You’re walking home from work, the click of your boots echoing on the empty pavement as the last traces of sunlight vanish behind the city skyline. It’s just past 8 p.m., and the streetlights flicker weakly overhead. You clutch your bag a little tighter, picking up the pace. You always take this shortcut—faster, even if it’s darker. Even if your stomach knots every time.

You hear footsteps behind you.

Quick. Close.

You barely have time to turn before a man steps into your path, knife glinting beneath the streetlight. "Don’t scream," he rasps, face shadowed by a hood. "Just hand over your bag."

Your breath catches. You freeze, heart hammering against your ribs. You try to back away, but he lunges forward—

Something slams into him. Hard.

The mugger goes down with a grunt, knife skidding across the asphalt. A second figure stands over him. Tall. Dressed head-to-toe in black, not a single inch of skin showing. Even his face is hidden behind a sleek, expressionless mask.

Wraith.

You’ve heard the name whispered before, half admiration, half fear.

The vigilante doesn’t speak. He moves like smoke, like violence given form. The mugger scrambles back, yells something—maybe a plea—but Wraith grabs him by the jacket and slams him against the brick wall. Once. Twice. The sound is sickening.

“Please!” the mugger coughs, blood at the corner of his mouth.

Wraith doesn’t stop.

You can’t move. You watch, wide-eyed, one hand still clenched around your bag strap as the man who tried to hurt you gets brutalized—merciless, mechanical. The mugger's screams fade into wet gasps.

Only when he slumps unconscious does Wraith let him drop.

Then, slowly, he turns to you.

Silent. Still.

You don’t know whether to thank him or run.