The delivery guy showed up before the bike did.
Doorbell. Three short rings. I shuffled over in a hoodie and bare feet, hair pointing in six directions.
A tall box waited in the hall when I opened the door. The courier checked my name, made me sign, and left with the speed of someone trying to hit quota.
I dragged the box inside and cut the tape.
Helmet. Jacket. Gloves. All black.
I lifted the helmet out first. Smooth, featureless visor. No logo. No color. Just a dark reflection of my own confused face.
(You actually bought this.)
I set it down carefully and pulled the jacket on. It fit a little too well. The material hugged my shoulders, my arms. The gloves slid over my fingers and made my hands feel like they belonged to someone else.
I walked to the hallway mirror.
A guy in a black jacket and black gloves stared back. Bed hair, sleepy eyes. Maskless. Just me, but slightly upgraded.
"Looks like I'm about to overcompensate for something," I said.
I grabbed the helmet, lowered it onto my head, and closed the visor.
The world dimmed. The glass showed a distorted version of my apartment behind me. My breathing grew louder inside the shell.
Black jacket, black gloves, black helmet.
I didn't look like a hero.
I didn't look like a villain either.
I looked like a background character in someone else's story. The kind of guy who appears in a wide shot and never gets a name.
Somehow, that made it easier.
I popped the visor up and checked the time. There was still an hour until I had to go meet the seller.
I took the gear off, folded it carefully, and set it on a chair.
My stomach twisted. Nervousness, excitement, guilt; all mixed together.
"Just a bike," I told myself. "People buy bikes all the time."
I made a quick snack and scrolled through Boovtoob comments while I ate.
You seemed tired last stream, take care of yourself king
Lowkey feels like he's glowing more lately? Hard to explain.
Is it just me or is his stuff popping up everywhere now?
My channel page had a tiny "trending" marker stitched next to it.
Views spiked during certain hours, way beyond normal.
Attention, attention, attention.
I finished eating, changed into outdoor clothes, grabbed my mask and cap, and left.
The seller lived in a quieter district, a row of old houses squeezed into the edge of the city like they were holding it back.
The bike waited in the driveway. Matte black, a little scratched around the edges, but it had a lean shape I liked. Not huge, not tiny.
The seller—a woman in her thirties with oil-stained hands—nodded at me.
"You Michael?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. Mask on. Cap down. "You must be… Hana?"
She wiped her hands on a rag. "You ride before?"
"Uh. I have a license," I said. That was technically true. I'd gotten one years ago during a phase where I thought riding looked cool, then never bought anything.
She stared at me for a moment, then rolled her eyes.
"Alright. I'll go over the basics again. Humor me."
We spent the next half hour with her explaining things I had mostly forgotten. Controls. Balance. Braking. All the things you shouldn't screw up unless you wanted to meet the asphalt personally.
I listened. Hard.
When I finally settled onto the seat and started the engine, the vibration ran up through my legs into my chest. It felt like sitting on a growl.
I eased out into the side street, heart hammering.
Slow. Careful. Turn. Stop. Breathe.
After a few laps around the block, my body remembered more than I thought it would. The fear pulled back a little, replaced by that stupid teenage thrill of moving with the machine.
I parked back in front of her house, killed the engine, and took the helmet off.
"Well?" she asked.
"It feels good," I said. My cheeks were hot inside the helmet; I hoped she couldn't see that.
She named a price. It was within the range I'd prepared for. We did the paperwork, and then it was mine.
As I got ready to leave, she hesitated.
"You some kind of streamer?" she asked.
My spine twitched.
"Why?"
"You talk like one," she said. "All that 'chat this, chat that' under your breath while you were going in circles. Thought you were narrating to someone."
I hadn't even noticed.
"Uh. Habit, I guess," I said. "I do Boovtoob stuff."
"Figures." She shrugged. "Don't die on that thing. Bad for brand."
"I'll try not to ruin my metrics," I said.
She snorted and went back inside.
Riding home felt different.
The city moved around me in streams of color. Cars, buses, people on bikes, neon signs blinking alive as evening crawled in.
Every time I stopped at a light, I felt eyes snag on the bike, then on me.
Some of them recognized me. I could tell from the double takes, the half-hidden phones. A few hesitated like they wanted to come over and then decided not to.
The static in my chest stirred again. Stronger than when I was on foot. The combined attention from curiosity, admiration, envy—small things, but they added up.
By the time I reached my building, my hands were shaking a little from adrenaline and something else.
I parked the bike in the underground lot, locked it, and took the elevator up.
The apartment seemed too quiet when I walked in with the gear under my arm.
I laid everything out on the bed. Helmet, jacket, gloves, black pants I'd dug out of my closet.
The sun was sliding down. Shadows stretched across the floor.
