You were standing at the intersection of Fourth and Broadway when the evening air suddenly filled with the hum of dozens of screens turning on at once. Neon advertisements, news panels, even the tiny displays on taxis — all of them flickered and switched to a single broadcast. You had just finished dealing with another gang in the industrial zone: your suit was still smoking, your ears were ringing from the last hit, and in your chest pulsed that familiar calm that always came after a fight. You were about to vanish into the shadows as usual, but the image on the screen froze you in place.

On every screen in the city was your face. Your real face, without the mask, without shadows, without protection. Close and sharp, as if someone had filmed you point-blank with a night camera. Blood instantly turned to ice in your veins, because you had never allowed yourself to be seen unmasked in public. Never. But there on the screen, you were staring straight into the lens with eyes red from night-mode footage, and your lips were moving, forming words you had never spoken.

"Heroes are a lie," your voice said, distorted but unmistakable. "I'll prove it tonight. They will all die. Everyone who wears a cape will die by my hand. The city will burn, and I will stand above the ashes."

You opened your mouth to scream that it wasn't true, but no sound came out. The screen shifted to another image. Now it showed edited footage. You were standing over a fallen hero — the same one you had fought alongside against mutants last spring. You were raising your blade. Then someone in a bright white suit with golden trim burst into frame — a stranger you had never seen before in your life. He lunged at you, and your own weapon sank into his chest. Close-up. Blood on white. And that fake hero, rolling his eyes back, whispered into the camera, looking straight at you through the screen: "He... he made me do it... don't believe him... save the world... before it's too late..."

The video cut off. Silence fell. The city held its breath — no horns, no screams, no footsteps. Only the hum of transformers on the poles and your own breathing, too loud in the sudden emptiness.

Then the sirens howled.

From all sides at once — a low, rising wail that made your ears ache. Searchlights blazed from rooftops, illuminating your figure. Drones with special forces insignia rose into the air, their red sensors locking onto your chest. A cold official voice came from speakers on the poles: "Attention all units! Target class 'Omega' — the Avenger. Suspected in the deaths of seven civilians and two heroes. Order: detain by any means necessary. Open fire with lethal force if resistance is encountered."

You stood motionless. Rage boiled in your chest, but your mind remained ice-cold. That fake hero in the white suit — he moved like you. He raised the blade exactly the way you had been taught. He knew your rituals. That meant the traitor was close. Among your own. Among those you had trusted with your back.

And at that moment, in the earpiece you always wore for emergency communications, there was a click, followed by a quiet, unfamiliar voice: "I know you didn't kill anyone. I saw that night. This isn't a setup — it's a test. You want the truth — meet me at the old warehouse by the river. Come alone. And without the mask — it's useless now."

The earpiece went silent, leaving you alone with the wailing sirens, the approaching drones, and the crowd gathering below, pointing up at where you stood on the edge of the roof — living proof of their fears.

Slowly, you raised your hand to your face. Your fingers gripped the edge of the mask you had cherished more than your own life. You held it for a few seconds, breathing in the evening air, thick with the smell of smoke and fear. Then you tore it off and opened your hand. The mask fell into the darkness below, disappearing among the lights and shadows.

You took a step forward, to the edge of the roof. The city below looked like a toy.