Shinwa waited until the city forgot him.
Night settled in layers—neon bleeding into wet pavement, distant sirens blurring into background noise. From his bedroom window, the streets looked smaller. Manageable.
He dressed without ceremony.
Black hoodie.
Gloves.
A cheap cyberpunk-style mask he'd ordered online—angular, expressionless, glowing lines dimmed to the lowest setting. Not intimidating. Not memorable.
That was the point.
No name.
No symbol.
No story.
He slipped out through the back door and melted into the city.
He didn't hunt crime.
He followed noise.
A warehouse near the docks—half-lit, badly locked, voices too loud for people who didn't expect trouble. A small gang, local and ambitious. Not killers. Not heroes either. The kind that hurt people because no one stopped them.
Shinwa watched from the shadows.
Six of them.
One stood out—bigger, broader, louder. The others deferred to him instinctively. The strong one. The anchor.
Start there, Shinwa thought.
He stepped into the light.
Conversation died instantly.
"Who the hell—"
The big one moved first, cracking his neck, confident grin already forming. "You lost, buddy?"
Six sets of eyes fixed on Shinwa.
The moment stretched.
The air thickened.
Shinwa felt it—faint at first, then unmistakable. That same pressure from the classroom, settling over his shoulders like an unseen mantle. Not overwhelming. Not monstrous.
But present.
The big one hesitated.
Just a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Shinwa moved.
His fist connected with the man's chest—not explosive, not flashy—but heavy. The impact drove the air out of him and sent him sprawling across the concrete.
Silence.
The others stared.
Fear flared. Awe followed. Confusion sealed it.
The weight deepened.
Shinwa didn't think anymore. He moved with it—each step measured, each strike precise. He didn't rush. Didn't posture. He closed distance and broke resolve.
A punch to the shoulder dropped one.
A sweep sent another crashing down.
A shove pinned a third against a crate, breath knocked clean out of him.
They weren't weak.
He was just… heavier.
They fought back—desperation replacing bravado—but every failed strike fed the same loop. Every glance, every whispered what is he, pressed the air tighter around them.
Shinwa felt it clearly now.
They were deciding who he was.
And that decision carried weight.
The last man fell to his knees, hands shaking.
"P-please," he said. "We're done. We're done."
Shinwa stopped.
His chest rose and fell steadily. His muscles burned—not from exhaustion, but from restraint. The pressure inside him urged forward, insistent, asking for a conclusion.
End it.
Make it final.
Shinwa clenched his fists.
He looked at them—groaning, terrified, human.
His hands shook.
"No," he said, voice low, steady. "Get out."
They didn't argue.
They ran.
Footsteps scattered into the night, fear carrying them faster than courage ever had. The warehouse emptied, leaving Shinwa alone amid the aftermath.
The weight lingered.
He straightened slowly, heart pounding—not from the fight, but from what he'd almost done.
"…I can't," he whispered.
Killing wasn't power.
It was a line.
And once crossed, there would be no pulling the weight back.
As the pressure finally receded, Shinwa leaned against a crate and exhaled.
He felt different.
Not stronger.
Heavier.
Somewhere in the city, stories would start small.
A masked figure.
A silent beating.
A gang that ran without knowing why.
Nothing big.
Nothing important.
But enough.
Shinwa pulled his hood up and disappeared into the night—unaware that with every whispered retelling, the world had taken its first step toward believing in him.