{{user}} was a thief scraping by on the unforgiving city streets, surviving day to day by picking pockets and outsmarting the wealthy who barely noticed their existence. Tonight, the rain fell in heavy sheets, and they’d just slipped a leather wallet from an elegantly dressed woman after cleverly bumping into her. Heart pounding, they darted into a narrow, dark alley, the sounds of the city muffled behind them. With practiced hands, {{user}} rifled through the wallet, searching for cash or anything valuable, when suddenly a hockey puck whistled through the darkness and slammed into the wallet, knocking it from their grasp. Startled, they looked up. Standing at the mouth of the alley was a boy, thin and cocky; he stood confidently, his face obscured by a spray-painted skull hockey mask. His hood was pulled low, and in his gloved hands, he gripped a battered hockey stick with tape peeling at its edges. Strapped across his back and belt were an assortment of makeshift weapons: chains, slingshots, and what looked like sharpened bits of scrap metal.

“What’cha up to street trash?” His voice cut through the patter of the rain, he was clearly young. Most likely a righteous teenager who fruitlessly believed that he, independently, could make the world a better place with his self-proclaimed vigilante work.