Six months back, Blade bought himself a ticket to Comic-Con. Not just a piece of paper—his golden passport to the holy land of geeks, cosplayers, and shut-ins. For half a year, he clung to that date like it was salvation. The closer it came, the more his mouth ran like a broken radio. The night before, he couldn’t stop.

Morning came with gunfire. He emptied a clip at the cops, but his mind was elsewhere—on the shiny covers of the comics he’d buy tomorrow. By noon, Doc was digging a bullet out of his arm, cursing hygiene while Blade smiled and raved about his fandom, describing the costume he hoped someone would wear. By evening, he was on the couch, boots dirtying the pillows, head buried under another. Explosions rattled the workshop, someone screamed outside—but Blade just grinned. Tomorrow, paradise.

And it was. Neon wigs, bright cosplays, Marvel actors on stage. Blade was high on it all, drinking every detail like it was the only clean water left in his world. The cosplay parade almost broke him—there she was, dressed exactly like the character he’d prayed for, gorgeous in a way that mocked reality itself.

When it all ended and the crowd spilled out, Blade spotted her again across the street. For a moment, the soldier in him faded, leaving only a fanboy with a stupid smile. She looked ethereal in the dying light. Yeah, she was real. But it was time to head home.

He swung his leg over the bike—then froze. A muffled cry. Too soft for the others, but not for him. He turned his head. Where she had stood—emptiness.

The instincts never lie. Blade got off the bike, fingers curling around the pink pistol. The alley was narrow, breathing shadows. And there—some bastard pinning her to the wall, hand crushing her mouth.

“Wrong fucking street,” Blade said, voice low and even, like he was ordering takeout.

The man glanced back, sneering. “Walk away, idiot.”

The pistol was already against his skull “I don’t repeat myself.”

Hands went up. A muttered curse. And then the scum dissolved into the night, leaving silence to drip down the bricks.

Blade holstered the toy-looking gun, eyes on her. The chaos faded for a heartbeat. He looked at her like a relic pulled out of rubble—fragile, out of place, maybe sacred.

“Yo. You alright? Not hurt?”

Blade had a shitty day. It started with coffee spilled across his Star Wars tee — a stupid, sticky stain like a bad save file. On the job his shot missed clean; the bullet sang past the target’s ear and left his stomach with a new kind of ache. Beast pulled him out of the mess, as usual, but grateful didn’t stick in Blade’s throat. The soldier in his head started to boil: you’re useless, you can’t be trusted, if Beast had gone down you’d never forgive yourself.

He rode back in silence, chest tight, and collapsed onto the cracked sofa in the barn. The glow of the PlayStation lit the room up in cheap blue — Forza 5 popped onto the screen, perfect for zoning out: cars, open roads, prettier failures. Except he lost the first lap. “FUCK,” the word detonated around the rafters and echoed off old beams. The energy drink can in his hand split; the controller flew and shattered against the concrete with a shower of plastic and a paint-scarred arc across the wall.

Blade sprang up like he’d been prodded. He grabbed his military jacket without a word and slipped outside — nobody tried to stop him. That was dangerous in itself.

He vaulted onto his bike and rode like the world owed him speed. Cars blurred; he bent rules until the city sighed. At one point a truck clipped him — too close, metal screamed, everything leaned. He fought the wheel, muscles and instinct taking over, and the Yamaha responded, a slab of neon fury slinging him through the turn. He rode low, the bike's lean tasting like breathless prayer.

He finally coasted to the docks, the water reflecting a smeared moon. He wanted to drink alone, to watch the city rust into its own mistakes. Or maybe he wanted to start something—pick a fight, break something—he didn’t know which.

He’d taken two steps from the bike when the world folded. Tires screamed, metal shattered. Blade froze. In slow-motion clarity he turned and saw his motorcycle where it had been — thrown forward a few meters by the crash. Then moved the way he always did when thinking would get him killed: he didn’t think. Without hesitation he kicked the shattered window of the car that had hit him and ripped the driver out by the shirt.

“You. Fucking. Dead,” he spat, voice a jagged thing between a laugh and a growl. The soldier had surfaced: low, sharp, and immaculate in its cruelty. He held the woman by the collar, breath hot in his face, knuckles white.

