The Blowback
POV: First Person (Silas) → Third Person (Whitlock Interlude) → First Person (Silas)
My shoulders were sore, ribs bruised, knuckles aching.
Every step back to campus felt like my legs were moving through wet cement. The sun was dropping behind Detroit's skyline, casting long shadows across the buildings—my shadows. The ones I trusted.
People were gathered in patches along the sidewalk. Some huddled around phones. Others pointed at TV displays inside storefronts. The news anchors were practically shouting over one another.
"The masked vigilante appeared at the height of the robbery..."
"Witnesses say he moved like smoke..."
I kept walking. Head down. Hoodie up.
No one noticed me. Or if they did, no one said anything.
But I noticed the sketches.
Rough police composites shared across social media. Blurry shapes. Generic black hoodie. Masked figure. One of them had a caption that said:
"DARK GHOST: WHO IS DETROIT'S MYSTERY SAVIOR?"
Cute.
Inside, my body pulsed with fatigue. My mind felt like a room full of TV screens on different channels—noise, noise, noise.
When I finally got back to the dorm, Devon and Aimee were waiting in the common area, eyes already on me.
Devon leaned forward from the couch, his tone half-joking, half-not. "Yo, where were you today?"
I tossed my keys on the counter and shrugged. "Out."
"That's helpful," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Real specific."
Aimee crossed her arms. "We texted you like six times. You ghosted the entire day. Then this vigilante shows up downtown and now half the school's acting like Gotham just opened up a branch campus."
I didn't sit. I didn't smile. I didn't pretend.
Instead, I looked them both in the face and said:
"I'm not wasting my time running around like some Netflix reject. I've got real shit to deal with. Sorry I'm not bored like the rest of y'all."
Devon blinked, caught off guard. "Damn. Alright, chill."
Aimee looked away. "You didn't have to be a dick about it."
I grabbed a water bottle and walked to my room without another word.
They'd back off now. That's how you kill suspicion.
Not with lies.
With distance.
Third Person – Sergeant Rena Whitlock, DPD Headquarters
Sergeant Rena Whitlock stood at attention across from her division captain, shoulders squared, voice steady.
"The suspects are in custody or being processed at General Mercy. Four are injured. Two critical. One's already flipped on their safehouse location. Hostages were unharmed."
Captain Lorenzo Reed, a tired man with cold eyes and gray dusting his beard, sat forward in his chair. "And the vigilante?"
"No ID. Masked. Tactical. He didn't engage with civilians or law enforcement. Based on witness statements and footage, he's been active for at least five nights prior."
"Any leads?"
Whitlock paused. "None solid. But he moved like someone trained. Military-adjacent, or at least MMA background. That's not amateur work."
Reed grunted. "And he got away?"
"Slipped through the shadow like air."
The captain stood and walked to the window, hands behind his back. "You think he's a threat?"
"I think he's an X-factor," she said honestly. "He's not robbing. Not killing. But he's escalating situations—and pulling focus from us."
"Fine," Reed said. "Start a file. Open a new case. If he's in our city, I want to know where he sleeps, what he eats, and what side he's on. Sergeant**, you lead the investigation."
Whitlock nodded once. "Understood."
As she left his office, she thought back to the bank.
To the way the shadows had moved around him. Deliberate. Controlled.
He wasn't just hiding. He was navigating.
Who the hell are you?
First Person – Silas
I stared at the wall in my dorm room, back pressed into the mattress, my belt sitting in the drawer beside me.
I hadn't even opened it since I got back.
Part of me wanted to suit up and just run. Let the city eat my noise.
But another part—the smarter one—knew I couldn't keep doing this blind. Every step I took now made ripples. The cops had seen me. The media was circling like vultures.
And somebody out there had taken that fight real personal.
I pulled up a browser tab and searched: "Bank heist downtown vigilante footage."
Nothing direct. Just blurry videos, shaky cellphone clips, over-edited YouTube thumbnails.
Then I closed the tab. Turned off the monitor. Rubbed my eyes.
I wasn't built for fame.
But I wasn't built for silence either.
My phone buzzed.
No contact name.
[Unknown Number]
I opened it.
There was an image.
A still photo. Taken from an angle that wasn't part of the police's perimeter. Not part of the news footage.
It was me.
Standing over one of the downed robbers. Shadows clinging to my fingers. Hood drawn. Mask intact.
But close. Too close.
Caption:
"You are not the only one in the dark."
I froze, my blood turning to ice.
This wasn't from a fan. Or some dumb conspiracy kid.
Whoever took that picture wasn't outside the scene. They were inside it. Close enough to watch without interfering.
I stood suddenly, the air tightening around me.
Someone was tracking me.
Elsewhere — Unknown Location
Several figures sat around a dark table inside a warehouse overlooking the Detroit River. Stacks of weapons lined the walls. Crates. Phones. Cash.
A woman lit a cigarette and spoke low.
"He's cutting too deep too fast. He's messing with the order."
One of the older men nodded. "You think he's freelance?"
Another replied, "Doesn't matter. He's already on the radar."
A different voice, behind them, almost a whisper:
"New York doesn't want noise. Not yet. Not until the drop."
There was silence for a moment.
Then a single sentence:
"Let the King know Detroit might need cleaning."