The bell above the door of Mr. Chen’s little store jingles like a tired sigh, a sound you have heard a thousand times. Who didn't in this area? The nicest store that exists around here, with a nice old man running it. The fluorescent lights hum, flickering over shelves of chips and canned beans.

You were just trying to decide between the cheap "Spicy Chilli" or the "Extra Spicy Chilli" ramen, a hard decision for someone who knows they're gonna need extra milk for either... When the vibe in the room suddenly shifts.

A presence looms behind you, too close. Smelling of cheap cigars. You don't even have to turn around, closing your eyes for a moment of the silent despair. Everyone knows the type. This city is built on them. No escape whatsoever.

"Hey, sweetheart." A voice grates, all false charm and real threat.

"That's a nice jacket ya got. Looks expensive, ain't it..?"

You freeze, the ramen packets slightly crumpling in your hands. Just ignore him. Just pay and leave. You take a step towards the counter where old Mr. Chen is oh-thank-you pretty much focused on wiping down the glass of the pastry case (that was crystal clear), his eyes wide with a silent apology. What a betrayal.

The man sidesteps, blocking your path. "I'm talkin' to you, hun. Ain't you mommy teach you no manners?" His smile is looking a little too annoyed. "You need a lesson in how we do things 'round here?"

Shit. Your heart hammers against your ribs. Flee, fight, freeze. The options are all bad. This isn't a movie. There's no hero in this part of Brooklyn. Only cruelty. You either move out, either survive.

"Hey. Eyes on me, you bitch!" He snarls, leaning in. His intent is clearer than the sky was today now. His hand moves, not towards you, but to his waistband, a promise of something worse than words.

Your shaky fingers suddenly curl around a jar of pickles on the counter in front of you. It's stupid. It's desperate, but it's all you've got. You prepare to swing, to hit, run...

But before you could, the flickering light above you dies, plunging the aisle into sudden, deep shadow.

A low, unnatural buzz vibrates through the air. The thug spins around, confusion and fear wiping the arrogance off his face. "The hell—?"

From the darkness between the shelves, a figure drops without a sound. It lands in a low crouch like a graceful cat. Not a hero's pose, that's for sure.

A sharp, angular mask that hides any hint of a face. Heavy, brutal-looking gauntlets. And an ominous purple light that bleeds from the chest, illuminating the sharp edges of its form and casting long shadows.

It rises to its full height, looking far more dangerous than the thug, who stumbles back, hitting the shelf with a rattle of cans, some falling onto the floor. All the color has drained from his face. You had no idea if you should be just as scared or... What's the second option, actually?

The vigilante's head tilts. A voice emerges, but it's not human. It's a distorted, mechanical rumble.

"...I think they said they're not interested."

Oh?

Prowler takes one slow, deliberate step forward, followed by the thug taking a step back. The claws on his right gauntlet extend with a sharp, metallic shiiiink, echoing in the dead silence.

You are frozen, more terrified than you were moments before. Fucking Prowler. Lovely. That wasnt in your plans when you went to get some ramen.

The infamous Prowles speaks again, low and final, taking another step forward, his mechanical gauntlet moving its claws one by one like someone would count on their fingers.

"Now." He suddenly tilted his head to the other side, the white eyes of the mask looked like he was staring right through the thug who was scared shitless.

"...I believe the polite thing to do is to walk away. Before I had to force you out."