The mirror was cracked, a web of jagged lines splitting Cal's reflection into pieces. He stood in front of it, shirtless, his breath visible in the cold air of the bathroom. The light above flickered weakly, casting the grime-covered walls in a sickly yellow glow. The floor beneath his boots was slick with dirt and moisture, a combination of condensation and the slow decay of a place long abandoned. The docks had plenty of spots like this—forgotten corners of the city where no one bothered to look, no one cared to clean.
Cal grimaced as he peeled off his mask—a winter head cover with nothing but two ragged eye holes cut into it. It wasn't much, but it had done the job so far, hiding his face as he moved through the streets. He tossed it onto the cracked porcelain sink, watching it land with a soft, wet slap. His jacket and shirt had been discarded earlier, both torn and stained with blood—his and theirs.
He looked down at his chest, where the first bullet pushed its way out, the metal glistening briefly before falling to the floor with a soft clink. A second followed, then a third, each one squeezed out by the slow, relentless pressure of his healing factor. The wounds they left behind were already closing, the skin bringing itself back together as if it had never been touched.
The healing was always slower when he was this cold, this tired. But it was still faster than anything human. He could feel the pain, sharp and hot for a moment, before it dulled into the familiar ache of his body repairing itself. Cal let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping as the adrenaline from the fight began to fade.
The arms deal had gone south fast. He'd known it was a trap the second he saw the second van pull up, but by then, it was too late. There were at least a dozen of them, all armed, all ready to kill.
His knuckles were bruised, though the pain was already fading. His ribs still ached where one of the men had caught him with a shotgun blast at close range. He could still feel the cold metal of the bullets lodged deep in his chest and arms, the dull pressure as his body forced them out. The skin around the wounds was pink, fresh, almost fragile-looking, but it wouldn't be long before even that faded.
He ran a hand through his dark, damp curls, feeling the familiar weight of exhaustion settling over him. The mirror flickered again, casting his face in shadow for a moment. Dark circles hung under his piercing blue eyes, and his skin looked paler than usual, as though the constant strain of healing was wearing him thin.
It wasn't just his body that felt heavy. It was everything—the weight of the last two months, the constant fights, the endless cycle of pain and healing. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep this up. But what else was there for him? His mind wandered to thoughts of being a tried and true super hero, a real life Spider-Man or Daredevil. Though he still didn't feel like a hero. He felt like he was doing this with no real objective, no real sense of heroism in his actions, only pure violence. Like a tornado, violent winds tearing and lashing out at anything in his way.
He straightened up, rolling his shoulders as his muscles stretched and loosened, the last of the bullets finally forced out of his body. The wounds had fully healed now, leaving only the faintest memory of pain behind.
Cal reached for his shirt, damp and torn but still serviceable. He pulled it over his head, followed by his jacket, both clinging to his skin in the cold. He grabbed the mask from the sink, stuffing it into his pocket as he turned to leave.
The bathroom was quiet now, save for the slow drip of water from a leaking pipe somewhere in the corner. Outside, the wind howled through the narrow streets near the docks, carrying with it the smell of salt and decay. The fight was over for now, but the city was never quiet for long.
Cal walked out of the bathroom, pulling his collar up against the chill, already bracing himself for whatever came next.
The wind bit sharply at Cal's face as he stepped out into the night. It was still just past midnight, but the streets were quiet, muffled by the falling snow. The docks were always like this at night—empty, cold, forgotten. But even in the stillness, the city's darker currents kept flowing beneath the surface.
Cal moved through the narrow streets with a practiced ease, his boots crunching softly against the fresh layer of snow. His jacket clung to him, torn and blood-stained, but the darkness and swirling snow hid it well enough, perhaps nobody would've noticed regardless. He kept his head low, pulling his collar tighter around his neck as the cold crept deeper into his skin down to his bones.
As he neared the main roads, he could see them—the flicker of movement in the shadows, the brief flash of a lighter, the soft exchange of words carried on the wind. A drug deal. Small-time, but unmistakable. Cal's eyes flicked toward the group, barely illuminated by a distant streetlight. They didn't notice him, or if they did, they didn't care. To them, he was just another shadow passing through the night.
But this time, Cal didn't walk by. He slowed his steps, keeping his distance, eyes narrowing on the man he assumed was the dealer. The man made a quick exchange with his customers, his movements easy, casual. This wasn't his first deal. Cal could tell. The dealer slipped something into his coat pocket and started walking in the opposite direction, down the street, away from the docks.
Cal followed.
He kept his distance, careful not to draw attention. The snow was a perfect cover, swirling in thick sheets that blurred the edges of the streetlights and cast everything in a soft, muted glow. The dealer moved quickly, head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he navigated the narrow streets with familiarity.
Cal kept pace, watching as the man turned down a side street, then another, before stopping in front of a worn, aging apartment building. Cal hung back, just close enough to see through the dirty glass door as the man stepped inside. He watched, breath slow and measured, as the dealer pulled out a key and opened a door on the very first floor, just in view of the front entrance underneath the stairs leading up.
