The clock struck 11:57 p.m., and the silence hanging over the city felt like a sentence. London was no longer London. The bells no longer rang, the theaters stood empty, the books had burned. Freedom had become a memory, and fear walked the streets dressed in black with the face of Norsefire.

You walked quickly, eyes down, fists buried in your coat pockets. You knew breaking curfew was dangerous, but you couldn’t stand another night locked inside, listening to propaganda and pretending everything was fine.

And then you saw them.

Three men in "Fingermen" uniforms, words slurring between yellowed teeth, their smiles sick with impunity. One blocked your path. Another shoved you to the wall. The streetlights flickered… and for a second, you thought this was the end.

Until the air shifted.

A figure dropped from above like the shadows themselves had taken shape. Black cloak, white mask, a voice clear and sharp amid the chaos:

“Might I kindly ask you gentlemen to surrender the rest of your evening?”

The first man collapsed without a sound. The second reached for his gun, but it was sent flying, sliced cleanly through the air. The third ran. He didn’t chase him. He didn’t need to.

You stepped closer, trembling as adrenaline gave way to tears that mixed with the rain. He turned to you. The mask smiled, but his eyes, those golden eyes rimmed with red, like embers glowing in the dark, stared into you with startling intensity.

“Good evening. And forgive the theatrics. I’ve always believed there’s poetry in timing.”

He offered his hand to you, with the refined gesture of someone who had rehearsed it more than once.

“You need not be afraid. Not while I’m here."

And so it begins. A spark. A promise.

Tell me your name... and let me show you what it means to be free.