Untitled

Within a few minutes, everything had descended into chaos.

The plan was flawless. The ball would take place in the heart of the city. Nearly every villain and hero of any importance would be there, dressed in their finest clothes, distracted by one another and the spectacle around them. It was a clean diversion - to take the criminals' attention away from what the RPD agents were going to do. A carefully planned operation, thought out by the top detectives and trained agents, Intelligence gathered, plans rewritten and refined until, finally, they had arrived at something close to perfection: Infiltrate Montgomery's corporation, reach the doctor's office, get proof of the power-suppressing drugs being sold through the black market, get out before anyone realized they had ever been there. Simple.

At least, it had been.

The detective stood behind one of the trained agents, watching them work their way through the doctor's office security system. In a few more seconds, the electronic lock would be bypassed.

Then the entire city fell into darkness.

The screen in front of them went black.

The lights vanished.

For one heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then—

Chaos.

Something rocked the entire building. The floor lurched beneath their feet. Somewhere below, glass shattered. A distant explosion was followed by screams, then another, closer impact that sent dust trembling from the ceiling.

Their team scattered.

Villains appeared.

Then heroes.

And within seconds, the building had become a battlefield. Yet only one person seemed to hold everyone's attention.

They felt his power before they truly saw him. A black, sleek suit. Obsidian cape. A bone-white mask covering his face, with only eyes and a little snake-like nostril visible through it.

Him.

It was like some macabre dance to death- heroes and villains in their finest attire tearing into one another. Detective was standing at the top of a staircase, looking down at the superhero losing a battle against the supervillain. And, to their shame, the detective couldn't help but feel fascinated. They observed him and didn't dare to move an inch. He was... if they had to choose one word for it, unintentionally powerful. The superhero was giving everything they had; he wasn't even moving. Only one slender, black-gloved hand shifted; that was all, and somehow, it was enough to keep the superhero on the defensive. It looked effortless. He looked effortless; Almost bored. Then a pipe went through the superhero’s stomach, and they fell to their knees, breathing heavily. Detective's body tensed; they wanted to jump down, pull them away, help them stand, tell them to keep fighting, not to give up.

Supervillain raised one finger.

One of the pipes above him burst open in an instant, its sharp edge pointing downward like a stake meant to kill a vampire. It was over. The fallen superhero's fate seemed decided. The pipe would go straight through their brain and down into their throat—

Detective pulled out their gun.

“Bang.”

The bullet hit his shoulder.

“Bang.”

The abdomen.

“Bang.”

Another shoulder.

“Bang.”

The left leg.

“Bang.”

The right leg.

“Bang.”

The heart.

Through all of this, supervillain merely stumbled back a few steps. He didn't react like a normal human would. Detective's eyebrows scrunched at that thought.

Detective fired six shots from their dear revolver, the one their teammates always made fun of for using such a “Victorian old-fashioned gun”. Whenever they teased them about it, the detective would say that they simply liked the slender handle. The truth was less amusing. The detective hated guns. It was ironic, considering their line of work, but they had always thought of a gun as a soulless weapon—something that could take a life almost before the person holding it had time to comprehend what they had done. That was precisely why they had chosen a revolver over the modern firearms their colleagues carried. Seven chambers. Seven bullets. No endless magazine to empty. Every shot had to be deliberate. They had gone into this job to protect and save people, not to kill them. They didn't shoot unless it was necessary.

And this gun hadn't been fired in months.

Slowly, the bone-white mask turned toward them.

The detective froze. They knew they should run. Right away, but that stare froze them in place.

Supervillain tilted his head slightly to the side, as if memorizing them. Then, suddenly, he turned around. A new group of heroes had appeared. Detective didn't wait to see what would happen; they bolted. They were on the seventeenth floor. They remembered the layout of the building. At the end of the hallway was a door that led to a hidden elevator. From there, they could go down and finally escape this hell. No matter how much they wanted to help, they knew they would be absolutely useless being an ordinary mortal among superheroes and supervillains. It was illogical, and now wasn't the time for the heart to outweigh the mind.

And here they were now, stumbling through dark hallways, sometimes illuminated by the alarming red glow of the lockdown lights. The alarm kept going off unstoppably through all this. They were close to that door, a few more steps and-

“Shit,” the detective swore.

“Shit, shit.”

They turned the handle again and again, but it was to no avail; the doorknob wouldn't budge.

“Fuck!” They slammed their hands on the door. They hadn't thought that even this door would be locked. It didn't make sense; it was for evacuating the building!. These bastards were so fanatical about their filthy cause that they would rather die in this building than make it easier for their enemy to escape.

The detective put their forehead against the door.

Think.

Think.