"Nobody's forcing you," I told myself. "You could just ride this thing during the day. Make scenic vlogs. Be normal."
I stared at the ceiling for a while.
Images stacked up in my mind.
The clip of the bus stop beating.
The driver slamming his brakes.
The busker's small crowd forming and dissolving.
My manager saying "hero plays well with brands."
If I didn't try, I knew exactly what would happen.
I'd pretend this was all a funny phase. I'd keep streaming, keep growing, keep talking about being kind and holding on and taking care of each other.
People would tell me I'd saved them while outside my window, the city ate someone else alive.
The thought tasted worse than fear.
I changed.
Black from head to toe. Jacket zipped. Gloves tight. Helmet on.
The mirror showed a stranger.
Even I couldn't read my own face behind the visor.
"Good," I said, voice echoing softly inside. "Let them see what they want."
The city at night was a different animal.
I rolled through streets that looked familiar from daytime walks, now washed in cold light, corners darker, gaps deeper.
Signs glowed. Bars hummed. Groups of friends spilled onto sidewalks, laughing too loud. Solo figures moved quickly with their heads down.
I didn't have a patrol route. I wasn't a comic book character with a map of crime hotspots.
I just rode.
When I saw a side street that felt wrong—too quiet, too narrow, too badly lit—I slowed, turned, circled once, then moved on.
Every few minutes, I parked the bike somewhere and walked a block or two, helmet still on.
That alone made people avoid me. A guy in all black with a full-face helmet strolling down the street at night draws attention even without powers.
Good.
Sometimes I used it on purpose.
I'd stop near a group of drunk guys harassing a couple of girls outside a bar. A small tug on their attention, and they would suddenly remember they needed to be somewhere else, eyes skittering away from me for reasons they couldn't name.
Other times, it worked in reverse.
I caught a guy slipping his hand into a woman's bag at a bus stop. I didn't shout. I just stared at his wrist, fingering his action in my mind as if highlighting it.
Two people nearby turned their heads. One saw the hand, gasped, and called him out.
He bolted. Dropped the wallet. No one saw me.
I felt stupidly pleased with myself.
(You see that, comics? I can do hero work without punching anyone.)
The buzz in my chest grew each time I managed something like that. Small interventions. Tiny shifts.
I lost track of time.
At some point, the air turned colder. The crowds thinned. The laughter got louder in fewer places.
That was when I heard it.
"Come on, it's not that far," a male voice said from somewhere ahead. "Just around the corner."
"I told you, I want to go home," a girl answered. Slurred, but clear enough.
I slowed, engine purring low, and turned the next corner.
A side alley opened up between two buildings. One flickering streetlamp. A dumpster, a stack of crates, a metal door with no sign.
A man in a cheap jacket had his arm around a girl's shoulders, steering her deeper into the alley. She stumbled, heels scraping. Her makeup was smeared; she looked dizzy.
Another girl stood near the mouth of the alley, biting her lip. "Maybe we should call a cab instead," she said. "She's too drunk."
"I told you, I know a place nearby," the guy snapped, irritation leaking through his fake smile. "It's safer than waiting out here, okay?"
The girl at the entrance glanced around helplessly. People passed on the street behind her, eyes sliding past the alley without seeing anything.
My heart thudded.
This. This was exactly the kind of situation that ended in a headline the next morning.
I parked the bike half on the curb, killed the engine, and swung my leg over too quickly. The sudden silence roared in my ears.
I walked into the alley.
Helmet on. Black clothes. No plan beyond "do not let this happen".
The man turned at the sound of my boots on concrete.
"What the—?" he said.
The girl under his arm blinked slowly, eyes not really focusing. The one at the mouth of the alley stared at me with round, tense eyes.
"Hey," I said.
My voice came out deeper through the helmet, hollowed by the inside of the shell.
"This is not a good idea."
The man frowned.
"Who the hell are you?"
A fair question. I had no good answer.
I took a few steps closer and focused on him.
Not his face. His grip. His posture. The narrow line of his foot angled towards the girl instead of the street.
My power grabbed hold. His attention buckled for a second, then snapped toward me fully.
He let go of the drunk girl without meaning to, shoulders squaring.
"You some kind of cop?" he asked.
"Just passing by," I said. "Let her friends take her home."
The friend closer to the street opened her mouth, closed it, then nodded rapidly as if I had given her permission.
"Y-Yeah. We should go. I have her stuff. We're fine."
"She's fine," the man insisted. "We're just going to get some air. Right?" He turned back to the drunk girl and froze.
She wasn't looking at him anymore. Her gaze drifted past his shoulder, straight to me. For some reason, even in her state, her focus had shifted.
Attention again. Pulling without me fully intending.
He noticed that too. His eyes narrowed.
