>News Anchor 1 (voiceover):
"Still no confirmation on the identity of the so-called 'Hooded Phantom' seen disrupting multiple gang operations across West Hightower District—"
> News Anchor 2 (voiceover):
"Some call him a hero. Others say he's just another dangerous vigilante setting cars—and criminals—on fire."
> Police Commissioner (press conference):
"We do not condone vigilante justice. Whoever this is, they're obstructing real investigations and escalating city violence. We advise them to stop before someone gets seriously hurt."
Quick shots roll across the screen:
A hooded figure dropping from a fire escape, cloak catching fire midair before he lands hard.
Muggers screaming as green smoke bursts in their faces.
A low-quality video clip of someone throwing a flaming trash can through a gang hideout window, then flipping them off mid-explosion.
> Vlogger (YouTube clip):
"Bro is literally the Hot Cheeto Batman out here."
...Rooftop Watch
High above the city, Mason crouches on the edge of a derelict building. Wind howls past. His hoodie is ripped at the hem, jeans bloodstained, boots scavenged.
He's listening to a battered police radio scanner, barely holding together with duct tape and wires.
He takes a bite of an energy bar, eyes scanning the skyline.
Radio Static:
> "Unit 6—be advised, stolen delivery van heading north on Kingsmill, possible syndicate link."
Mason mutters, voice gravelly, laced with disgust:
"Maybe if the government spent less time complaining about me and more time doing their damn job..."
He stands. The wind lifts his hood like a cape. Green energy pulses faintly in his veins.
Then he leaps.
...
Three stolen vans speed through the industrial sector.
A gang of armed men—tattoos, ski masks, thick Russian accents—chatter inside, laughing about the ease of the job.
Suddenly, one of them notices something strange.
Gangster 1 (Russian):
> "Where's Vlad?"
They check the back of the van.
No sign of him.
Suddenly the driver slams the brakes—he sees a body hanging from a light post, arms zip-tied and gently swaying.
Gangster 2 (yelling):
> "Чёрт! (Shit!) Something's wrong—check in, NOW!"
More of them disappear—one yanked into the shadows, another dragged screaming under the van.
Then a distant whistle. A mocking tune. Like someone not taking this seriously.
A voice rings from the top of the middle van:
"You guys ever consider stealing something smaller? Like a conscience?"
Gangster 3 (Russian):
> "Сука! LIGHT HIM UP!"
Gunfire erupts. Sparks fly. The top of the van bursts with flame—
But Mason is gone.
He reappears behind them in a swirl of smoke, punching one through a window, using a tire iron like a boomerang, setting a rifle on fire mid-shot.
All while muttering sarcastic quips like:
"That's for calling me Hot Mess on Twitter."
"Ooh, nice shot. For a blind donkey."
"I was this close to going home and watching crime documentaries... now I am one."
...
One man is left. Bloody, terrified, backing into a metal crate.
Mason approaches slowly, eyes glowing faintly under the hoodie.
Mason:
> "Let's keep this simple. Who's behind the shipment?"
Gangster:
> "Пошёл ты. (F*** you.)"
Mason sighs, almost disappointed.
"Wrong answer."
He slices the man's tongue with a searing blade of flame. The scream echoes down the docks.
Mason doesn't flinch. He grabs the man, slams him into a van hood, then flings him into a metal container door.
It flies open—
Quinn tumbles out, tied up, bruised, eyes wide.
A lean young man, late twenties, suit torn, lip swollen. Hands zip-tied. Eyes alert despite the bruises.
He blinked up at Mason, coughing.
"Okay. Not to be ungrateful," he rasped, "but holy hell—are you always this dramatic, or is this just, like… your Tuesday?"
Mason's eyes narrowed. "Who the hell are you?"
The guy—Quinn—grinned despite the pain.
"I'm the reason they hijacked that van. I've been poking too many crime networks in the eye. Guess they finally poked back."
He glanced around at the charred vans and unconscious bodies.
"But clearly… I wasn't the only one poking the bear."
Mason silently cut the zip ties, still tense. He turned to leave.
Then—
"Hey." Quinn's voice dropped, serious now. "You wanna know who's really behind all this? The people pulling strings? The ones making metas in backrooms and selling kids like lab rats?"
Mason froze.
Quinn continued, voice low. "I know things. Names. Faces. Experiments. One word: Ash Fall."
A pause. The wind howled through the wreckage.
"You need to see this," Quinn added. "Come with me. Or keep running solo and end up another dead hoodie on the news."
Mason looked at him, unsure.
Then, reluctantly—
He followed.
...
It was thirty minutes later when they slipped through the back of a derelict bookstore in South Metro.
Quinn typed a code into an old vending machine.
Click. Whirrr. The wall behind it split open like a steel iris.
Mason blinked.
"Okay. Either I'm hallucinating, or you just Narnia'd me into a Bond villain's man cave."
They stepped into a concrete elevator that descended fast and deep.
When the doors opened, Mason stepped into another world.
An underground tech haven.
Holographic displays hovered in the air. Massive monitors lit the walls. Workbenches cluttered with gear, scanners, drones, wires. Glass walls showed server cores pulsing like alien organs.
A nerdy woman in her twenties looked up from a keyboard.
"Oh. He's hotter than the last one. And not in the fire way."
Quinn waved dismissively. "Mason, meet Sky. Our systems analyst, hacker, coffee hoarder."
Another figure rolled in—mid-forties, muscular, robotic arm gleaming.
"This is Cal. Ex-military. Security and field gear."
Cal raised an eyebrow. "So you're the guy lighting dumpsters on fire. Thought you'd be taller."
"And this," Quinn added, swiping a tablet, "is my house."
Mason squinted. "You… live here?"
Quinn smirked, tossing him a chilled bottle of water.
"I own here. I own the whole damn block."
"…What?"
"Tech patents. Inheritance. Crypto in 2011. Long story. Short version? I'm rich. I'm bored. And I hate bullies."
He tapped a screen.
A wall shifted, revealing photos of city officials, gang leaders, lab sites. Arrows, strings, red markers.
The header read:
ASH FALL – Meta-Human Exploitation Initiative
"This is what they're building," Quinn said grimly. "A controlled outbreak. Creating metas. Selling the ones they can use. Erasing the ones they can't."
He turned to Mason.
"You've been burning symptoms. I'm after the cause."
A long silence.
Mason leaned back against the glass.
"Okay… say I believe you."
"You do."
"Then what? You want me to join some wanna be Justice League?"
Sky raised a hand. "We prefer Outlaws Anonymous."
Quinn stepped closer. "I don't want you to be a hero. I want you to be the fuse."
Mason's hand flickered green again.
"Okay, let's say..yy ..."…I'm listening."