Chapter 8: The Night Awakens (Part 1)
The clock read 10:34 PM. The dim light from the cracked lamp on the table cast a faint glow over the small, dingy room. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Allen tightened the laces of his combat boots. His black Under Armour long-sleeve clung to his lean frame like a second skin, the fabric rippling slightly as he flexed his fingers in the gloves he'd slipped on moments earlier. Combat pants hugged his legs, and a black ski mask rested on the bedside table, ready to conceal his identity.
"Anybody from my old world would've called me a wannabe YN," he muttered under his breath, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He didn't care. There was something undeniably ironic about it—this vigilante costume straight out of a bad action movie—but it got the job done.
He grabbed the wad of cash—$2,000—he'd been stashing away since his arrival. "Praise the system for telling me to hold onto this," he said, tossing the ski mask onto the bed before counting through the bills one last time. The system, as always, remained silent. It had an uncanny way of ignoring him when he wanted a reply. Typical.
With a final glance at the fractured window and the peeling paint on the walls, Allen pulled on the mask, grabbed his cash, and stepped out into the night.
Gotham had a way of showcasing its worst under the cover of darkness. The city's neon lights barely masked the rot and decay that seeped through every crack in its streets. Prostitutes lined the sidewalks, their eyes glazed over as they called out to anyone who looked their way. Junkies shuffled like zombies, some trying to sell needles, others already lost in their high.
Allen kept his head down, his hands tucked into his pockets. The ski mask was pulled up just enough to show his face but still made him look like a potential robber or worse. It was enough to keep the vultures circling but not daring to strike. As he walked, he spotted a bar tucked into the shadows of a crumbling building. The flickering sign above the entrance was barely legible, a single neon letter buzzing faintly in the cold air.
"This looks like the kind of place," Allen muttered to himself, stepping toward the door. The stench of alcohol, sweat, and regret hit him like a freight train as he walked inside. The interior was no better—run-down tables, sagging chairs, and a haze of cigarette smoke that clung to the air like a parasite. A few heads turned his way, their dull eyes sizing him up before returning to their drinks.
Behind the counter stood an old man with a face as wrinkled as the bar's leather stools. He was cleaning a glass with a rag that looked dirtier than the glass itself. His eyes narrowed as Allen approached.
"What the hell are you doing here, kid?" the man asked, his voice rough like gravel.
Allen didn't bother with pleasantries. He reached into his pocket and pulled out $300, slapping the bills onto the counter. The sound of cash hitting wood silenced the low murmur of the bar for a brief moment.
"Cut the crap," Allen said, his voice low but firm. "Take me to the back."
The old man stared at the money, then at Allen, his expression unreadable. After a tense pause, he nodded and motioned for Allen to follow. The back room was a stark contrast to the bar—a small armory of guns, weapons, and tools lined the walls. Everything from handguns to semi-automatic rifles gleamed under the fluorescent light.
"Pick three," the old man said, leaning against the doorway. "That's what your money gets you."
Allen's eyes scanned the room before he turned to the system. "Alright, which of these is made for stealth but hits like a tank?"
A small icon blinked in his vision before the system's robotic voice chimed in: HK VP9 Tactical with a suppressor. Versatile, powerful, and silent.
Allen grabbed the gun, its sleek black frame fitting perfectly in his hand. He also selected a combat knife with a serrated edge and a set of throwing knives. Practical and deadly.
As he turned to leave, the old man spoke up. "How'd you know?"
Allen paused in the doorway, glancing back. "It wasn't hard. Every time someone left this bar, they had a firearm on their hip or in their hand that they didn't have when they came in."
The old man let out a low chuckle as Allen walked away. "Damn kid. Might be time for me to retire."
Back on the streets, Allen kept his hood up and his pace steady. He approached a group of crackheads huddled around a fire burning in a trash can. Their sunken faces turned toward him as he stepped into the dim light.
"I need information," Allen said, pulling out a $10 bill and holding it between his fingers like bait. "Who's running the game around here?"
The addicts exchanged wary glances, their eyes darting from the money to Allen's masked face. One of them, a skinny man with a patchy beard, finally spoke up. "The Bloodfangs. They've been pushing the good stuff all over the city."
Allen's eyes narrowed beneath the mask. "Where can I find them?"
"Why you wanna know?" another addict asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. "You don't look like no crackhead."
Allen smirked, his grip tightening on the suppressed HK VP9 Tactical now tucked into his waistband. "I'm not. I'm here to stop the problem at its source."
Before the man could respond, Allen pulled the trigger. The suppressed shot was little more than a whisper, but the crackhead's body hit the ground with a dull thud. The remaining addicts scattered like cockroaches, their screams echoing into the night.
Allen stood there for a moment, his heart steady as he stared down at the lifeless body. "One down," he muttered, his voice cold. "Time to clean house."
End of Chapter 8: Part 1
(Guys author Michael here the story is going to be a harem of 7-10-15 but dont worry it wont be hornball on hornball it is going to be intresting trust me and on chp 20 i will host a q&a and make a discord comment w if intrested thk you)