"You know this guy?" he demanded.
She blinked, wobbled, and didn't answer.
He reached out for her arm again.
I moved faster than I thought I could.
One hand closed around his wrist. I didn't squeeze hard. I didn't need to.
Every bit of attention in that alley slammed into me at once. The friend, the drunk girl, the man. Even a couple of passersby at the entrance glanced in reflex.
For a second, I felt strong.
"Let. Her. Go," I said.
His face twisted.
"You creep," he spat. "What are you, some weirdo in a helmet hanging around alleys at night? You filming this or something?"
I realized then how it must look from the outside.
Full black gear. Masked face. No visible identity.
I hadn't thought about what role I'd dropped myself into visually.
My grip loosened for half a second.
He wrenched his hand back, shoving the drunk girl forward.
She stumbled directly into me. My arms went up automatically to catch her.
She fell against my chest, face pressing into the front of my jacket, helmet visor inches from her hair.
To anyone looking in from the mouth of the alley, it probably looked like I was the one dragging her somewhere.
"Don't touch her!" the friend screamed.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a phone rise, lens pointed straight at us.
The man backed away quickly now that attention had shifted off him.
"See?" he yelled, voice pitching higher. "This freak's the problem! I'm calling the cops!"
He ran, shoving past someone who had started to step closer. His footsteps faded down the side street.
The drunk girl groaned against my chest.
"I don't… feel… good," she mumbled.
"I know," I said, trying to steady her upright without looking like I was doing exactly what he'd accused me of. "Your friend's here. You're going home, okay?"
The friend approached slowly, one arm curled around her phone, still recording.
"Let go of her," she said. "Right now."
I wanted to argue. To explain that I had just stopped the guy who'd been dragging her. That I was on their side.
Through the helmet, my words sounded unnatural even to me.
I released my hold and stepped back, hands raised.
The drunk girl swayed. The friend caught her under the arm, glaring at me over her shoulder.
"If you come any closer, I swear I'll scream," she said.
My throat closed.
There were other people now, hovering at the entrance. Half curious, half wary. Some had phones out. Others pretended not to be watching and watched anyway.
All that attention I'd just used like a tool flipped around, aimed squarely at me.
I felt it pressing on the front of the helmet.
"This is a misunderstanding," I tried.
No one believed me. Their minds had already drawn the outline: man in black, faceless, in an alley, grabbing a drunk girl.
The story had picked a villain, and it wasn't the guy who had run.
Sirens wailed faintly somewhere far off. Whether they were heading this way or not, I didn't wait to find out.
I turned, walked out of the alley, and forced myself not to run until I reached the bike.
My hands shook as I jammed the key into the ignition.
Engine on. Roll out. Don't skid. Don't fall. Don't look back.
I felt eyes on my back the whole way. Phones pointed. Voices rising.
"Did you see that?"
"What the hell was that guy doing?"
"Get his plate!"
The static in my chest burned.
This time it didn't feel good.
At home, I took the helmet off and dropped it on the floor harder than I meant to.
My hair clung to my forehead with sweat. My shirt under the jacket was damp.
"What the hell was that," I said to no one.
I paced. Sat. Stood again. Checked my phone. Threw it onto the couch. Picked it up again.
No missed calls. No messages. My manager hadn't suddenly texted "Why are you on the news?" yet.
I went to the sink, splashed water on my face, and tried to breathe.
You saved her.
That thought tried to surface. The guy had run. The friend had gotten her out. That should have been enough.
Another thought pushed in right behind it.
They think you're the threat.
I opened Boovtoob out of habit.
Trending tab.
Second row, third thumbnail: a shaky vertical video.
Title: Who is this masked CREEP stalking drunk girls at night??
My lungs emptied.
I clicked.
The footage was exactly what I'd feared.
From the alley entrance, all you saw was a girl being pressed against a dark figure in black. Her friend's panicked voice. The man's yelling—carefully cut so it sounded like he was defending them.
The part where he'd grabbed her first wasn't in the frame.
The comments were already filling up.
This is my city what the hell
Why is he dressed like that omg
Someone said they saw him near central station too??
Bro thinks he's in a comic
call him The Masked Creep
The name stuck fast.
People were already repeating it, tagging it, joking about it.
Memes multiplied in real time. Crude drawings of a black figure in alleys. Fake sighting screenshots. Stories about "a guy in a helmet stalking people".
I stared at the screen.
I had wanted to be invisible and effective. Help without being praised, without being seen.
Instead, in one night, I'd become exactly what I thought I was fighting.
A shadow people warned each other about.
I closed the video.
On the white upload page from days ago, the word I'd typed floated up in my mind again.
ATTENTION.
I had asked for it. Chosen it. Been granted power over it.
Now, for the first time, it was starting to move against me.