Street Knight

The city never really slept. It only pretended. Behind the glow of streetlights and the music drifting from cracked windows, Eastgate was a wolf, waiting for the moment you looked away. Capol knew that better than anyone. Once, he was just the restless kid with quick fists and quicker jokes, a loyal brother in Jerry’s crew. But wars carve men into something harder. And when the smoke cleared, they called him the Knight. Some in respect. Most in fear. Peace didn’t soften him. It sharpened him. Every quiet night was just a pause before the storm. A crown made of power always sits on a head full of ghosts. He found his quiet on the rooftop of the old mill, the same place where they had won their final, bloody battle. The night air was heavy with the scent of oil and decay, but to him, it smelled like home. Below, the narrow streets were a maze of flickering streetlights and crumbling facades. This was his city. His charge. Then a scream tore through the silence. It was not the sound of a fender bender or a late-night brawl. This was the scream of true terror. It was a sound he hadn't heard in five years. A sound he knew in his bones meant the war had come back for them all. He moved to the edge of the roof, his muscles coiling, his body a weapon of honed instinct. He scanned the street below, searching for the source of the cry. His eyes, once quick with a joke, were now quick with a predator's hunger. Two blocks over, a woman was being dragged from a storefront. She was screaming, but a man—tall, with the cruel grace of a predator—put a hand over her mouth. The street was empty. No one else was coming. No one else would dare. Capol’s blood turned to fire. His code was simple: You don't touch the people. He didn't have time to call for backup. He didn't have time to wait for Vince or consult Jerry. He was the Knight, and this was his moment to prove that the peace was not a lie. He took a running leap, a dark shadow launching himself from the roof, landing with a jarring impact on the fire escape below. He slid down the rusty rails, a blur of motion in the night, his heart a furious drumbeat against his ribs. He hit the ground, and the two men looked up, their eyes widening in shock. Capol didn't waste a second. He was a force of nature, a silent fury unleashed. His first punch was a blur of motion, a thunderous crack that broke a jaw and sent the man flying. But as he turned to face the second attacker, a glint of steel in the man’s hand, his eyes caught on something else. A flicker of movement in the alley across the street. A ghost in the shadows. He saw it for just a half-second: the flash of red hair in the streetlights, a familiar way of holding a knife. He froze. No—it couldn’t be. But the flash of red hair was undeniable. Pat. The name screamed in his mind, and in that moment of distraction, the second attacker’s knife slid home. Not deep, but a searing, agonizing gash across his forearm. Capol roared in pain and fury. He lashed out, a brutal, unthinking counter-strike that drove the man's head into the brick wall. The fight was over. The woman was safe. But the world had just broken. He stood there, panting, the warm blood flowing freely down his arm. He looked at the alley where the ghost had been. It was empty now. He was alone. He had won the fight. He had saved the woman. But the cost was higher than he could have ever imagined. The quiet was gone. The lie was exposed. His past had come back for him, and it was going to bleed him dry. The war had begun again.