum filled the quiet. The glow of the Nexus Stone cast faint blue reflections on the walls—soft, steady, a reminder that no matter how much he did, or how hard he tried, the questions would always linger.
Hero or menace? He didn't know anymore.
But tomorrow, he'd get back out there and do it all over again.