The tavern's door swung inward with a long wooden groan that blended into the hum of conversation and the clatter of glass.
Michael O'Shae stepped inside, shoulders squared against the early winter chill that clung to his coat. The warmth hit him first—a dense, smoky heat that smelled faintly of whiskey, roasted meat, and old oak. Candlelight flickered across walls crowded with framed photographs and faded Red Sox memorabilia, and a jukebox in the corner played something slow and bluesy, the kind of tune that carried the weight of too many nights like this one.
"Hey, Mikey!"
The call came from behind the counter, where a thick-armed bartender with a patchy beard was already lifting a glass in greeting. Others joined in—an older man nursing a pint, a woman in a green sweater perched on a stool, even one of the waitresses passing with a tray full of steaming plates.
The chorus of voices rose and folded back into laughter. O'Shae smiled, waving a hand. "Evenin', folks."
He could feel their warmth, their fondness. To them, he was just another familiar face—Michael, the charming Southie boy who never missed a Friday pint, who helped people carry groceries when no one was looking, who always paid in cash. They didn't see him. Not the Pinnacle. Not the man who spent his nights silencing monsters and his mornings rewriting the damage in reports that would never reach the public.
He pushed that thought aside. Tonight wasn't for ghosts.
"Mikey! You gonna stand there like a statue or you comin' over?"
The shout came from the far corner, where four men crowded a round table covered in half-empty glasses and the remains of a shared meal.
"Coming, coming," Michael said, grin widening as he made his way through the crowd. The floorboards creaked under his boots, sticky in places from years of spilled ale.
At the table sat old friends, men he hadn't had time to see in months.
Francesco Bellante was first to raise his hand—a wiry Italian with a narrow face and bright eyes that always seemed to be scheming something. Next to him was his cousin, Angelo Conti, broader and louder, his laughter already halfway out of his chest before he finished his drink. Across from them sat Desmond Carter, the African American of the group, tall and built like a boxer, his hair cropped short and his suit jacket still crisp even after hours of drinking. Beside him was Ciaran Doyle, an Irishman like Michael, red-haired and soft-spoken, a painter's hands resting on the table, stained faintly with color even now.
"You're late, Mick," Francesco said, motioning to the empty seat. "Thought maybe the mayor was keepin' you busy again."
Michael chuckled as he slid in, loosening his scarf. "Mayor's got enough voices in his ear without mine."
"Bull," Angelo said. "Last I heard, you were still his favorite boy from South Boston."
Desmond grinned. "If he's the mayor's favorite, then I'm the Pope."
Laughter rolled around the table, light and easy.
Michael smiled with them, but his mind was somewhere else. Beneath the rhythm of clinking glasses and the murmur of conversations, he could almost hear it—the memory of a hollow voice whispering through the dark. The Faceless issue of theirs will be an issue for them if they don't snuff it out…
He blinked once and reached for his glass. The whiskey was smooth, warm as it slipped down his throat, anchoring him to the moment.
"So," Ciaran said, leaning forward, eyes curious but kind. "How's work been treatin' you, Mick? You look tired."
Michael smirked. "That's what happens when you stop sleeping for pleasure and start sleeping out of necessity."
"Sounds like every man in this place," Francesco said, grinning. "Except Angelo, who sleeps like the dead."
Angelo raised his glass in mock salute. "And with twice the peace."
Michael laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. He swirled his drink absently, the amber liquid catching the low light. Around them, the tavern swelled with familiar noise—pool balls cracking, chairs scraping, a burst of song from the other side of the room. It was a good night, or at least it should have been.
"You all right, brother?" Desmond asked quietly, his tone dropping below the noise.
Michael looked up, catching the concern in his friend's eyes. "Yeah," he said with a small smile. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit," Francesco said, pretending to pour another drink for him.
"Tell me about it."
He took another sip, feeling the burn settle in his chest. It wasn't the drink that made him warm, though. It was the illusion of normalcy—the sound of laughter, the chatter of strangers, the way his name still meant something ordinary in this place.
For a moment, he let himself believe it. That the world outside wasn't teetering on something sharp. That Markus Gray's corpse hadn't looked wrong in the light of the Sanctuary. That the Faceless weren't spreading in the dark like mold under floorboards.
Angelo clapped him on the back hard enough to shake his glass. "Mikey, you're starin' off again. What's eatin' ya?"
