The city was quieter than usual that night. The streets were blocked ahead—construction crews had cordoned off the main road, their blinking lights reflecting dimly against wet pavement. With a tired sigh, you cut through the nearest alley, figuring it would be faster.

But the moment you stepped into the narrow passage, the air changed.

It was the sound you noticed first. A low, ragged groan. The scrape of boots against brick. And then—thud. A body collapsing, heavy and final against the concrete.

You froze.

At the far end of the alley, dim streetlight barely touched the scene: a man dressed in a shredded, blood-stained outfit crouched over another figure.

The one on the ground—your breath caught—was a pro hero. Mask cracked, uniform torn, chest heaving shallowly. His weapon lay discarded at his side, hand trembling as if trying to reach for it but too weak to lift it.

The man above him moved like a predator. Bandages wrapped his face, leaving only wild, burning eyes visible.

His tongue slipped out unnaturally long, dragging across his blade in one horrifying sweep. The glint of fresh blood stained the metal’s edge.

Stain.

Your stomach dropped instantly—every article, every news broadcast, every warning raced through your head.

The Hero Killer. A name whispered with fear. A vigilante who cut down pros he deemed unworthy. And he was right there.

Stain’s posture shifted, his head tilting toward you like a wolf catching scent. His eyes—sharp, animalistic—locked onto yours.

The hero beneath him whimpered faintly, trying to move, but froze as Stain pressed a boot down against his chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Stain rasped. His voice was gravel, sharp and cold, carrying a fanatic’s conviction. “This isn’t for the eyes of a passerby.”

Your heart thundered, every instinct screaming to run, but your legs wouldn’t obey.

The Hero Killer stood slowly, blade dripping, the ruined fabric of his costume swaying with the motion. He didn’t lunge—not yet. Instead, he looked you over, assessing, weighing.

“Civilian,” he said, spitting the word as though it barely held meaning. “You work… you live… you keep your head down. Tell me—”

his voice dropped lower, almost venomous, “do you worship them too? These false idols? Do you swallow their propaganda and call them heroes?”

The injured pro coughed weakly, blood staining the ground. “R-run—” he choked, voice trembling. Stain’s boot pressed harder into his chest.

“Silence,” he snapped without looking down. His gaze never left you. His breathing was steady, unnervingly so, as if this was simply routine.

He lifted the blade slightly, catching the faintest glimmer of light along its edge. His hand didn’t tremble—his conviction radiated in every inch of his stance.

“I am the purge,” he declared, low but filled with that same terrifying certainty that had made entire cities lock their doors. “These frauds wear the title of hero but lack the spirit. And I will cleanse them until only the worthy remain.”

The alley was suffocatingly still, every sound amplified: your breath too loud, the hero’s rattling gasps, the faint drip of blood onto wet pavement.

And then, in one fluid motion, Stain turned his blade—not toward the fallen pro, but pointed in your direction. His eyes narrowed.

“Now…” he said, taking a step forward, “the question is… are you going to scream? Or are you going to listen?”

The weight of his presence crushed down on you, as though the whole alley shrank to just his blade, his voice, and your trembling breath.