Reggie stole a badly beaten arms dealers motorbike and rode through the quiet streets of East Nashville at dusk, the engine a low growl under him. The mask was on, hood up, bat strapped tight across his back. Lightning hummed steady in his veins — Tier 3 now, not wild anymore. Controlled. He could feel it waiting, like a coiled fist.
The ledger had given him a new name two nights ago.
A name that made his stomach turn.
**Corrupt official. Caseworker. Linked to Reggie’s old orphanage.**
He’d watched the man for three days. Routine like clockwork: left his office at 5:30 p.m., drove a silver sedan home to a quiet suburb, worked late in his study with the blinds half-open. Reggie had seen the files on the desk through binoculars. Old records. Names. Dates.
He parked two blocks away. Walked the rest. Hood up. Hands in pockets.
The house was dark except for the study light. Reggie slipped around the side. Found the back door. Lock picked in under thirty seconds — practice from the last few weeks.
Inside.
Quiet.
He moved through the kitchen. Down the hall. Study door ajar.
The official was there — mid-fifties, balding, glasses, hunched over papers.
Reggie stepped in.
The man looked up.
Reggie didn’t speak.
He crossed the room in three strides. Bat already swinging low. Connected with the man’s knee. Bone cracked. The official screamed, dropped to the floor.
Reggie pinned him with a boot to the chest. Mask inches from his face.
“Files,” Reggie said. Voice low. Calm.
The man whimpered. Pointed to a locked drawer.
Reggie dragged him over. Made him open it. Thick folder. Old case numbers. Missing persons reports. Reggie’s name — Reggie Washington-Banks — circled in red.
He took the folder. Flipped through.
Missing at age four.
Reported by parents — Native mother, African American father.
Appeals. Protests. Court hearings.
Then silence.
After two years: presumed dead.
Reggie stared at the words.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
If he had never run away…
If he had stayed…
They would have found him.
They fought for him.
They thought he was dead.
He thought they didn’t want him.
The lie hit him harder than any belt, any cigarette burn, any fist to the ribs.
He staggered back. Folder slipped from his fingers. Papers scattered.
The official tried to crawl away.
Reggie didn’t see him.
He sank to his knees.
Tears came then — hot, sudden, burning. First time since he was seven. First time ever in front of anyone. He didn’t sob. Didn’t wail. Just let them fall. Silent. Heavy. Lightning arced from his tears, blue-white, dancing across the floor.
The pain was deeper than Kenji’s death. Deeper than the fire. Deeper than any blade.
They wanted him.
They fought for him.
And he ran.
He ran from the only people who ever tried to save him.
The lightning surged.
Not wild. Not uncontrolled.
Stronger.
Arcs thicker. Pressure waves rolling off him. Atmospheric pull — the air itself felt heavy, charged. The bulb overhead flickered, then exploded.
Tier 3 became something more.
He clenched his fists. Lightning coiled around his arms like living veins.
The official was crawling toward the door.
Reggie looked at him.
Stood.
Picked up the folder.
Walked out.
Left the man alive.
He rode home in the dark.
Shed waiting. Roof solid. Futon made.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Folder in his lap.
Read every page again.
Then he cried again.
Quiet.
Until there was nothing left.
Then he stood.
Mask on the crate. Steel bat charged. Necklace glowing faintly.
He touched the beads.
“They didn’t just take me,” he said to the empty room.
“They took everything.”
Outside, the night was quiet.
Then the air shifted.
Wings.
Major K was back.
Reggie heard the glide before he saw it — low, fast, wings spread wide. AK-47 already raised.
Bullets tore through the shed wall.
Reggie dove.
Wood splintered. Glass shattered.
He rolled. Came up. Bat in hand.
Major K landed in the yard. Wings folding. Yellow eyes glowing.
Reggie didn’t run.
He had a plan.
He sprinted toward the sewer grate at the edge of the property — the same one from last time.
Major K followed.
Reggie dropped through. Landed in ankle-deep water.
K dropped in after him.
The tunnel was dark. Wet. Echoing.
Reggie ran.
Major K chased.
Reggie turned into a large chamber — open space, sealed exits, old maintenance area.
He stopped.
Turned.
Major K was there. Talons clicking. Wings half-spread.
Reggie reached into his coat.
Nine bottles of cologne and perfume. Bags of ground pepper.
He smashed the first bottle against the wall.
Strong floral scent exploded.
Then another.
And another.
Nine different scents flooded the space — cloying, overpowering, conflicting.
Then the pepper.
Clouds of it. Thick. Choking.
Major K froze.
Nostrils flared.
Forked tongue flicked.
He staggered.
Couldn’t smell.
Couldn’t taste the air.
Couldn’t track.
Reggie stepped forward.
Bat raised.
Lightning crackled.
Major K roared — rage, frustration.
Reggie swung.
Deadline Swing.
Bat connected with K’s chest. Lightning exploded inward.
Major K staggered back.
Reggie didn’t stop.
Another swing.
Another.
K tried to lunge.
Reggie sidestepped. Bat to the knee.
K dropped.
Reggie stood over him.
Mask inches from K’s face.
“You’re just a virus,” Reggie said. Voice low. Calm.
Major K snarled.
Reggie turned.
Walked away.
Left K in the chamber.
Blind.
Lost.
Disoriented.
Reggie climbed out of the sewer.
Rode home.
The shed was waiting.
Roof solid.
Door closed.
He stepped inside.
Locked it.
Sat on the futon.
Pulled the mask off.
Looked at the necklace.
“They didn’t just take me,” he whispered.
“They took everything.”
He clenched his fist.
Lightning surged — stronger than before.
Tier 3 had become something more.
He smiled under the mask.
“I’m not running anymore.”
Outside, a distant howl.
Major K was still out there.
Reggie looked at the door.
“Come get me.”
