Late Spring, 1943 — Outside Naples, Italy
The war in Italy was a different beast—muddy hills, fragile alliances, and guerilla cells that flickered in and out of existence. But for all the chaos, what shook Maxwell most wasn't on the battlefield. It came in a package wrapped in military-grade canvas, delivered by a courier with a nervous twitch.
Inside were clippings. Dozens of them. Articles from American newspapers, all blacked out in parts with thick government ink. But a pattern emerged.
"Masked Vigilante Foils Bank Robbery in Chicago" "Mob Ties Broken by Shadow Man" "Disappearing Devil Hits West Coast"
Each one described someone impossibly fast. Inhumanly strong. Always cloaked in black. Never speaking. Always gone before police arrived.
A photo slipped out from the stack. Blurry. Grainy. But the figure wore a black mask with stark white eyelets. No gloves. A red cape hanging off one shoulder.
Maxwell's blood ran cold.
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The Letter
A note was scribbled on the back in charcoal:
"He's not you. He's darker. He doesn't ask questions."
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Campfire at the Outpost
That night, around a dying fire with two junior officers, Maxwell mulled it over. One of the officers mentioned his brother in Detroit claimed a "boogeyman" had cleaned out the corrupt mayor's inner circle in one night.
"Threw one guy off the city hall roof," the soldier said. "Another's face was found in a mailbox."
Maxwell frowned. "That's not justice. That's vengeance."
"But someone's cleaning up the streets, right?" the younger one said. "Isn't that what you stand for?"
Maxwell stood. "I stand for the people who can't protect themselves. Not for those who become the monster to fight one."
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Memory Trigger
Later, in the barracks alone, Maxwell sifted through the clippings again. One stuck out.
"Warehouse inferno leaves six dead. Masked vigilante seen fleeing."
The warehouse had belonged to a known trafficking ring. But six people had died—unarmed. Witnesses reported a deep, modulated voice. Something about how "monsters don't deserve courts."
He clenched his jaw.
And then he saw it—in the corner of one photo: a blurry figure escaping through flame. The mask. The build. The movement. It was him.
Elijah, Patient Zero.