Think.

“Looking for something?”

The amused and warm voice made the detective shiver. Their eyes snapped open in alarm. They turned around slowly.

Standing a few feet away was the supervillain. There was now blood smeared across the bone-white mask. And in one hand—

A key.

The detective swallowed.

The supervillain raised it slightly.

“Come and get it,” he said, a hint of mockery in his softly spoken words.

Did he really think they were stupid? As soon as they moved, they would probably be beheaded. Or something much worse. Detective didn't move, but neither did supervillain.

Rhythmically, the red emergency lights would illuminate his figure, bathing him in the color of blood, before plunging him back into total darkness. The few seconds of darkness were chilling. The detective couldn't tell whether it was only their imagination, but in those brief, dark moments, it almost seemed as if the only thing that remained visible were his eyes—glowing a deep, unnatural red.

There was little choice left but to play his game. The detective stepped forward. Nothing happened; he continued standing there motionless, his arm outstretched, watching every single movement the detective made. They moved slowly, but still confidently, toward him. They reached out, took the key, and stepped right back toward the door. Supervillain lowered his hand calmly. The detective was confused. He definitely was trying to give them hope before taking it away.

But again, he did nothing. Well detective was going to take every chance they could get. They turned slightly to the side, careful not to completely turn their back on him, and just as they were about to put the key into the lock—

“Before you leave, could you answer one question?” he asked, and though his voice was quiet, it clearly carried through the alarm noise.

Detective felt a noose wrapping around their neck. They turned their eyes back on him and froze. The supervillain was holding a gun, their gun. The very same gun that had been pressed against their hip only seconds ago.

He held it lazily, then he straightened his arm and aimed the gun delicately directly at the detective.

“How many bullets remain?” The supervillain spoke softly.

The detective had fired six shots.

“One,” the detective answered solemnly.

The supervillain tilted his head a little to the side.

“I have been watching you, Detective. You have been quite the persistent thorn at my side. And, rather remarkably, whenever circumstances ought to have claimed you, you have managed to survive.”

A pause.

“I have found myself wondering... precisely how far your luck might carry you,” he said very softly.

“Shall we see?”

Detective realized they were about to participate in their own death.

*Click.*

Detective's eyes fluttered. Then they exhaled, their shoulders sagging with relief. Well, it looked like luck was still on their side.

“Not quite.”

Detective froze.

“You shot me six times. I believe a courtesy of equal measure is only appropriate, do you not?” came an amused voice.

Chaos churned in the detective's stomach. Their heartbeat quickened. Faster. Faster. Panic rose with every beat, crawling up their chest, tightening their throat. Their thoughts began to race, each one crashing into the next.

Six times.

Six times.

They had to survive a gun going off five more times.

*Click.*

Their eyes fluttered again. They swallowed.

*Click.*

*Click.*

The detective didn't flinch this time.

“I have read that humans are capable of forming rather extraordinary attachments to their possessions- even to such things as weapons. Spend enough time in the company of a particular firearm, and one supposedly comes to know it intimately-the weight of it, the sound of it, every little peculiarity. Some can even distinguish one reload from another… can hear, quite instinctively, which chamber shall fire.” Supervillain said quietly.

“Do you believe it, Detective?”

Detective had never been much of a talker. And right now, when their very survival depended on it, words seemed even more inaccessible.

*Click.*

Another reload.

*Click.*

Six.

Done.

The detective slouched back to the door, breathing heavily, putting their weight on it, not taking their eyes off the supervillain. They couldn't believe their luck. They survived; they would go home, see their mom, hug her, tell her about their day, eat her food, watch movies tog-

Another reload.

The detective's body went taut, eyes widened.

You. Piece. Of. Shit!.

The detective's brows drew together in a mournful arch, their expression twisting with pain, as though someone had driven a knife into their stomach and kept turning it.

Then, all at once, their face went still.

The pain vanished behind a blank, unreadable expression, leaving only the fire burning fiercely in their eyes. Their jaw tightened, their features taut with anger, every trace of fear momentarily swallowed by something hotter.

Rage.

The detective looked down at the key in their hand, then slowly lifted their eyes. People always backed away when they saw that look. There was something in their gaze that could make even the bravest of people hesitate. But the supervillain merely stood there.

Still.

Unmoved.

The gun remained pointed at them, the last bullet waiting patiently in the chamber.

They threw it at the supervillain's feet.

“Go. to. Hell.” They snarled the words, low and menacing.

And then—

“Bang.”

The detective's body jerked backward and slammed against the door. Blood streaked across it as they slid down, collapsing like a marionette whose strings had suddenly been cut.

The seventh bullet found home, straight in the heart of its owner.