Prologue
Dark Paragon
The neon haze of Wolf-Crest’s streets buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows down the alley like a broken circuit. Slaughter and his goons loomed over Connie, the fear rolling off the poor man thick enough to cut. Connie’s back was pressed against a graffiti-covered wall, a kaleidoscope of glowing tags flickering behind him as his heart pounded in sync with the blinking lights.
“Y’know, Connie,” Slaughter said, his voice a low rasp, “if you don’t have the money, then we can take our payment however we want.”
Connie’s hands shot up, frantic, waving like he could push the danger away. “No, I can pay you, Slaughter! I just need a few more days!”
Slaughter stepped in closer, his breath hot on Connie’s face, and something ugly curled in his smirk. "Nah, Connie boy, you had your time. Now, we just gotta figure out if we’re taking our payment in blood... or something else.”
Connie whimpered, his throat tight as the threat sunk in, his eyes darting to the sides of the alley, searching for some unseen miracle.
“Butcher, what do ya’ think Connie should pay us with?”
Butcher, a squat man to Slaughter’s left, grinned with jagged teeth, twirling his namesake—a gleaming butcher’s knife—in his fingers. "Fingers are always good currency,” he said with a grunt.
Slaughter chuckled, an ugly noise from deep in his chest. “I don’t know, Butch. That seems an awfully easy price to pay.” He glanced to the side. “Whaddya think, Mutt?”
Mutt, towering over both men, was a mountain of flesh and muscle, his shirt stretched taut over bulging biceps. He stepped forward, his shadow casting a longer, more menacing form over Connie. He leaned down, grinning in a way that made Connie’s stomach churn.
“I think the little kitten should show us a good time. And I don't know about you guys, but tasting the kitten's blood sounds all so soothing.” Mutt's voice was low and sickening, like gravel grinding under a boot. “To be blunt... I say we make him scream.”
That’s when a voice, calm and cold, cut through the tension like a blade.
“Sounds like a good idea. How about we start with you?”
The thugs turned as one, eyes widening as Paragon—Wolf-Crest’s one true protector—stepped into the alley from the rooftops above, his figure backlit by the dull glow of the neon city behind him. His suit, sleek and black, was lined with crimson highlights, gleaming like blood under the city’s artificial lights. His mask covered his entire face, two glowing red eyes staring down the thugs like twin suns of judgement.
Mutt, the biggest of them, sneered. “Who the hell are—”
Paragon didn’t answer with words. He moved, and in a blink, Mutt was flying backward, a sickening crunch filling the air as Paragon’s fist slammed into the man’s jaw with a force that made the concrete crack beneath his feet. Mutt crumpled against the wall, howling in pain as his jaw hung unnaturally from his face, half-shattered and bloody.
Slaughter barely had time to blink before Paragon turned his attention on him, his form a blur of speed and power. He didn't need fancy weapons or gadgets. His fists were more than enough. Slaughter swung a fist, a desperate, panicked motion, but Paragon caught it mid-air. The hero’s grip tightened, bones cracking under the pressure, and with a swift motion, Paragon slammed Slaughter into a rusted dumpster, the metallic clang echoing through the alley.
Butcher charged with his knife, screaming in rage, slashing wildly. Paragon ducked, weaving through the flurry of strikes with inhuman agility. Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed Butcher’s wrist, twisting the arm with precision. There was a snap as the joint gave way, and Butcher screamed, the knife clattering to the ground.
“Don’t worry,” Paragon said, his voice even, almost conversational as he delivered a brutal elbow to Butcher’s nose. “You won’t need that.”
Butcher fell hard, blood streaming from his shattered face. Slaughter tried to pull himself up from the dumpster, groaning in pain, but Paragon was on him in an instant. He grabbed Slaughter by the collar and drove him face-first into the pavement with a force that left him twitching and unconscious.
Breathing heavily, Paragon surveyed the wreckage. Mutt was out cold, clutching his mangled jaw, whimpering like a beaten dog. Butcher lay sprawled, blood pooling under him, his arm twisted at a sickening angle. Slaughter groaned, face down on the wet pavement, twitching but motionless.
Connie, trembling, looked up at Paragon with wide, terrified eyes.
“You okay?” Paragon asked, wiping his hands off on his suit as if the whole thing was a casual affair.
Connie nodded quickly, barely able to get words out. “Y-yeah, yeah. Thank you... I—”
“You’ve got a comm, right?” Paragon didn’t wait for an answer, gesturing toward the trembling man. “Make an anonymous tip to the Templars. Tell ‘em what happened here.”
Connie nodded again, fumbling for his comm device, already backing away as Paragon turned to leave. As Connie hurried down the alley, Paragon looked back at the unconscious criminals, his glowing red eyes narrowing. He wasn’t always proud of how brutal he had to get to protect this city, but in a place like Wolf-Crest, sometimes the only language thugs like these understood was violence.
For now, the city was a little safer. He’d make sure it stayed that way.