"Just work, that's all," he said easily, the lie practiced and smooth. "Deadlines. Reports. Same old grind."
Ciaran chuckled softly. "The world never stops turning for your kind, eh?"
Michael smiled faintly. "No. It doesn't."
Outside, a police siren wailed somewhere far down the street before fading back into the hum of the city. Inside, the jukebox changed songs—something slower, sadder.
Michael's gaze drifted toward the window, where the rain had started to fall again, tapping soft against the glass.
He forced himself to laugh at something Angelo said, but the sound didn't feel real.
The laughter at the table had settled into an easy hum, the kind that came when the food was gone and only the comfort of old company remained. The tavern's low lights glowed amber against the smoke-stained walls. Outside, rain trailed down the windowpane in thin silver veins, and the air inside had grown thick with warmth and the faint smell of roasted barley.
Desmond leaned back in his chair, quiet for the first time all evening. His hand circled his half-empty glass, eyes fixed on the amber liquid as if trying to read something in it. "You all hear the news about Captain Gray?"
The words landed heavy. Francesco's grin faded. Angelo's brows rose slightly. Ciaran stopped mid-laugh, his expression dimming to something more solemn.
Michael felt the muscles in his neck tense before he could stop them. He lifted his glass, forcing an easy smile, and took a slow drink to cover the pause. The whiskey burned on its way down.
"Yeah," Angelo said after a beat, shaking his head. "Damn shame. Guy was a legend."
Desmond's voice was low. "Colon cancer, right? Forty-three. That's young for someone like him."
Michael set his glass down carefully. "It's… tragic," he said, the word deliberate. His tone was steady, sympathetic, maybe a little weary. He had practiced this kind of restraint for years. "He was a good man. Did a lot for this country."
He could feel their eyes on him, studying the calm he had stitched over himself.
Ciaran frowned softly, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "You ever wonder, though?" he asked, voice barely rising above the music playing from the jukebox. "I mean… if he wasn't safe from that sort of thing, who is? Thought they were stronger than us. Different."
"Still people," Michael said. "Same blood. Same bones. Death doesn't play favorites."
"Then what about the others?" Ciaran asked. "The rest of them. The Valor Nine."
The air seemed to still for half a second.
Michael didn't look up from his drink. His jaw tightened, but the movement was small, hidden by the shadow from the candle beside him. Inside, his chest tightened with something colder. He could almost see Irina's pale face again, her hands trembling in the light of the Sanctuary. The way she'd looked down at Markus's body, too afraid to say what they both knew.
He forced the memory down. When he spoke, his tone was light. "They'll carry on. That's what they do."
Francesco nodded, swirling the last of his beer. "Yeah. Still freaks me out, though. Imagine living like that. No sleep, no privacy, cameras every time you step outside. Hell, I'd rather drop dead early too."
Angelo smirked faintly. "You'd drop dead from drinkin' too much Chianti, not hero work."
That earned a round of tired laughter. Michael chuckled with them, though his voice sounded hollow in his own ears.
The conversation drifted back toward lighter things—sports, a new Italian place down by Quincy—but Desmond and Ciaran exchanged a brief glance across the table. It wasn't suspicion, just the unspoken understanding that something behind Michael's eyes had shifted. They didn't push. They never did.
After a few minutes, Francesco leaned in toward Angelo and muttered something under his breath. The two Italians shared a look, then nodded once.
Francesco exhaled through his nose, pushing his chair back slightly. "Hey, Mick. Mind if we talk to you a sec?"
Ciaran raised an eyebrow but didn't ask. Desmond just hummed, finishing his drink in one slow swallow. "Yeah," Desmond said, setting his glass down. "We'll give you some space."
They rose together, clapping Michael lightly on the shoulder as they passed. "Don't let these two talk you into somethin' stupid," Ciaran said with a smile that didn't quite hide his curiosity.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Michael replied, his grin measured and easy.
Once they were gone, the noise of the tavern seemed to fold inward, muffled by the rain outside. Francesco and Angelo leaned closer, voices lowering beneath the steady hum of the jukebox.
Michael rested his arms on the table, posture relaxed though his gut felt tight. "All right," he said softly. "What's this about?"
Francesco's expression had lost its humor. "You've been different lately, Mikey. Quiet."
