Broad Daylight
POV: Silas (First Person) → Third-Person (News Segment) → Silas (First Person)
People were talking.
You couldn't scroll through Detroit's Street blogs, burner forums, or even the weirder corners of TikTok without hearing whispers about the "ghost in black." Some said I dropped from the ceiling like smoke. Others claimed I flipped a man through a windshield. One guy said I turned into liquid and vanished into a crack in the sidewalk.
Nobody had a picture.
Just bruises and busted stories. And that was fine by me.
For the last five nights, I'd been patrolling. Alone. No name. No voice. No TikTok channel. Just shadows, bruised fists, and a suit that made the pain quieter.
But the rumors were getting louder.
One of the art students pinned a sketch of me to a power pole on campus. Charcoal figure in black. The words:
"Real or not — he's out there."
Yeah. I tore it down. Still… I kept the drawing.
That morning, I was halfway through my fourth round of training.
Sweat matted my shirt. Breathing deep. Footwork sharper. My legs moved in controlled bursts, each strike sharper than the last. Capoeira spins for misdirection. Muay Thai clinch positions. Some sharp handwork I ripped from boxing tutorials online. My body's rhythm was tighter now. Still clunky sometimes—but I was getting there.
I shifted weight and launched a fast uppercut at an invisible jaw.
"That's for last night," I muttered. "Stay down this time."
The door creaked open. Devon stepped in holding a sandwich.
"You gotta see this," he said around a mouthful of food. "Channel 9."
"Why?" I asked, grabbing my towel.
"Midtown. Bank robbery. Big one. Cops everywhere. Twenty hostages. Feels like some movie stuff."
He tossed me the remote and collapsed on my bed. I wiped the sweat from my face, turned on the TV, and flipped to Channel 9.
[POV Shift – Third Person: TV Broadcast]
"We are live at the scene of an active robbery downtown," the news anchor said as the screen showed police barricades, flashing lights, and armed SWAT teams moving outside a large brick building. "This is the tenth known robbery involving what authorities are calling the 'Dunn Street Syndicate'—an organized group of mid-level suspects with military backgrounds."
The screen cut to a calm Black woman in tactical gear behind the command van. She spoke into a shoulder mic while officers flanked her.
"That's Sergeant Rena Whitlock," the anchor continued. "A senior officer within the DPD Organized Crime Division. She's been tracking the Dunn Crew for several months, following a string of successful heists and armed vehicle robberies. But this is the first time the crew's escalated to live hostages—possibly their boldest move yet."
On-screen, the SWAT team shifted forward. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind. Onlookers huddled behind barricades with phones raised.
"The situation is still unfolding. No known fatalities. Police are negotiating while preparing for forced entry if necessary."
[POV Shift – Back to Silas]
Devon let out a low whistle. "Man, they really out here wildin' before noon."
I stood up, slowly. "Looks like it."
He glanced at me. "What?"
"I gotta run," I said, walking toward the bathroom.
"Dude, now?"
"Yeah. Errand. I told Isaiah I'd help with something off-campus."
He rolled his eyes. "Well, that sucks. I was gonna drag you into a Mario Kart match."
"I'll make it up to you," I said, already shutting the door behind me.
Inside, I locked the door and stood still. My heart thudded, not from the workout—but from what I was about to do.
Daylight job.
No shadows to hide in.
Just the suit. Just me.
I opened the duffel under the sink and pulled out the gear. Piece by piece. Smooth, matte-black fabric. Red accents. Lightweight armor segments. Utility slits in the gloves and boots. The hood settled over my head like memory.
I looked in the mirror.
No more whispers. No more rumors.
Time to move.
The city was hot. Bright. I took alleys and backlots. Every shadow was a gift. Every corner, a risk.
Three blocks from the site, I saw the barricades.
DPD cruisers, sirens still hot. Armored vans. Snipers on scaffolds. And at the center of it all—Sergeant Whitlock.
I crouched behind a parked van, watching her speak into a mic and gesture toward the south entrance of the bank. She didn't look rattled.
She looked ready.
I moved.
I slipped into a basement maintenance hatch behind the building—unguarded. The inside of the bank smelled like dust and sweat. Voices echoed faintly. Seven of them. Maybe eight.
I crouched behind an abandoned office desk and stretched a hand toward the darkness under it.
Focused.
The shadows pulled together, thick and cold in my hand, until they solidified into a black baton. Weighted perfectly. I smiled.
