First Strike, First Stain
799 Words
Alex didn’t plan to stop the mugging.
He was just passing by, hoodie on, hands in pockets, heading home with a bag of half-priced garlic knots. His mind was elsewhere—replaying the old man’s words, Vic’s grin, and the sound of gravel cracking beneath his own feet.
Then he heard it.
A woman’s scream. Sharp. Real.
His body moved before his brain could argue.
He turned the corner and saw them—two men, maybe late twenties, jackets too clean for real street rats. One of them had a knife. The woman was on the ground, clutching her bag.
“Back off, man!” one shouted when he saw Alex.
But Alex didn’t stop walking.
He didn’t run.
He just walked toward them like it was inevitable.
“Buddy, I said BACK OFF!”
Alex’s eyes locked on the knife. His breathing slowed. His left hand brushed his sleeve — not for a weapon, just to calm himself.
Then—
In one motion, he stepped in, twisted the man’s wrist, and slammed him against the wall.
The other ran.
The woman stared, frozen.
Alex didn’t say a word. He looked at her, nodded once, then vanished down the street before sirens could arrive.
He didn’t smile.
But deep inside, something did.
The Ripple Begins
“You broke his wrist,” the old man said, sipping from a chipped tea cup like it was fine wine.
Alex said nothing. His knuckles were still red. Not from the strike—but from clenching too tightly after.
“It was clean. Controlled. Good instinct. Poor timing.”
Alex finally looked up. “Why poor timing?”
“Because the city just woke up.”
The old man tossed a cheap phone onto the table. On the screen, a shaky amateur video was playing—grainy, dark, but clear enough. A figure in a hoodie. A twist. A slam. A shadow walking away like nothing happened.
No face.
But definitely a message.
Alex stared. “Someone filmed that?”
“Of course. The city always watches.”
The old man leaned in. “You want to be a ghost, you need to learn one thing: ghosts don’t leave bruises.”
Alex frowned.
“But I didn’t kill him.”
“Doesn’t matter. You made a ripple. And ripples turn into waves.”
He lit his pipe, eyes narrowing.
“And waves attract sharks.”
Hero or Hazard?
Pro Reactions:
“Finally! Someone stood up to those street rats!”
– Middle-aged bakery owner, local news interview
“He didn’t even hurt the woman. Just stopped the guy and left. That’s control.”
– Anonymous Reddit user
“If the cops won’t do their job, maybe we need more men like him.”
– Taxi driver call-in radio
“I don’t care who he is. He made me feel safe walking home last night.”
– College student
Con Reactions:
“Vigilantes create chaos. Next time it might be a bullet instead of a wrist twist.”
– Police spokesperson
“This is how psychopaths start. One broken bone today, mass murder tomorrow.”
– Clinical psychologist
“The man’s dangerous. If he hides his face, he’s hiding more than just his name.”
– Community activist
“You want justice? Follow the law. Not hooded shadows.”
– Local politician
💬 Criminal Underworld:
“Someone thinks he’s a hero? Cute. Let’s see how long he stays alive.”
– Message intercepted from local gang chat
“We don’t like ghosts. Especially the kind that touch our business.”
– Unverified whisper from a street enforcer
No Turning Back
Alex sat on the rooftop above his pizza shop, legs crossed, eyes watching the city lights flicker like dying stars.
It should’ve felt peaceful.
But his heart was a clenched fist.
He had watched the viral clip over and over. Not out of pride—out of paranoia. Every time he saw himself walk away, he asked the same question:
“Did anyone see too much?”
Behind him, the old man appeared, as if summoned by doubt itself.
“You look like someone waiting for a bullet,” he said.
“I feel like one,” Alex muttered.
The old man sat beside him, lighting his pipe. “This is the part you don’t prepare for. When silence starts to feel like a trap.”
Alex looked at him. “I thought the training would make me calm.”
“No,” the old man said. “The training makes you dangerous. Calm... that comes after blood.”
Below, a car slowed in front of the pizza shop. No lights. No music. Just... stillness.
Alex’s eyes narrowed.
“Someone’s watching,” he whispered.
The old man didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
___
- Writer