Angelo nodded. "Not the kind of quiet you get from paperwork either."
Michael smiled faintly. "You two sound like my mother."
"Then your mother's right," Francesco said, his voice quieter now. "Something's wrong, isn't it?"
Michael's gaze flicked toward the window. The rain outside had picked up again, each drop tapping faintly against the glass like fingers on a coffin lid.
He took a slow breath. "I'm fine," he said. "Just… work. It's been heavier than usual."
Francesco's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't push. "If you say so."
"Don't stay buried in that office too long," Angelo added. "Boston's got enough ghosts without you joinin' them."
Michael looked back at them and smiled, that same practiced warmth sliding easily across his face. "I'll keep that in mind."
The jukebox clicked. A new song started, slower and lower, its bass a faint heartbeat under the murmurs of the tavern.
Michael lifted his glass again, letting the burn wash through him until the room felt real again.
"Gentlemen," he said quietly, raising it in a small toast. "To the ones still standing."
Francesco and Angelo followed suit. Their glasses met with a soft clink that barely carried over the music.
Francesco leaned back in his chair, his voice dropping to a level that barely rose above the jukebox hum. "You hear about the weird stuff happening down by Roxbury?"
Michael tilted his glass, pretending to study the way the amber caught the light. "Weird stuff's half the city, Frankie. You'll have to narrow it down."
Angelo scratched at his chin, his tone quieter now, more deliberate. "This isn't the usual kind. Heard it from a guy who works sanitation for the city. Said they've been pulling workers off the night shifts—something about bodies turning up in the tunnels. Not just homeless or junkies either. Folks goin' missing, only to show up days later all… off."
Francesco nodded, glancing around before continuing. "No paper's running it, of course. The cops keep sayin' it's just stress. People losing their heads. But…" He hesitated, then took another sip. "You know how it goes. Whispers travel faster than the truth."
Michael's jaw tightened slightly, though his face remained calm. He traced the edge of his glass with his thumb. "Rumors," he said evenly. "You know how this city eats its own stories."
Francesco's brow furrowed. "Yeah, but these don't sound like stories."
Angelo leaned in a little closer. "One of the guys said he saw one of the bodies before they zipped it up. Said it looked… hollow. Skin stretched thin, like something inside just vanished."
Michael chuckled softly, forcing warmth into the sound. "And here I thought you two only drank whiskey, not ghost stories."
Francesco frowned. "You haven't heard anything? Not even a whisper at City Hall?"
Michael met his eyes, his own steady and unreadable. "If I had, you think I'd tell you two over a pint?"
That earned a half-hearted laugh. Angelo shook his head, but the tension didn't ease. "Fair enough."
For a moment, none of them spoke. The tavern's sounds swelled around them again—muffled laughter, a glass breaking somewhere behind the bar, a song from the jukebox that had long lost its charm. The warmth of the whiskey was beginning to dull, leaving behind only the slow ache of reality creeping back in.
Michael exhaled softly and checked his watch out of habit. The hour had slipped away quicker than he expected. His reflection stared back at him from the glass face—tired eyes, forced calm.
Angelo broke the silence first. "Come on," he said, rising from his chair. "Let's walk a bit. Get some air. City's lit up tonight—Halloween lights, Hero's Day banners, the works. Might do us good to remember the world isn't all bad."
Francesco grinned faintly, pushing up from his chair as well. "You just want to see if O'Leary's Bakery put those giant paper ghosts back up."
"Maybe I do." Angelo shrugged. "They're funny."
Michael hesitated, eyes flicking to the window where rain streaked the glass in silver threads. Outside, the glow of streetlamps shimmered against puddles that mirrored the city's colors—orange pumpkins, gold banners, and faint streaks of blue from Hero's Day projections that flashed the emblems of long-dead champions.
He stood slowly, slipping his coat back on. "All right," he said. "Let's see what the city looks like when it's trying to forget itself."
They made their way out of the tavern, the door groaning behind them as it swung shut. The street outside was damp, the air thick with the smell of rain, roasted peanuts from a nearby stand, and faint exhaust from the passing cars. The cobblestones gleamed under the streetlights, and puddles trembled at each passing bus.
