Ethan Carter pulled the collar of his jacket tighter against the wind as he trudged up the steps of the old brownstone. The city was alive around him—horns blaring, voices shouting, neon signs flickering in the misty rain. Arcadia never slept, but tonight it felt heavier, quieter.

He unlocked the front door and stepped into the dark apartment. The familiar creak of the floorboards greeted him as he dropped his delivery bag onto the counter. His mother's chair by the window was empty now, but he still caught himself glancing toward it, half expecting to see her hunched over a book, her glasses sliding down her nose.

Margaret Carter had been gone for three weeks. Three weeks of silence where her voice used to be. Three weeks of avoiding the stack of envelopes on the counter. One envelope in particular had his name scrawled across it in her unmistakable handwriting.

Ethan ran his fingers through his rain-damp hair, staring at the letter like it might bite him. He had avoided it since the funeral, but tonight, something pushed him to reach for it.

He sat at the small kitchen table, the envelope trembling in his hands. With a deep breath, he tore it open and pulled out a single folded sheet of paper.

> My dearest Ethan,

If you're reading this, it means I'm no longer there to guide you, to protect you, or to tell you how proud I am of the man you've become. I'm sorry, Ethan. Sorry for the secrets I've kept, for the burdens I now place on your shoulders. But you deserve to know the truth.

Ethan's brow furrowed as he read on.

> I am The Nightshadow. For over twenty years, I fought for this city, for the people who had no one else to stand up for them. It wasn't an easy life, but it was a necessary one. And now, Ethan, I must pass this responsibility to you.

He stopped reading, his chest tightening. This had to be some kind of sick joke. The Nightshadow? The city's mythic vigilante? His mom?

But the journal she mentioned was real. He had found it tucked under her bed after she passed, filled with names, dates, and hand-drawn maps of the city. He had dismissed it as some eccentric hobby, a relic of her past.

He looked back at the letter, his pulse quickening.

> You may not feel ready. I didn't either, when I first donned the mask. But the city needs The Nightshadow, now more than ever. They need someone willing to fight for them. Someone who sees their pain and won't turn away.

> I know you're scared, Ethan. That's good—it means you care. But don't let fear stop you. You are stronger than you think, and I believe in you. Always.

> I've left everything you'll need in the storage unit at 10th and Main. Go there when you're ready. And remember, you're not alone. Marcus can help you, just as he helped me.

> I love you, Ethan. Never forget that.

—Mom

The letter slipped from his fingers as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

"This has to be some kind of mistake," he muttered to himself. But deep down, he knew it wasn't. He had always sensed there was more to his mother than met the eye.

Ethan sat there for a long time, the city noise buzzing faintly through the cracked windows. He wanted to burn the letter, to crumple it up and pretend he had never read it. But the weight of her words held him still.

Finally, he grabbed his coat.

"10th and Main," he whispered.

If this was some bizarre game, he needed to see it through. If it wasn't...well, he'd cross that bridge when he got there.