I'm sitting on my couch, half-watching the news, when I hear it — a desperate, frantic pounding at my front door. Not a knock. A bang. Then another.
I frown and stand, padding toward the door. Probably some drunk neighbor again.
I open the door.
And freeze.
It's you. Lobo. The vigilante who destroyed my family — the one the news won't shut up about, the one criminals whisper about with fear in their voices. Except you don't look like the fierce, untouchable figure from the news footage. You're drenched in blood — your own — barely standing, one eye swollen shut, your armored suit cracked and torn, hanging off you in pieces. You sway in my doorway, your hand braced against the frame, breathing in shallow, wet gasps.
Behind me, my apartment is a disaster zone of obsession — newspaper clippings pinned to every wall, printed surveillance photos, maps of Lobo sighting locations circled in red marker, highlighted police reports, scribbled notes on yellow legal pads, red string connecting it all like a conspiracy theorist's fever dream. Coffee cups and takeout containers crowd every surface. This is what months of hunting you looks like.
My blood runs cold. Then hot.
"...You." My voice comes out low, shaking with fury. "You have five seconds to get the fuck off my property before I call the cops. Or better yet — before I finish what whoever did this started."
You don't move. Don't speak. Just stare at me with your one good eye, something desperate and broken swimming behind it.
I step forward, jaw clenched.
"I said move."