The door swung open, revealing a room lit by the harsh glow of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Inside, a group of men sat around a table, playing cards, laughing. Smoke billowed out of the room, thick and heavy, and the scent of cigarettes and something stronger drifted through the air.
Cal's eyes narrowed as he watched the dealer join the group. Laughter echoed from the room, and the sound of cards shuffling filled the air. This was it. A source of filth. The building wasn't some rundown, forgotten spot. It was here, right under his nose, and only a few blocks from where he lived.
The weight of it sank in slowly. He had been cleaning up the city, fighting crime wherever he found it, but he had never thought to look this close to home. And now, staring through the glass at the men inside, Cal realized there was a network of criminals much closer than he ever imagined.
He wasn't going home tonight.
Cal watched through the grimy window as the laughter and smoke continued to fill the room. His breath fogged the glass as he leaned closer, eyes narrowing on the group inside. His muscles tensed, his pulse quickening. There was a part of him—small but nagging—that knew what he should do. He should watch, wait, gather information, maybe follow the dealer further. But that voice was drowned out by the heat in his chest, the same heat that drove him into every fight he'd been in since he discovered what he could do.
He wasn't built for patience. He was built for action.
Before he could second-guess himself, Cal moved. His hand gripped the rusted door handle, and with a sharp twist and a grunt, the metal snapped, the door swinging open with a loud crack. The sound echoed down the empty hallway, but Cal didn't care. His breath came in hard, cold bursts as he stepped into the building, boots clomping against the worn floorboards.
The men inside the room went silent the moment they heard the door break. One opened the door. The dealer turned, his eyes widening as he saw Cal standing in the doorway. Smoke still curled from the cigarette between his lips, but his hand moved instinctively toward his waistband.
Cal didn't wait. He charged.
The first man barely had time to draw his gun, firing a shot that wizzed past Cal's right hip. Cal was on him, grabbing the barrel and twisting it out of his hand with a brutal snap. The man yelped in pain, stumbling back, clutching his wrist, but Cal's fist was already flying toward him, connecting with his jaw and sending him crashing into the table. Cards and chips scattered across the floor.
Two more men stood up, one of them brandishing a knife, the other pulling a pistol from his coat. Cal's heart pounded in his ears as he ducked the first shot, the bullet splintering the doorframe behind him. The knife-wielder lunged, but Cal sidestepped easily, grabbing the man's arm and slamming it against the wall. The knife clattered to the ground, and Cal drove his knee into the man's ribs, feeling the crunch of bone beneath his strike.
The others didn't move. They froze, some with their hands up, others cowering behind the overturned table. But Cal didn't stop. His fists flew, connecting with flesh and bone, until every man who had raised a weapon was down, groaning or unconscious.
He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as he stood in the center of the room. The heavy stench of smoke, sweat, and blood filled the air. His knuckles were sore, the skin split from the impact of each punch, but the dull ache in his hands barely registered. His body was already working to repair the damage.
Most of them hadn't even fought back.
Cal's breath slowed as he looked around. The room was a mess of toppled chairs, broken bottles, and scattered cards. The men who hadn't raised a weapon were sitting in stunned silence, fear written across their faces. One of them, the dealer he'd followed, was trembling, his back pressed against the wall.
Cal could feel the adrenaline still surging through him, but the heat in his chest began to cool. His eyes flicked to the dealer, narrowing. He stepped forward, grabbing the man by the collar and pulling him up to his feet.
"Who's running this?" Cal's voice was low, steady, but the anger simmered beneath the surface.
The dealer shook his head, his voice shaking. "I—I don't know, man. We just… we're just small-time. I don't know any names. Please, just—"
Cal's grip tightened, and he slammed the man against the wall. "Where's the supply coming from?"
The dealer swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the others, but no one made a sound. "The basement, man! And some… some of the empty apartments. That's it. I swear."
Cal's teeth clenched, the frustration building in him. This wasn't what he needed. These men were nobodies. Low-level pushers. They didn't have the answers he was looking for.
He let the dealer go, the man crumpling to the floor with a gasp. Cal wiped the blood from his split knuckles on the edge of his jacket, then spotted one of their phones on the table. Without a word, he grabbed it, quickly dialing the police.
"They're in the building. Come get them." His voice was flat as he gave the address, not bothering to wait for a response before hanging up and dropping the phone back on the table.
The men in the room stared at him, some still clutching their bruised limbs, others too afraid to move. Cal stood in silence for a moment, his breath steady now, the heat gone from his veins. He'd done it. He'd stopped them. But as he looked around at the wreckage he'd caused, a nagging thought crept into his mind.
What was the point?
He hadn't learned anything. These were just pawns in a much bigger game, and he had no idea how to play it. This was supposed to be the start of something bigger—cleaning the city, rooting out the real problem. But all he'd done was beat up some small-time dealers in a dingy apartment.
Cal turned and walked out the door, leaving the men behind as he stepped back into the cold, snow swirling around him once more. He didn't have the answers. He didn't know how to gather information, how to take down something as big as an organized syndicate.
All he knew how to do was fight.