A paper cutout of Lady Valiant hung in one window, her cape flaring proudly in red and gold. Across the street, a banner fluttered between lampposts, reading HERO'S DAY WEEKEND – HONOR THE FALLEN, CELEBRATE THE BRAVE. Beneath it, children in plastic masks darted between their parents, laughing as they tried to catch the rain in their open hands.
Michael tucked his hands into his pockets and fell into step beside Angelo and Francesco.
"You ever notice," Francesco said, looking up at the lights, "how every year the decorations look brighter, but people seem more tired?"
Angelo chuckled under his breath. "That's Boston for you. We'll polish a cracked window till it shines."
Michael gave a quiet hum in agreement, eyes tracing the distant skyline where Spiral Tower loomed faintly through the mist. The top of it glowed faint blue, a beacon of pride for most. For him, it was a reminder of the weight he couldn't share.
As they turned down the next street, a faint breeze carried the sound of a marching band rehearsing a few blocks away—Hero's Day parade practice, by the sound of it. Brass notes rose and fell in the cold air, half-hearted but determined.
Michael smiled faintly, but his thoughts lingered on the whispers, the hollow bodies, the stretching darkness in the corners of his city.
"Nice night," Angelo said, pulling his jacket tighter.
"Yeah," Michael murmured, eyes on the puddle-lit street ahead. "Almost too nice."
The streets grew quieter as they moved deeper into downtown. The festive color drained from the storefronts, replaced by dark windows and the low hum of traffic echoing off the narrow corridors between tall brick buildings. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, enough to leave the air damp and heavy with the scent of wet concrete and rusted metal.
Michael walked a step behind Angelo and Francesco, his shoes scuffing lightly against the slick pavement. The others had fallen into easy chatter about some old neighborhood scandal, their voices low but careless. Francesco was laughing about a mutual acquaintance who'd tried to run a betting ring out of a laundromat, while Angelo ribbed him about the time he got caught sneaking into Fenway during an off-season.
Their laughter felt distant to Michael. He kept glancing around, scanning the dim-lit alleyways and the rooftops above, the faint prickling along his neck refusing to fade. There was something unnatural in the air—a vibration, subtle but unmistakable, pressing faintly at the base of his skull.
"You all right back there?" Angelo called over his shoulder.
Michael forced a nod, his voice calm. "Fine. Just getting used to the smell of this part of town again."
That drew a laugh, and Francesco motioned ahead toward a narrow brick structure wedged between a shuttered pawn shop and a bail bonds office. Its sign was long since faded, letters peeling, the door half-hinged and slick with rain.
"This way," Francesco said. "Shortcut upstairs."
Michael raised a brow but followed them in. The interior was a skeleton of its former self—bare walls, stray tools, the smell of plaster and old dust thick in the air. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, their buzz irregular and sharp, casting shadows that moved when nothing else did.
Angelo motioned toward a caged elevator sitting crooked in its shaft. "It works. Mostly."
The three stepped inside. The gate clattered shut, and the lift jolted upward with a shudder. The gears squealed in protest, echoing up the shaft as they rose. Francesco laughed uneasily. "Christ, I forgot how loud this thing was…"
Michael's hand rested casually on the rail, but his muscles were tight beneath his coat. The closer they got to the top, the heavier the air became, thick with a pressure that wasn't quite sound but felt like it was humming against his thoughts.
When the elevator jerked to a stop, they stepped out into what looked like an unfinished floor. Bare beams crisscrossed the ceiling. Sheets of drywall leaned against the walls, and sawdust littered the ground. The smell of fresh wood and rain leaking through a cracked skylight mixed with something else—something faintly metallic, like old blood.
Francesco and Angelo stopped walking.
Michael frowned. "What is this?"
Neither man answered. Francesco's face was pale, his mouth slightly open as if words had caught on the way out. Angelo stared down at his shoes, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.
"Why'd you bring me here?" Michael asked quietly, his tone sharpening.
Angelo finally looked up. His eyes were glassy. "He made us do it."
Michael's brow furrowed. "What?"
Francesco let out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, Mikey."
Before he could speak again, something pressed into Michael's mind—a soundless force, heavy and cold, that snaked through his thoughts like water through cracks. His chest seized as the invisible weight pulled him forward.
His feet began to move against his will.
The wood beneath him creaked as he slid across it, his body resisting but his muscles unresponsive. His vision tilted slightly, and the pressure in his head intensified until every heartbeat echoed behind his eyes.
Come.