POV: First Person (Silas)
The bank's back corridor reeked of sweat and cold metal. I moved slow, crouched low, breath steady. Seven—maybe eight—robbers from what I could hear. Sharp voices. Aggressive. Too confident.
I stayed near the wall; eyes locked on the hallway that opened toward the teller lobby.
Time to move.
The first guy didn't hear me.
I slipped up behind him, bathed in the shadow of a half-dead ceiling bulb. Baton forming in my hand from the darkness under a bench—cool, dense, balanced.
My foot twisted around his ankle.
His balance broke.
I pulled him down hard and caught him with an elbow to the temple before he could scream. He dropped like a sack.
But the thud echoed louder than I liked.
"Yo, what was that?"
Two more rushed in from the left. No time to hide.
I charged.
First robber raised a pistol—too slow. I slapped it aside with the baton, ducked under the second guy's swing, and swept his legs from beneath him. He hit the ground hard, but the first one fired—wild.
I grabbed the guy I'd just dropped and yanked him up.
The bullet meant for me slammed into his partner's shoulder.
The man cried out, and I felt it—guilt. But I couldn't stop now.
The first shooter fired again.
I hurled the body aside, dove behind a row of chairs as rounds chewed through the plaster wall behind me.
"Move, Silas. Breathe. Reset."
I heard their steps. Two left in this wing. Armed. Flanking.
I reached under the bench. Shadows licked at my wrist. I gritted my teeth and focused.
A short blade formed—thin, curved. A combat knife. Solid in my grip.
"Center mass."
I didn't aim for it.
I snapped the blade toward the shadow near their feet. It rose like a snake, then launched—piercing the shooter's thigh.
He screamed.
The other turned. Hesitation in his eyes.
That was my opening.
I sprinted forward, ducking a punch, slamming the baton into his gut. He folded. I lifted him off the ground and slammed him into a side desk.
Breathing heavy now.
Three down. Four, maybe five more.
Gunfire rattled from the front lobby.
A scream. Hostages.
I ran.
I hit the hallway hard, turning the corner to see two robbers forcing civilians to the ground. One woman sobbed into her knees. Another man was bleeding from the forehead.
Too far for hand-to-hand.
I extended my hand.
Focused.
Shadow slipped along the edge of the nearby filing cabinet. My fingers twitched—and it answered. A new weapon formed: long, flat, pointed on both ends.
A throwing spear.
I hurled it, not to kill—just disarm.
The spear clipped the gun from the robber's hand, spinning it away across the marble floor. He shouted.
The other aimed at me.
I dove left, shoulder-rolling behind a desk as bullets slammed into the divider.
Papers flew. Hostages screamed.
I grabbed a chair leg broken from earlier chaos.
"Improvise."
I spun out from cover and launched the chair leg at his face. He flinched—and I was already on him. The baton cracked into his ribs, then again against his jaw. He dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
The first one—who lost his gun—came charging.
I braced.
Took a hit to the ribs. Pain lit up my side. I coughed but twisted into his momentum, threw my weight, and sent him crashing through a coffee table.
The lobby cleared.
Civilians ran for the exit, some shouting thanks, others just sobbing and sprinting.
I stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving, shadow blades flickering at my sides.
Then I heard it.
"DPD! Drop your weapon!"
I spun. Ten officers stormed the front.
Assault rifles. Tactical vests. Guns raised.
Their eyes locked on me.
"Don't hesitate. Don't think. Run."
I bolted.
Back through the hall. Left. Right.
Office door. Locked.
I kicked it in, stumbled inside. Just janitor gear. Mop bucket. Broom closet. No exit.
Nowhere to go—
Except…
That shadow in the corner.
I touched the wall, pressed into it with everything I had.
"Come on, come on—take me!"
The dark shivered.
Then it took me.
The Shadow Realm wasn't silent.
It pulsed.
With breath. With rhythm. Like an ocean made of still fog and gravity.
I moved through it like a thought. Faster than steps. Deeper than fear.
I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to be anywhere but there.
I let the thought guide me.
I slammed onto concrete.
Outside.
Bright sky. Rusted dumpster behind me. Familiar graffiti.
Three blocks away.
I gasped. Checked my side. Suit held. Bruised but intact.
I pulled my hood down and melted into the alley, heart hammering in my chest.
"Okay… daylights not impossible. Just dangerous."
And I kept walking.