Street Knight

Chapter 1 – The First Wave

Eastgate never really slept. It only shifted moods—neon laughter spilling from the clubs uptown, whispers of broken deals in back alleys, the restless groan of cargo cranes down by the docks. But on that night, the air felt wrong. Too still. Too heavy. Capol could sense it in his chest before the first blow was struck.

He stood at Dock Nine, coat collar turned up against the wind rolling off the black water, watching containers stack like tombstones under the floodlights. Vince was to his right, steady as always, built like a wall of iron and silence. Jerry prowled just ahead, his sharp eyes cutting through shadows like a blade. And Julian’s voice came in soft through the comms, a whisper threading the static: “Movement on the north line. Three… no, four figures. They’re coming in tight.”

Capol flexed his grip on the knife strapped to his thigh. Routine nights at the docks usually meant sloppy gangs—drunk punks from Southside, running high on pills, loud and reckless enough to be predictable. Tonight didn’t feel like that. The night carried weight, like a storm gathering out of sight.

The shadows broke.

They didn’t stumble out drunk. They came like soldiers.

Boots struck the asphalt in rhythm. A formation, not a mob. The figures moved with precision, blades already gleaming in the dim light, pistols drawn but controlled. Their approach was silent, too silent, broken only by the faint metallic hiss of suppressed slides locking back into place. It was the kind of silence that had discipline in it, not fear.

Jerry spat low. “These ain’t neighborhood rats.”

Then the first shot cracked. Suppressed or not, it cut the night in half. Vince lunged forward, dragging Capol back just as the round stitched sparks into the steel crate where his head had been. The flare burst skyward a heartbeat later—brilliant red exploding above Dock Nine, spilling blood-colored light over the water. A signal. A declaration. The night had been claimed.

Capol drew his blade, a dark steel edge worn from years of close work, and let the rage settle in his chest. It wasn’t wild—never wild—but focused, controlled, the kind of fury that turned his movements into inevitability. He surged forward, meeting the first wave head-on.

The clash was immediate. The attackers weren’t brawlers. Their stance screamed training: feet planted, movements sharp, covering each other’s angles. The first swung low with a combat knife, a clean arc, not reckless. Capol parried, twisted, and rammed his blade home beneath the man’s ribs, ripping sideways with brutal efficiency. He had no time to savor it—the second was already on him.

Gunfire erupted across the docks. Vince’s shotgun thundered, a concussive blast that sent one attacker flying back against the crate wall. Jerry’s twin pistols barked in rhythm, cutting down another figure who had tried to flank from the shadows. But for every one they dropped, another seemed to step out of the dark.

Julian’s voice hissed in the comm: “Six more inbound. They’re herding you—get clear!”

Capol ducked beneath a s***h, caught the attacker’s wrist, and snapped it against the steel edge of a container with a sickening crack. The blade clattered. Capol drove his own knife into the man’s throat, yanking it free in one practiced motion. Blood sprayed hot across his hand. But even as he pivoted to the next threat, he felt it—the rhythm was wrong. This wasn’t a street fight. It was a strike. And the Knight was their target.

A shadow larger than the rest stepped forward through the chaos, helmet visor catching the flare’s glow. The man carried himself differently, like a wolf among dogs. His knife was long, military-issue, balanced for both slashing and thrusting. His movements were surgical.

Their eyes locked.

Capol surged forward. The leader met him without hesitation.

Steel rang against steel as their knives collided. The man’s grip was tight, his strikes sharp and economical, no wasted motion. Capol parried, countered, pressed, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t cutting down some reckless fool—he was being measured. Tested. Every clash of their blades screamed the same message: I know what you are. I’ve fought your kind before.

The crew battled on around him. Vince roared as he body-checked one attacker, crushing him against the crates before blowing a hole clean through his chest. Jerry ducked and rolled, firing blind but precise, his rounds finding a target even through the smoke. But still, the enemy pressed with that same cold discipline. No taunts. No panic. Just soldiers executing an operation.

Capol feinted left, then slammed his shoulder into the leader’s chest, driving him back against the container wall. He raised his blade high—but the man twisted with shocking speed, ripping a gash across Capol’s shoulder before shoving him off. Pain flared, hot and sharp, but Capol didn’t stumble. He reset his stance, breathing slow. Blood ran down his arm, slick against the handle of his knife. The leader tilted his head just slightly, as though acknowledging the hit. Respect. Or mockery.

Then, as sudden as it began, the soldiers pulled back. A sharp whistle cut the air. The leader disengaged with a final s***h, forcing Capol to block, then melted into the shadows as the rest fell away with him. A withdrawal, not a retreat. Mission complete.

The flare sputtered out overhead. The docks returned to silence, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the drip of blood on steel.

Capol stood among the c*****e, chest heaving, blade still slick. His crew gathered close. Vince’s coat was torn, buckshot casings smoking at his feet. Jerry had blood on his cheek—not his own, though the graze on his arm told him it was close. Julian’s voice carried through the comm, shaky but urgent: “They’re gone. Pulled out clean. This wasn’t about cargo. This was about you.”

Capol wiped his knife on a dead man’s jacket and sheathed it. His gaze drifted toward the black water beyond the docks. Whoever these men were, they weren’t street thugs. They weren’t even freelancers. They were trained, disciplined, and they had come with one purpose: test the Street Knight’s defenses.

And they had survived it.

The safehouse was dim, lit by the flicker of a single bulb swinging overhead. The smell of gun oil clung to the walls. Vince sat at the table, his massive frame a silent guardian, a medical kit already open on the surface. Jerry walked in, his face tight with concern, nursing a graze on his arm with whiskey more than bandages. Capol stood at the window, staring at the city lights beyond the grime-streaked glass. The sharp pain in his shoulder throbbed, a hot reminder of the fight.

"Sit down, Capol," Vince rumbled, his voice low but firm. "Let me see that."

Capol obeyed, sinking into a chair. Vince's hands, so capable and violent just moments ago, were now gentle as he cleaned and tended to the wound. The alcohol on his skin stung, but the physical pain was a distant echo compared to the turmoil in his mind. His mind was elsewhere—still locked on that leader’s visor, that sharp precision. He couldn't shake the image of that brief flash of movement in the alley during the earlier fight—the ghost in the shadows. He had seen a flash of red hair and a familiar way of holding a knife, a style that was unique to only one person he had ever known. A wound that had never truly healed. Pat.

Julian hunched over the terminal, fingers dancing across the keys. Lines of code flickered, maps and signals tracing across the screen. "I pulled their comm frequencies," he said finally, voice taut. "Encrypted, high-grade military. These weren’t gangs. Hell, they weren’t even freelancers. Someone paid for mercs. Trained ones.”

Capol turned. His eyes, dark and unyielding, fixed on Julian. “Who sends mercs into Eastgate?”

Julian hummed. “Someone who wants you dead bad enough to pay for professionals.”

The room fell into silence. Vince finished wrapping the bandage, his movements careful and practiced. Outside, the city pulsed with its usual chaos—sirens in the distance, laughter spilling from a bar two streets over, the occasional gunshot cracking the night. Eastgate kept breathing, as it always did. But inside the safehouse, the weight was undeniable.

This wasn’t the start of another turf scuffle. This was war. And Capol knew, deep in the marrow of his bones, that the first wave had only just crashed. The real storm was coming.