Early 1944 — Washington D.C.
He moved like a whisper through the rooftops of Capitol Hill, a phantom cutting through rain and wind. Below, the capital city pulsed with bureaucracy, its beating heart oblivious to the shadow stalking its rooftops.
Elijah Gray—called by criminals and whispers as the Black Zero—had crafted himself into an icon of dread. His look was striking, unforgettable: a black strongman bodysuit clung to his stocky, powerful frame, sleeveless and bold. Around his waist, purple trunks; on his feet, durable purple boots that made no sound across stone or steel.
He wore no gloves. His fists were bare, weathered, and scarred.
Draped from his left shoulder, his cape—a deep, blood-red piece of cloth—hung asymmetrically behind him like a tattered war banner.
His face was partially masked. The black mask covered everything above the nose, sleek and matte, with sharp white eyelid slits that glowed slightly in darkness. His jaw, lips, and chin were left exposed—strong and clenched, the human element beneath the monster's eyes.
He wasn't hiding anymore.
He wanted them to see who he'd become.
---
Senator Bernard K. Aldridge
The old man sat in his private study, sipping bourbon, reading the evening paper beneath a soft amber lamp. The walls were lined with photographs of war heroes, grandchildren, patriotic awards—all masking the rot beneath his skin.
Elijah didn't break the window.
He phased through it silently, materializing in the middle of the study.
Aldridge turned, startled. His glass slipped from his hand.
"You…" he gasped. "You're supposed to be—"
"Dead?" Elijah's voice was rough, low. He stepped into the light, revealing the sharp contours of his mask and the crimson cape.
"You were a failed freak," Aldridge hissed, voice shaking. "An accident we covered."
"You built your life on the bones of children," Elijah snarled. "On me."
Aldridge reached for the desk drawer.
The drawer slammed shut with a violent bang. The old man yelped, clutching his hand.
"I'm not here to kill you," Elijah said, stepping forward. "I want you to live. I want you to wake up every night soaked in sweat, thinking about the ones you disappeared."
"I'll have you hanged—!"
"You won't remember this," Elijah said.
And with a flash of warped air and light, the senator vanished.
Gone. No trace left.
---
The Pursuit
The explosion of energy didn't go unnoticed.
Within minutes, Capitol security was on high alert. Red lights flashed. Sirens howled. Police squads and secret service agents converged on the rooftops.
"There!"
A spotlight hit Elijah mid-run. He blinked forward, reappearing ten feet ahead, cloak whipping behind him.
"Don't let him escape!"
Bullets snapped past his head. He vaulted across a four-story drop, landed on the edge of a museum, and kept sprinting.
Choppers lit up the sky. Dogs barked from the alleys below.
But Elijah was smoke and shadow. No matter how close they came, he slipped through their fingers—bounding from ledges, phasing through fences, disappearing into side streets before they could breathe.
He ducked into the belly of the city, where no lights reached.
They would never catch him. Not in their world of structure and logic.
He moved faster than fear. And he'd only just begun.