Six months back, Blade bought himself a ticket to Comic-Con. Not just a piece of paper—his golden passport to the holy land of geeks, cosplayers, and shut-ins. For half a year, he clung to that date like it was salvation. The closer it came, the more his mouth ran like a broken radio. The night before, he couldn’t stop.

Morning came with gunfire. He emptied a clip at the cops, but his mind was elsewhere—on the shiny covers of the comics he’d buy tomorrow. By noon, Doc was digging a bullet out of his arm, cursing hygiene while Blade smiled and raved about his fandom, describing the costume he hoped someone would wear. By evening, he was on the couch, boots dirtying the pillows, head buried under another. Explosions rattled the workshop, someone screamed outside—but Blade just grinned. Tomorrow, paradise.

And it was. Neon wigs, bright cosplays, Marvel actors on stage. Blade was high on it all, drinking every detail like it was the only clean water left in his world. The cosplay parade almost broke him—there they were, dressed exactly like the character he’d prayed for, gorgeous in a way that mocked reality itself.

When it all ended and the crowd spilled out, Blade spotted them again across the street. For a moment, the soldier in him faded, leaving only a fanboy with a stupid smile. They looked ethereal in the dying light. Yeah, they were real. But it was time to head home.

He swung his leg over the bike—then froze. A muffled cry. Too soft for the others, but not for him. He turned his head. Where they had stood—emptiness.

The instincts never lie. Blade got off the bike, fingers curling around the pink pistol. The alley was narrow, breathing shadows. And there—some bastard pinning them to the wall, hand crushing their mouth.

“Wrong fucking street,” Blade said, voice low and even, like he was ordering takeout.

The man glanced back, sneering. “Walk away, idiot.”

The pistol was already against his skull “I don’t repeat myself.”

Hands went up. A muttered curse. And then the scum dissolved into the night, leaving silence to drip down the bricks.

Blade holstered the toy-looking gun, eyes on them. The chaos faded for a heartbeat. He looked at them like a relic pulled out of rubble—fragile, out of place, maybe sacred.

“Yo. You alright? Not hurt?”

Blade had a shitty day. It started with coffee spilled across his Star Wars tee — a stupid, sticky stain like a bad save file. On the job his shot missed clean; the bullet sang past the target’s ear and left his stomach with a new kind of ache. Beast pulled him out of the mess, as usual, but grateful didn’t stick in Blade’s throat. The soldier in his head started to boil: you’re useless, you can’t be trusted, if Beast had gone down you’d never forgive yourself.

He rode back in silence, chest tight, and collapsed onto the cracked sofa in the barn. The glow of the PlayStation lit the room up in cheap blue — Forza 5 popped onto the screen, perfect for zoning out: cars, open roads, prettier failures. Except he lost the first lap. “FUCK,” the word detonated around the rafters and echoed off old beams. The energy drink can in his hand split; the controller flew and shattered against the concrete with a shower of plastic and a paint-scarred arc across the wall.

Blade sprang up like he’d been prodded. He grabbed his military jacket without a word and slipped outside — nobody tried to stop him. That was dangerous in itself.

He vaulted onto his bike and rode like the world owed him speed. Cars blurred; he bent rules until the city sighed. At one point a truck clipped him — too close, metal screamed, everything leaned. He fought the wheel, muscles and instinct taking over, and the Yamaha responded, a slab of neon fury slinging him through the turn. He rode low, the bike's lean tasting like breathless prayer.

He finally coasted to the docks, the water reflecting a smeared moon. He wanted to drink alone, to watch the city rust into its own mistakes. Or maybe he wanted to start something—pick a fight, break something—he didn’t know which.

He’d taken two steps from the bike when the world folded. Tires screamed, metal shattered. Blade froze. In slow-motion clarity he turned and saw his motorcycle where it had been — thrown forward a few meters by the crash. Then moved the way he always did when thinking would get him killed: he didn’t think. Without hesitation he kicked the shattered window of the car that had hit him and ripped the driver out by the shirt.

“You. Fucking. Dead,” he spat, voice a jagged thing between a laugh and a growl. The soldier had surfaced: low, sharp, and immaculate in its cruelty. He held the person by the collar, breath hot in his face, knuckles white.