The voice wasn't a word so much as an impulse, a command. It cut through his will like a hand clamping around his skull.
He gritted his teeth, the air leaving his lungs in short bursts as he fought the pull. The movement dragged him through the half-built room, boards groaning under his weight, until the light caught on something standing in the far corner.
A figure emerged from the shadows.
It was human-shaped, but only barely. Its skin looked like stretched porcelain, too smooth to be real, its eyes two empty pits that reflected no light. Where its face should have been, there was only a hollow distortion, like the air itself refused to settle there. The longer he looked, the more wrong it seemed—its presence carrying a cold that gnawed into his bones.
The Faceless tilted its head slightly, studying him without expression.
Michael's boots scraped against the floor as the pull stopped. His breath came ragged, sweat slicking his palms despite the chill. He turned sharply, voice raw. "What did you do?"
Francesco and Angelo stood behind him, swaying slightly. Their mouths opened soundlessly, eyes rolling back before their bodies crumpled to the floor.
The sound of their collapse echoed through the unfinished space, small clouds of dust rising around them.
Michael's pulse roared in his ears. His fists clenched tight enough that his knuckles ached.
He knew then that this wasn't coincidence. It wasn't chance. The whispers his friends had mentioned weren't rumors at all.
And as he stared into that faceless void where eyes should have been, he realized this thing hadn't come for a hunt.
It had come for him.
The air between them vibrated faintly, the floorboards trembling beneath his boots. His body screamed to move, to fight, to reach for the power sitting just below his skin—but the voice was there again, quiet and sharp as a blade pressed against thought itself.
Do not struggle.
Michael's jaw flexed. The taste of metal filled his mouth.
Then he smiled, slow and deliberate, his voice steady through the static in his skull. "You made a mistake coming here."
The Faceless tilted its head again, and the lights above flickered once. It remained motionless, its shape faintly shimmering as if it existed half inside the world and half outside it. When it spoke, the words were felt. The voice vibrated through the walls and inside his head at once, heavy with an unnatural calm.
Pinnacle of Man...
Michael's spine went cold. The title rippled through him like ice water poured down the back of his skull. It knew.
The Faceless tilted its head, the movement oddly human, as if mimicking something it once observed. Your reputation precedes you, it continued. So much flesh, so little insight. You build towers of glass and call it strength. You fear the dark, yet you live in its shadow.
The pressure deepened. His knees nearly buckled. He could feel his own thoughts bending under the weight, the static scraping against the inside of his mind.
You are nothing without what we allow you to be, the Faceless whispered. Symbols. Puppets. The next will fall, and the next after that. Humanity's pinnacle is its arrogance…
Michael's teeth ground together. His vision blurred at the edges, but the sound of its voice only sharpened something inside him. Beneath the suffocating pressure, a pulse began to rise—a deep, burning rhythm that started in his chest and pushed outward, slow at first, then steady.
"You've done your homework," he said, his voice hoarse but unwavering. "But there's one thing you forgot..."
The Faceless tilted slightly, its eyeless voids fixed on him.
Michael raised his head, the strain in his neck visible now, his breath slow and even as heat began to shimmer faintly off his skin. "You forgot why they call me the Pinnacle of Man."
The words struck the air like a match to dry tinder.
For a moment, the room was silent. Then, the pressure broke.
A wave of pure force erupted from Michael's body, not fire, not light—something deeper, primal and physical at once. The air itself seemed to tear outward from him, bending the sound of its own release. The boards beneath his feet splintered and tore free, flying across the room.
The Faceless was flung backward, slamming against the far wall with a dull, unnatural thud, its form flickering as if reality itself was struggling to hold it in place.
The sound of the shockwave rolled through the building like thunder. Every loose beam, every tool, every nail scattered outward, clattering and ringing across the floor. Francesco and Angelo's unconscious bodies shifted from the blast, the air sweeping around them but never touching them directly, as if his power knew better.
Michael stood in the center of the storm's aftermath, the wooden planks around him split in a perfect radius. His breath came heavy, the faint shimmer of golden light pulsing beneath his skin before fading away.
The silence that followed was total.
Slowly, he raised his head, eyes narrowing as the dust settled. The Faceless stirred weakly, its limbs jerking like a puppet fighting broken strings. The eyeless voids glowed faintly now, pale and furious.
