The morning sun cast a golden hue over Atlanta, Georgia, its rays glinting off the towering skyscrapers that pierced the sky. On the rooftop of one such building, a solitary figure stood—a teenage boy with long, jet-black hair cascading down his back, and piercing red eyes that seemed to glow with an inner fire. His attire was a fusion of sleek combat gear and street fashion: a black, form-fitting jacket adorned with white straps wrapping around both sleeves, paired with matching black pants and sturdy boots. A tattoo resembling demonic wings stretched from his forehead down to his chin,
Without hesitation, he stepped off the edge, arms outstretched as he plummeted towards the bustling streets below. With uncanny grace, he landed on both feet, seamlessly blending into the crowd. His movements were languid, almost sluggish, hands buried deep in his pockets. Yet, with deft precision, he pickpocketed unsuspecting pedestrians, accumulating a collection of ten wallets, five phones, and a pack of gum, which he nonchalantly popped into his mouth.
His crimson eyes scanned the crowd until they locked onto his target: Silverfang, a seasoned hero known for his silver fire claws. As Silverfang approached an alleyway, the teen slipped in ahead, donning a sinister mask that concealed his lower face and eyepatch, its design reminiscent of a vampire's visage. He waited in the shadows.
As Silverfang passed, the teen lunged, attempting to cover the hero's mouth. But Silverfang, ever vigilant, countered with a swift backward headbutt, catching the assailant off guard.
"You fucking bastard," the teen snarled, clutching his nose. He reached out, aiming to drain Silverfang's life force, but the hero retaliated, summoning claws of silver fire that slashed through the air.
"I know who you are," Silverfang growled. "You're that villain… Requiem."
Requiem's lips curled into a chilling smile. "And yet, you still walked into my trap."
"Why the 'V' on your victims?" Silverfang demanded. "They're already dead."
With a malevolent grin, Requiem whispered, "Who says I give them the 'V' when they're dead?"
In a flash, he overpowered Silverfang, pinning him face-down. His knee pressed into the hero's neck as his fingers transformed into razor-sharp claws. He carved a 'V' into Silverfang's back, leaning in to murmur, "It stands for 'vermin.'"
Silverfang's muffled cries echoed in the alley, unheard by the oblivious world beyond.
"A hero begging for help?" Requiem mocked. "How poetic."
The distant wail of sirens grew louder.
"Guess our fun's over, Silverfang." With a final, draining touch, Requiem left the hero lifeless, his body desiccated.
Scaling the building with agile parkour, Requiem watched as police discovered the grim scene below. A thought crossed his mind:
"Maybe it's time for some arcade fun."
The streets of Atlanta buzzed with life, cars honking, people chattering, and the smell of street food floating through the air. But Requiem moved like a shadow among them—unnoticed, unaffected. Blood still stained the collar of his jacket, drying in dark streaks that clung to his neck like war paint.
A short walk brought him to a neon-lit building nestled between two convenience stores—the arcade. Its flickering sign buzzed weakly, barely holding onto its life as kids and teens rushed past the doors. Requiem stepped inside.
The inside was bathed in vibrant color. Blue, red, and purple lights pulsed to the beat of electronic music. Rows of game cabinets lined the walls, and a massive claw machine loomed in the corner. Laughter and the sound of buttons being mashed filled the room.
Requiem approached the counter.
"Hey man, how many tokens you want?" the worker asked without looking up.
Requiem smirked beneath his mask, slid a few bills across the counter, and took the tokens. "Enough to kill some time," he said flatly.
He made his way to a zombie shooter game, slamming the coins into the slot. The screen flickered to life, showing waves of undead sprinting across a ruined city. He picked up the plastic gun, gripping it like a real weapon.
As he played, a dark smile crept across his face. Each zombie he gunned down seemed to release something from within him—some weight. He laughed under his breath, then louder, until his laughter mixed with the game's death groans in a haunting symphony.
After several levels, he grew bored. He stepped back, letting the gun dangle from the cord, and wandered toward the snack bar. He sat at a corner booth, alone, the blood on his clothes still unnoticed in the dim light. A worker walked over with a polite smile.
"Can I get you anything else, sir?"
Requiem didn't answer at first. He looked up slowly, red eyes gleaming like coals behind the edge of his hair. His grin widened.
"Yeah," he said darkly. "You."
His hand shot forward, gripping the worker's wrist. Before the boy could scream, Requiem's fingertips glowed with a sickly violet hue. Energy drained from the worker's body in seconds—his skin went pale, eyes hollow, lips trembling. His body dropped with a thud.
Chaos erupted.
People screamed. Chairs fell. Games flickered out as children and adults tried to flee, but Requiem was already moving. He grabbed one by the neck, yanked another by the arm, his claws slicing through the air, his lifeforce-draining touch killing on contact.
"Run faster!" he shouted mockingly. "Let's see how far that courage of yours gets you!"
Some reached the door. Some didn't.
Blood pooled on the tiles. The scent of metal filled the air. Lights shattered above him as he summoned a pulse of energy from his palm, frying the room's power. Darkness flooded the arcade, punctuated by flashes of dying game screens and the eerie glow of his crimson eyes.
When silence finally returned, he stood in the center of the massacre—bodies scattered, some still twitching, most still. Blood soaked his shirt, dripped from his fingers. He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the air.
Then, he turned to a television mounted in the corner, still running on a backup generator. The screen displayed a press conference. A woman stood at the podium—tall, composed, dressed in an all-white combat outfit with sleek fabric that flowed like desert wind. She held a crafted parasol of hardened sand, spinning it lazily on her shoulder. Her white hair shimmered in the afternoon sun, contrasting sharply with the deep blue of her eyes.
Serenity Singe. Hero name: Pyrrhian.
Rank: #1 Hero.
She spoke with the calm of royalty and the fire of vengeance.
"This villain who calls himself Requiem is nothing more than a parasite. A shadow desperate for attention. When I find him—and I will find him—he won't be the same person when I'm done with him."
Requiem's eye twitched. His jaw clenched.
He smacked his teeth. "Now I'm just mad."
He walked to the counter, stepped over a dead worker, and snatched a pack of gum from the shelves, tossing it into his mouth. Without another word, he pushed through the front doors and disappeared into the shadows of the alleyway.
One week passed.
The once-vibrant arcade had become another closed crime scene in Atlanta's growing list of unsolved horrors. News stations couldn't stop talking about the mystery. But Requiem didn't care.
He sat alone in the living room of an abandoned house on the edge of Snellville. The windows were cracked, the air reeked of mold and smoke. Dust drifted lazily through sunbeams slicing in through holes in the roof.
He slouched on a torn, filthy couch, his legs crossed, a Nintendo DS in his hands. The screen flickered as he mindlessly played a pixelated RPG. His stomach rumbled, loud and sharp. He ignored it.
Growling again.
He groaned, tossed the DS aside, and stormed to the kitchen. He flung open the rusted refrigerator door—empty. Just a light bulb and a single cracked bottle of water.
He slammed the door hard enough to shake the floor.
"Nothing. Again."
He leaned against the counter, breathing slowly. That hunger—it wasn't just for food. It was for more. More life. More fear. More power.
Then, something caught his eye. A flyer taped to the fridge. Faded, slightly burned at the corners.
"Authentic Tacos! Just off Lawrenceville Hwy. Spicy. Local. Cheap."
A devilish grin curled on his lips. He plucked the flyer off the door and tucked it into his coat.
"Not that far away…" he muttered, heading for the door.
"Yeah. I think I'll go."