The dim light from the lone lamp cast long shadows across Cal's cluttered apartment. Maps, articles, and notes were scattered haphazardly on every surface, each piece of paper a clue or a dead end in his relentless search for Henry Mire. Cal leaned back on his worn-out couch, his eyes staring blankly at the television as he absently flipped through channels. The noise was a distraction, a futile attempt to silence the thoughts that had plagued him since the fight with Brutus.
He paused when the screen showed a news report. The anchor's polished voice filled the room.
"In a startling rise of vigilantism, reports indicate multiple unidentified individuals taking the law into their own hands across New York City. The so-called 'Silent Avenger'—"
The screen flashed grainy footage of him, his face masked and body blurred as he fought off a group of thugs in an alley.
"—has been joined by another, more vocal vigilante. This new figure, described as talkative and flashybr, has been spotted in various neighborhoods, stopping street-level crimes. Who are these masked men? And what does this mean for our city?"
Cal's eyes narrowed as the footage switched to a shadowy figure leaping from a fire escape, cracking jokes at a couple of muggers before disarming them with swift, precise movements. The stark contrast between the two was undeniable—where Cal moved silently, methodically, this new vigilante was brash and unrestrained, almost enjoying the chaos.
He felt a strange mixture of emotions—curiosity, frustration, and something else he couldn't quite place. Had his actions inspired this person, or were they just a reckless copycat? Was this their idea of heroism?
He switched off the TV, the sudden silence in the room heavy and oppressive. Cal leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his eyes. His mind drifted back to a different night, a different conversation—Amber standing in his doorway, soaked from the rain, her eyes full of determination.
He glanced at his phone on the coffee table. For a moment, his hand hovered over it, his thumb scrolling to her contact. Amber Finch. The thought of calling her, of dragging her deeper into this mess, made his chest tighten. He could almost hear her voice, teasing and light, masking the seriousness underneath. She had offered to help, to use her abilities to give him an edge in his fight against Henry. And for a while, he'd accepted. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn't afford to put anyone else at risk.
The memory came back to him suddenly, sharp and vivid.
It had been March, just a couple of weeks after the fight with Brutus. There had been a knock on his door, unexpected and jarring in the silence of his small apartment. He'd hesitated before opening it, every muscle tense and ready.
When he did, he found her standing there—a woman, soaked from the rain, her clothes clinging to her shivering frame. Her red hair, plastered to her face, dripped water onto the floor. Her green eyes, wide and intense, locked onto his.
"Hi, you're Caleb Ward, right?"
Cal frowned, his guard immediately up. He didn't know her. Didn't know what she wanted or how she'd found him. "You've got the wrong place," he said, his voice low and guarded. He started to close the door, but she stepped forward, a hand darting out to stop it from shutting completely.
"No, I'm sure it's you," she insisted, her voice steady despite the cold. "I'm not here to hurt you, I promise. I have information you could use."
He narrowed his eyes, the suspicion in his gaze clear. "You think your cover's blown and I'm here to kill you, right?" she said, a small, almost sad smile playing on her lips. "You're wrong. I can prove it."
Cal hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at her hand, still outstretched, and then back to her face. "How?"
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before meeting his gaze again. "You're sad, angry, and worried about your friend and this city. You were just watching the news, wondering if you're inspiring people to do the wrong thing."
His eyes widened, his grip on the door loosening. "You're a telepath."
She nodded, lowering her hand. "Amber Finch," she said softly. "I can't control what I hear, but your thoughts were so clear when I passed by you on the street. You were watching a news report about your nickname, the 'Silent Avenger.' I followed you here because I want to help."
Cal stared at her, his mind racing. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the constant edge he lived on. And yet, there was something about her, something that made him want to believe her.
"I don't want anyone's help," he said, his voice flat.
Amber took a small step back, her eyes searching his face. "I know you don't. But you need it. I've seen what you're up against. You can't do this alone."
Cal's jaw tightened. "I've managed so far."
"I'm not here to get in your way," she insisted. "But I can give you information, help you find things out. You don't have to take on all the risk."
The silence between them stretched, heavy and tense. Cal looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the determination there, the resolve that mirrored his own. It was tempting—so damn tempting—to let someone else shoulder some of the burden, to not be so alone.
But he couldn't do it. Not again.
He shook his head, stepping back and closing the door slightly. "No. I can't let anyone else get hurt."
"Caleb, please—"
"I said no." His voice was firm, final. He saw the hurt flash in her eyes, but he pushed it aside. He couldn't afford to think about that now. He needed to stay focused.
Amber nodded slowly, stepping back. "Alright," she said, her voice quiet. "But if you change your mind… I'm not going anywhere."
With that, she turned and walked away, the sound of her footsteps fading into the distance. Cal closed the door, leaning his forehead against it for a moment. He took a deep breath, his hands clenched into fists.
He couldn't let anyone else get hurt because of him. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.
The memory faded as quickly as it had come, and night followed, the apartment disappearing around him. Cal found himself standing outside a small deli, the neon lights flickering in the darkness. He took a deep breath, his hands in his pockets, and stepped forward.
The front door came off its hinges with a sharp crack, the metal groaning as he tossed it aside. He ignored the shocked cashier, his eyes focused on the door to the back room.
He pushed it open, the scene inside almost comical—four men sat around a table, eating sandwiches and smoking, their laughter dying in their throats as they took in the sight of him. Recognition flashed in their eyes, followed quickly by panic.
Cal moved before they could react. He slammed one man into the wall, his fist driving into his gut, the air rushing out of his lungs in a painful wheeze. Another thug swung a knife at him, the blade slicing through the air. Cal caught his wrist, twisting hard until he heard a sickening crack. The man screamed, the knife clattering to the ground.
A gunshot rang out, the bullet grazing Cal's shoulder as he turned. He didn't flinch, his eyes cold as he closed the distance between him and the shooter. He grabbed the man's arm, wrenching the gun away and slamming his knee into his stomach. The thug crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath.
The last man standing backed away, his hands raised in surrender. "Please, man, don't—"
"How did you find us?" another thug wheezed from the floor, blood trickling from his mouth. His eyes were wide with fear, his voice trembling.
Cal ignored him, his gaze shifting to a heavy door at the back of the room. The sign above it read "Cold Storage." He strode over, his pulse steady, and yanked the door open.
The cold air hit him first, a sharp, icy blast that made his breath fog. The room was dimly lit, the overhead lights casting an eerie glow over the hanging slabs of meat. He stepped inside, his boots echoing on the concrete floor.