Michael's voice was low and steady. "You should have stayed in the dark."
For a heartbeat, everything seemed frozen. The building groaned around them, and outside, thunder rumbled somewhere over the harbor.
The Pinnacle of Man had returned to himself.
The Faceless began to move.
It didn't rise like a man. It lifted, joints bending the wrong way, spine uncoiling with a wet pop. Its feet never quite touched the floor. The dim light in the half-finished room warped around it as though refusing to rest on its shape.
Michael felt the psychic pull again, sharper than before—a spike that dug into his thoughts like claws raking through wet clay. The voice hit him like static through his skull.
Bow.
His muscles locked for half a second. Veins in his neck strained. The weight pressed harder, crawling down his shoulders, seizing his arms. His jaw clenched so tight he could taste blood.
The thing took a step forward, its head cocked slightly. The air around it shimmered like heat above asphalt.
Bow.
Michael's body shook under the pressure. The sound of his own pulse filled his ears. He drew in a breath that burned his lungs. His thoughts were a roar—his instincts screaming to fight even as the command tried to rip control from his bones.
Then he exhaled, and the tremor in his arms steadied.
"Not this time," he muttered through clenched teeth.
The invisible pressure wavered. He pushed back—first in thought, then in motion. His legs bent slightly, grounding himself as the air around him began to vibrate. Dust lifted off the floor in soft spirals. The wooden planks creaked beneath his boots.
A deep, guttural sound tore from his throat—a cry that was part rage, part defiance. He drove his fist forward, punching not the creature but the air itself.
The result was cataclysmic.
A wave of force exploded from his knuckles, invisible but thunderous. It ripped through the room in an instant, scattering dust, shattering wooden beams, and splitting the floorboards apart in a widening path. The blast hit the Faceless square in the chest, sending it careening backward into the far wall. The impact cracked the brick, splinters of mortar raining to the ground.
The sound was deafening.
Michael's breath came fast, chest heaving. The air tasted of dust and old wood, sharp on the tongue.
But the Faceless didn't stay down.
Its body twitched once, then dissolved into black vapor. The shadowy mass circled him like smoke caught in a storm, darting through the air in violent spirals. The pressure in his skull returned, not as a voice this time, but as a pulse that rattled his bones.
"Show yourself!" he shouted, turning, fists raised.
The air behind him split open.
A telekinetic pulse struck his back with the force of a cannon. He hit the floor hard, the impact rattling his teeth, the boards beneath him splintering under his weight. The air was knocked out of his lungs.
He pushed himself up slowly, spitting blood onto the floor. His vision doubled for a second before clearing. The Faceless had reformed several feet away, its posture almost mocking—arms at its sides, head tilted just enough to seem amused.
The building groaned above them. Cracks raced up the nearest support beam, dust drifting from the ceiling.
Michael's eyes darted around, taking in the space. The beams were fractured. The walls bowed outward. The elevator shaft behind him rattled. Another hit like that and the whole place could come down on them both.
Think, he told himself. No containment field, no shield system—too open.
He steadied his breathing, the sound harsh in the quiet. He looked back at the Faceless and saw its form flickering slightly, as though the physical world struggled to contain it.
This building won't hold much longer, he thought grimly. If it collapses, I can't protect the civilians below. I have to end this now.
He straightened, wiping the blood from his mouth. The faint golden shimmer beneath his skin began to return, brighter this time, dancing in faint arcs across his hands.
"You've had your say," he growled. "Now it's my turn."
The Faceless leaned forward, silent, waiting.
The two figures stood in the fractured half-light of the construction floor, their silence sharper than the storm outside. Dust drifted between them like falling ash. The boards creaked as the wind outside pressed against the loose walls, and far below, a horn from the harbor echoed faintly through the night.
Michael's body hummed with power, a deep rhythm pulsing from somewhere behind his ribs. The air around him bent slightly, heat bleeding into it without flame. Every sound sharpened—the drip of rain through the ceiling, the uneven drag of the Faceless's breathless motion. His heartbeat steadied into a slow, heavy cadence, and his world narrowed to the space between them.
The Faceless lunged first.
It didn't move like a human—it blinked forward, displacing air in a silent burst that sent papers and splinters swirling in its wake. Michael twisted aside, feeling the shift in pressure a moment before its arm sliced through where his head had been. The air burned cold as the creature's limb passed by, distorting the space around it.
