The Sentinel Rises
POV: Third Person → First Person (Silas) → Third Person (Council)
Elsewhere – Unknown Location
Rain whispered against the corrugated steel rooftop of a forgotten warehouse, its steady rhythm the only sound besides distant traffic.
Inside, shadows stretched across a wide, roundtable of tempered glass, surrounded by five figures.
The Council of Five.
Madame Price sat at the head, flawless as always. Her crimson pantsuit was unwrinkled, and her manicured fingers tapped slowly against a gold-rimmed glass.
"The King left us with instructions," she said coolly, eyes narrowed. "We don't call him unless it's out of our hands. And last I checked—" her gaze swept across the table like a scalpel, "—we still have hands."
Deadbolt Darnell snorted and leaned back, balancing his cigar between thick fingers.
"He's testing us," he muttered, smoke curling from his mouth like fog. "This masked freak's been dancing through my arms shipments. Men are whispering now. Thinkin' shadows can punch."
Reeko rested his boots up on the table, flicking ash off his dreadlocked shoulder with lazy arrogance.
"Kid's slick," he said with a shrug, gold teeth flashing in a crooked grin. "But come on—how long's that luck gonna last?"
The Twins didn't lift their eyes. Their fingers clacked away in eerie synchronization on sleek, glowing tablets. One finally spoke, voice flat and technical:
"We've seen six incidents in four districts. Same timing, same method. Non-lethal force."
The other added without looking up,
"Minimal civilian exposure. He avoids cameras... but not phones."
In the far corner, Father Grin exhaled slowly. The smile never left his face—too wide, too still. He leaned forward just enough for the light to catch his pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes.
"He's not just dealing pain," he rasped, tone velvety. "He's preaching."
Price tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.
"And what's his sermon?"
Grin licked his lips before answering.
"Judgment. He's not cleaning the city—he's claiming it."
Silence lingered like smoke.
Then Price spoke again, voice firm, decisive.
"Then we pull him out by the root before he flowers."
Deadbolt cracked his neck as if already preparing for war.
"I've got guys who love digging."
Grin gave a breathy chuckle.
"Let's see if the shadow bleeds."
First Person – Silas
The door creaked behind me as I staggered into my dorm. My hoodie hit the floor before the door clicked shut.
I moved like someone who'd been in a car crash—not from pain, but because my body was confused. My breath was steady. My bones didn't creak. My arms didn't tremble.
But I should've been wrecked.
I opened the fridge, grabbed two beers, twisted them both open without ceremony, and flopped onto the couch like dead weight.
The first bottle didn't last a minute. The second took longer only because I couldn't stop thinking.
This isn't normal. I've been sliced, hit, slammed into a dumpster.
And I'm still moving like nothing happened.
I peeled my shirt off, examining the wound from earlier. It had been deep. Bloody.
Now it was... barely visible. Faint pink. Almost healed.
I stared at it like it owed me an explanation.
Eventually, I passed out with the bottle still dangling in my hand.
I woke up hours later, neck stiff, mouth dry. The room was dim, except for the blue glow of my muted TV screen.
My ribs itched. The bruises? Fading.
Fast.
I rolled off the couch and groaned, then limped to the kitchen and grabbed a bag of frozen peas. Pressed it to my shoulder.
My eyes flicked to the news segment playing quietly.
"...masked vigilante strikes again on Detroit's east side... four suspects hospitalized..."
The footage was shaky, phone-quality. Still, the voiceover continued:
"...vigilante has been linked to seven separate incidents. But now, concerns grow as several copycat vigilantes have been found injured or worse. DPD confirms multiple deaths this week..."
I froze.
Copycats?
The reporter's voice dropped into its fake-serious tone.
"Citizens are urged not to imitate the masked individual. Law enforcement warns that these impersonators have put lives at risk and interfered with active investigations..."
I turned off the TV and stared at the blank screen.
They're copying me. They're dying trying to be me.
And I can't stop it.
I grabbed my laptop, opened a tab, and ordered a high-frequency police scanner.
If I was going to do this right, I needed to know what they knew. Where they were going. When they moved.
I couldn't patrol randomly anymore. It was time to be surgical.
Later That Night – Harper Liquor Mart
The wind scraped dust across the rooftop as I crouched behind a broken AC unit.
Below, three men stumbled through a liquor mart, shouting and waving weapons. One had a pistol. Another a rusted machete. The third just looked high and twitchy.
I exhaled through the mask and dropped down, landing silently between dusty shelves.
They didn't see me until I moved.
"Last chance to walk away," I said, stepping into the flickering aisle light.
The one with the pistol turned, panic in his eyes.
"Yo, what the f—!"
I rushed him.
Shadow armor snapped across my knuckles. Not a blade. Not a spear. Brawling tools. Spiked knuckle busters.
My punch cracked his jaw sideways. He slammed into a shelf, knocked out cold before he hit the floor.
The machete guy lunged. I sidestepped, slashed low with a short shadow blade across his thigh. He screamed and fell.
I didn't stop.
Grabbed his shirt, kneed him in the ribs, spun him, and planted his face into the counter hard enough to break a tooth.
The third guy panicked and bolted toward the freezer aisle.
I raised a hand — formed three throwing needles from my shadow.
Thwap.
One embedded in his calf.
He fell screaming.
"Should've walked," I muttered.
I turned toward the exit — and froze.
Sirens.
Fast.
Then red and blue lights painted the glass.
"DPD! Hands up! DO NOT MOVE!"
I ducked just as a shot shattered a display behind me.
They're not here for the robbers...
I reached into the shadows and blinked to the alley — but I didn't run.
I reappeared right behind one of the officers and swept his legs. As he fell, I spun and slammed an elbow into the other's shoulder, disarming him.
He shouted, swung wildly — I ducked and slammed him into the wall with just enough force to knock him out.
"Don't shoot first next time," I whispered.
And just like that, I was gone again.
Back at the Dorm – Later
I collapsed into the chair, shirt half off, arm bruised, but smiling.
I wasn't exhausted.
Not like before.
I healed faster now. Moved smoother. Felt sharper.
Something inside was changing.
I turned on the TV while holding an ice pack to my ribs — and nearly dropped it when I saw the headline:
"SENTINEL" – VIGILANTE'S NAME REVEALED IN LEAKED VIDEO
It was me.
Phone footage.
The clip captured my voice from earlier — during the beatdown.
"I'm not your ghost."
"I'm your warning."
"I am Sentinel."
I hadn't even realized someone was filming.
Now the whole city knew the name.
Elsewhere – Council Warehouse
The video played on the monitor in front of them.
Madame Price's eyes narrowed.
"He has a name now," she said, almost like an accusation. "He's giving people something to believe in."
Deadbolt blew smoke toward the screen, unimpressed.
"Gonna be real hard to believe in him when his face is being stomped."
Reeko clapped slowly, mock applause echoing.
"Sentinel, huh? Sounds poetic. Might even sound good on a tombstone."
Grin chuckled as he leaned forward, face catching the light.
"Send the strike team. Let's see if he lives up to the name... or dies under it."
The Twins looked up in sync, eerie smiles on their lips.
"Three candidates locked," one said.
"All off-books," said the other.
Madame Price stood, heels clicking sharply against the floor as she turned toward the exit.
"Bring me proof," she said coldly. "And make it messy."