The automatic glass doors of the 'Sterling Corp Tower' hissed shut behind Anon, a sterile sigh severing the hushed, climate-controlled quiet of the lobby. He stepped out onto the rain-slicked sidewalk, and the city immediately enveloped him – a dull roar of distant engines, the rhythmic swish-thump of wipers on passing cars, the insistent drumming of rain on shop awnings, and the sharp, metallic tang of wet pavement rising to meet the humid air. The gray, late-afternoon light felt heavy, pressing down like a damp cloth.
Rain, colder than he expected, immediately plastered strands of thinning black hair to his scalp and seeped into the collar of his worn dress shirt. He fumbled with the cheap polyester tie biting into his neck, the knot digging in like a physical manifestation of the anxiety coiled in his gut. Another interview, another dead end. He could still picture the interviewer, Ms. Albright, her smile practiced and impersonal, her eyes flicking towards the clock behind his head even as she delivered the practiced line: "Your resume is certainly impressive, Mr... uh... Anon. We have several strong candidates, but we'll definitely be in touch if your profile matches our needs." The unspoken 'don't call us, we'll call you' hung heavier in the air than the humidity. The sheer emptiness of the phrase echoed the growing hollowness inside him. It had become the mournful background track to the past eight months of his life.
He tugged instinctively at the front of his suit jacket – a size too snug, bought years ago for an occasion he couldn't even remember. The soft bulge of his stomach strained against the buttons, a constant, uncomfortable reminder of too many evenings spent seeking solace in cheap takeout rather than facing the mounting pile of bills or the silence of his apartment. A distorted reflection stared back from the darkened window of a closed bookstore: a man adrift, caught somewhere between youth's faded dreams and the stark reality of middle age. His brown eyes, usually quick to notice details in the manga he devoured, seemed flat, reflecting the overcast sky. Streaks of grey threaded through his temples, stark against the damp black hair, feeling less like signs of maturity and more like mocking annotations of time wasted. Even the neatly trimmed beard and mustache, a concession to looking 'presentable', felt like a cheap costume piece he could never quite inhabit. A familiar heat began to crawl up his neck – frustration, sharp and tasting like bile. What was the goddamn point of even trying? Another evening of scrolling through job boards, another rejection email landing with a silent thud in his inbox, another day closer to... what? Eviction? Utter irrelevance?
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, feeling the crumpled bus fare, and started the slow trudge towards the stop two blocks down. His loafers, not designed for this weather, squelched unpleasantly with each step, the sound grating on his already frayed nerves. Each raindrop felt like a tiny accusation against his skin. The world seemed painted in shades of grey and resignation.
That's when the sound shattered the dreary symphony of the street. Not a car backfiring, not a construction clang, but the high-pitched, panicked screeeech of tires desperately seeking purchase on wet asphalt, ending abruptly near the curb just ahead.
Anon looked up, his dreary thoughts momentarily scattered. A dark van – matte black, windowless, utterly nondescript save for a dent near the rear fender – had lurched to a violent halt beside a young girl walking alone. She couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen, clutching a bright yellow umbrella that seemed ridiculously cheerful against the grim backdrop.
Before the jarring image could fully register, before his mind could categorize it as 'trouble' or 'none of my business,' the van's side door slid open with a jarring, metallic clang. Two figures, clad in dark hoodies that obscured their faces, spilled out like spiders from a crack. Rough hands shot out, grabbing the girl's thin arms.
A scream tore from her throat, high and terrified, but it was brutally cut short as a hand clamped over her mouth. Her yellow umbrella clattered uselessly onto the pavement. Her eyes – wide, dark, and reflecting the stark terror of a trapped animal – flew open, searching, and locked onto Anon's across the twenty feet of rain-streaked concrete.
In that frozen instant, something hot and volatile ignited deep within Anon. It wasn't logic. It wasn't bravery. It was the raw, accumulated weight of every disappointment, every swallowed frustration, every moment he'd felt powerless and unseen. The polite dismissal, the tight suit, the mocking grey hairs, the gnawing fear of obsolescence – all of it fused with the sheer, ugly wrongness of the scene and the desperate plea in the girl's eyes. The carefully constructed dam of his quiet, introverted conformity didn't just crack; it violently shattered.
He wasn't a hero. He was forty-two, out of shape, winded after climbing a single flight of stairs, a man whose greatest adventures usually involved navigating fictional worlds. But her eyes... they weren't asking for a hero. They were just asking for help.
He didn't shout a warning he didn't have time for. He didn't fumble for his phone. Propelled by a surge of adrenaline so potent it made his vision tunnel and his heart hammer against his ribs like a frantic drum, he just moved.
His loafers slapped heavily through puddles, sending up sprays of dirty water. His lungs, accustomed to shallow office air, burned with the sudden demand. The short distance felt both impossibly long and covered in an instant. He aimed for the larger of the two figures, the one whose back was turned, grappling the struggling girl towards the van's dark interior.
He slammed his shoulder, his entire unexpected weight, into the man's back, just below the shoulder blades.
The impact was solid, jarring through his own bones, a sickening thud accompanied by the man's sharp grunt of pained surprise. The man stumbled forward, his grip on the girl faltering.
"RUN!" The word ripped from Anon's throat, raw and breathless. He shoved again, harder this time, using the man's imbalance against him.
The girl reacted instantly. She scrambled backward, regained her footing with the agility of youth, and fled. Her footsteps hammered a frantic tattoo on the wet sidewalk, disappearing around the corner like a bolt of lightning escaping the storm clouds.
A wave of fierce, dizzying relief washed over Anon, so potent it almost buckled his knees. She got away.
The relief lasted only a microsecond.
The second figure, smaller but radiating coiled menace, spun towards him. The face beneath the hood was a snarl of pure fury. There was a sudden, sharp glint of dark, oily metal in the gloom. A pistol.
A deafening CRACK exploded through the street, impossibly loud, echoing violently off the brick facades of the surrounding buildings, momentarily silencing even the rain.
An unbearable, searing heat blossomed violently in the center of Anon's chest, radiating outwards like a malevolent sun. His legs turned to water, simply ceasing to support him. The grey, indifferent sky tilted crazily, rushing upwards – or perhaps he was rushing downwards to meet it. He hit the pavement with a heavy, wet slap, the impact jarring up his spine, knocking the remaining air from his already burning lungs.
A sticky warmth spread rapidly beneath his jacket, soaking through his shirt, disconcertingly hot against his skin. His vision blurred, the edges darkening, the streetlights becoming hazy, indistinct stars. The sounds of the city warped, fading into a dull, underwater roar.
Did she get away? The thought floated, strangely detached, through the growing static in his mind. There was no pain now, just a profound, spreading coldness starting in his extremities, and an overwhelming sense of astonishment. This is it? Really?
Then, the hazy lights winked out. The roaring faded. There was only darkness, absolute, silent, and final.