He caught its wrist mid-swing, the contact sending a shiver up his arm. The surface felt wrong—smooth, almost soft, but without warmth. He pivoted on his heel, pulling the Faceless into his weight, then slammed his elbow down hard into its shoulder. The impact cracked the air like a thunderclap. The creature crumpled slightly but didn't fall. Its free hand shot out, palm open, and an invisible wave struck Michael in the chest.
He staggered back, boots digging into the wood, splinters scraping underfoot. The telekinetic pulse was powerful, but he'd fought stronger. He grounded himself, inhaled deeply, and let Nirvana rise.
It began as heat—then focus. The noise in his head dimmed, the world slowing until even the falling dust moved like snow in water. His vision adjusted; every line, every shadow sharpened. The pulse of energy beneath the creature's skin became visible to him, faint veins of dark light writhing like roots.
He charged.
His fist met the Faceless's side with precision born of a thousand drills, the sound deep and blunt, like a mallet hitting stone. The wall behind the creature cracked from the force. It tried to retaliate, swinging an arm that bent in the wrong direction, but Michael ducked under, pivoted, and drove his knee into its abdomen. The thing convulsed, its body distorting around the point of impact like smoke trying to keep form.
He pressed the advantage, his strikes becoming a rhythm—measured, efficient, relentless. He moved with the control of a man who'd spent decades mastering both body and mind. His hands were a blur of motion, every hit a precise equation of timing and force. Each blow carried a faint shimmer of gold, as though light itself answered to his command.
The Faceless lashed out again, its form splitting into afterimages that circled him like echoes. The air grew colder, the taste of metal thick on his tongue. Michael closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting his breathing guide him through the noise.
When the next illusion lunged, he turned and struck the real one square in the chest, his fist stopping an inch before impact. The air between them folded, and the resulting shockwave shattered the phantoms around them in a ripple of distorted space.
The creature reeled, its once-smooth surface fracturing like glass under strain. It staggered backward, soundless, but the vibrations in Michael's skull told him it was still screaming inside his mind.
He pressed forward, his voice low. "You came to my city. You think you can crawl through the cracks and hide behind whispers."
He seized it by the collar—if the faint ridge of flesh near its neck could be called that—and slammed it into the nearest wall. The boards exploded outward, light from the street spilling through the gaps. Wind howled through the new breach, sending dust and splinters whipping through the air.
The Faceless convulsed again, its head twisting violently. Black veins spread through its body like ink in water. Michael's grip tightened, his forearm straining against the thrash. He could feel the psychic pressure building again, but this time he was ready.
The power of Nirvana flared—sound dulled, and everything around him slowed. His eyes glowed faintly gold, the light pulsing in rhythm with his heart. For a moment, he could hear nothing but his own breath and the faint hum of the creature's existence unraveling in front of him.
Then the Faceless slipped from his grasp—not through strength, but by collapsing in on itself, its body dissolving into a cloud of gray mist.
Michael stepped back, covering his face as the air warped with static. The vapor coiled through the broken wall and vanished into the night air, leaving behind only the faint echo of a voice inside his head.
This is only the beginning.
He stood there for several seconds, the only sound the whistle of wind through the damaged frame and the soft creak of the beams shifting above. His pulse slowed, the golden light fading from his skin. He took a slow breath, his chest still burning from exertion.
The two men who had lured him here—his friends—remained unconscious on the floor. He looked at them for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then he crouched beside them and checked their pulses. Both alive, but weak.
The building groaned again. He could feel it leaning, the supports straining. Time to move.
He slung one man over each shoulder with careful strength and walked toward the elevator shaft. The air reeked of smoke, splintered pine, and dust.
As he descended, his thoughts were heavy. The Faceless had known his name. It had known what he was.
That meant someone, somewhere, was telling them exactly who to hunt.
And that knowledge—more than the fight itself—left a taste in his mouth like ash.
Outside, the storm had finally broken. The city was quiet beneath the steady rain, unaware of what had just crawled through its veins.
Michael O'Shae, the Pinnacle of Man, stepped out into the street with his jaw set and his coat heavy with water. His eyes lifted once toward the skyline—toward Spiral Tower gleaming faintly through the fog.
Whatever this was, it wasn't over. Not by a long stretch. He had to tell the others…