The voices grow louder, filtering through the maze of junk and shadows towards where I lurk. I move closer, a silent wraith. My years of sneaking through quiet hallways and my own house to avoid my parents' notice pay off now.
"...won't stand for this! You think you can bleed us dry..." A gruff voice, tinged with fear and desperation. It must be the victim, whoever these thugs are shaking down.
Peering around a stack of pallets, my breath catches. The cliche is complete: three cheap goons with bad haircuts crowd a grizzled older man in a worn-out suit. The leader, an ugly brute with a scar snaking across his cheek, flashes a switchblade.
"Final warning, old man. Money, or your store burns, got it?"
Showtime.
I don't hesitate. My lines, honed in front of the bathroom mirror to an embarrassing degree, erupt from me in a booming stage whisper: "Shadows gather when justice falters..."
The effect is instantaneous. The thugs and their victim whirl around, eyes wide with a mix of shock and raw fear. Mission One – the dramatic entrance – is a success.
"Wh-who the hell said that?!" Scarface barks, his bravado replaced by a tremble in his knife-wielding hand.
Prepared for this, I launch myself off the top of the highest pallet. Smoke bombs (homemade, a recipe finetuned through weeks of near-arson in my backyard) billow around me as I descend. It's a ridiculously theatrical touch, but that's the point.
Clad in my meticulously assembled costume – black clothes, a cheap plastic skull mask modified with glowing red LED eyes – I land in a half-crouch. "I am the judgment that lurks unseen...the hand of retribution..."
The words taste sweet, the culmination of years of pent-up fantasy. I can't help but grin beneath my mask. These lowlifes are stunned speechless. The dim lighting, the smoke, and my ridiculous get-up combine to momentarily short-circuit their brains. It's exactly the time I need.
Scarface is the first to recover, his initial shock turning to rage. "What the hell is this, some kinda prank? I'll cut you up, freakshow!"
He charges, more bull than human, switchblade glinting. But years of analyzing fight videos and dissecting martial arts moves have prepared me. I don't have muscles, but I have speed born of adrenaline. I dodge the clumsy slash, twist, and my fist connects with surprising force to his overextended arm.
The yelp of pain is followed by a clatter as the knife bounces across the concrete floor. One down.
The other two thugs are smarter, or at least more cowardly. Instead of rushing in individually, they attempt to flank me. Textbook move from a hundred action movies, and textbook predictable.
My second smoke bomb detonates as they converge, more for the confusion than any real cover. I pivot between the hazy shapes, driving an elbow into one thug's gut. He crumples with a wheeze.
The final one's smarter. He doesn't grapple but circles, eyes darting, probably searching for something makeshift to use as a weapon. Smart, yes, but not smart enough. He never saw what I did when I scouted this dump.
With a calculated stumble, I bait him towards a section of floor I remember is riddled with half-rotten boards. He takes the bait, his charge momentarily turning into a surprised yelp as his foot crashes through the wood, throwing him off balance.
This time, it's my foot that connects with his head, a sharp crack echoing before he collapses in a groaning heap. Three men down, maybe thirty seconds total. My heart pounds, the adrenaline rush both exhilarating and terrifying.
The haze clears, and the grizzled old man is staring at me with wide eyes. "Who...what are you?"
This is the part where I deliver my well-rehearsed speech, the proclamation of the Unsung Overlord. But something stops me. I study the old man: the trembling hands, the sweat beading on his brow, the desperation in his eyes. Suddenly he looks pathetic, not heroic.