The decision was made. I needed bait.

  It didn't take long to find what I was looking for in the district's underworld. A small-time middleman, a man with yellow teeth who sold drugs on a godforsaken corner.

  I handed him 2,000 dolrs and a crumpled piece of paper with a hand-drawn sketch. My instructions were precise: he had to hire a desperate junkie, someone disposable who would do anything for the next fix.

  The job was simple: strictly follow the safe route I had traced on the map to infiltrate the coordinates near Ground Zero, retrieve a package wrapped in rags, and bring it to a meeting point.

  I watched from afar as the middleman recruited a certain "Stan," a gaunt man willing to risk his life for 500 dolrs.

  Once Stan left to fulfill the mission and the middleman turned around counting his share of the money, I knew what I had to do.

  With so many secret organizations and heroes watching, one can never be cautious enough. He knew the Ghost wanted the job done. Loose ends get cut.

  I appeared from the shadows, leaving me alone with the middleman in the alley. He was counting the money I had given him, with a stupid smile on his face.

  "Good business, kid," he murmured, without looking up.

  "The best," I replied.

  I raised my weapon.

  BANG!

  I shot him once in the head. The body fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  It should have been easy. I had already killed the trained A.R.G.U.S. soldier before without blinking. But this time... something went wrong.

  The instant the blood stained the asphalt, an unnatural chill ran down my spine. It was as if an invisible veil tore in my mind.

  The metallic smell of blood, which my brain previously registered as neutral data, now invaded my nostrils with a cloying and repulsive stench.

  A deep, viscous, and real disgust hit my stomach with the force of a punch.

  I took a step back, staggering. Bile rose in my throat. Unable to hold it back, I ripped off my mask and vomited in a dark corner, trying to calm the uncontrolble trembling of my hands.

  Ding! [Supervilin System: Critical Notification] Congratutions on your first "Real Kill". Effect Removed: Hidden Passive Skill {Gamer's Mind}. Expnation: The Vilin System (Low Rank) grants this Skill to protect the psyche of users who have lived as civilians, allowing them to act without remorse. Current Status: Now that you have evolved, the Supervilin System has removed the "training wheels." A true Supervilin must be able to bear the weight of his sins without artificial filters.

  I wiped the corner of my lips with the back of my hand, breathing heavily. I spat on the ground to get rid of the bitter taste.

  "Gamer's Mind?" I thought, looking at the corpse with new eyes. Now I didn't see an "NPC" or an "enemy." I saw a shattered human body.

  The smell of iron and excrement was unbearable.

  "No wonder... no wonder it was so easy to kill those people. It was like a video game. The System drugged me so I wouldn't feel anything."

  I looked at my hands. They were trembling. The disgust was real. The terror of having taken a life was real.

  "But there's no turning back," I whispered, forcing my mind to harden. "The System has removed the buffer. If I want to survive in this world and dominate it, I'll have to learn to swallow this vomit all by myself. No one is going to block my emotions for me."

  I put the mask back on, hiding my weakness behind the bck fabric, and forced myself to focus on the mission. Stan was on his way.

  Thirty minutes ter, it seemed my paranoia had been exaggerated... or so I thought at first.

  The junkie had managed to enter and exit via the "safe route" marked by the system without triggering any arms, stepping on mines, or getting detained. He had the Sonic Weapon in his hands. Physically, the path was clear.

  But while I waited hidden on the rooftop of a building near the meeting point, observing everything through my Tactical Map, the reality of the situation revealed itself.

  The blue dot of (Stan) appeared at the edge of the map, approaching. He was moving fast, believing himself victorious.

  But then, my blood ran cold.

  Another dot appeared on the radar, emerging from nowhere right at his back.

  It wasn't a bright, aggressive red dot like the A.R.G.U.S. soldiers. Nor was it blue like civilians. It was a Dark Red Dot. Intense. Oppressive. A color my system had never shown before.

  Someone was following him. Stealthy. Professional.

  They hadn't trapped the weapon. They had used the weapon as bait and were waiting for someone to take it to follow them back to the ir.

  "Damn it," I whispered, feeling cold sweat under the mask. "They had been watching the spot where I left the weapon. They were fishing. If I had gone myself, I'd be dead or in a holding cell."

  I had to abort, but I needed to know who the pursuer was.

  I wrote a quick note on a piece of paper, wrapped a stone with it, and dropped it with precision right in the center of the alley, under the beam of a flickering streetmp, where Stan was supposed to meet me.

  Stan arrived sometime ter, sweating buckets and looking around nervously, hugging the sonic weapon wrapped in dirty rags. He saw the note on the ground. He picked it up and read it.

  "Change of pns. We are being watched. Leave the weapon there on the ground. Take the envelope with the money under the brick to your right and go. Don't look back."

  I watched from the shadows, holding my breath. It was a test of intelligence and survival.

  If he left the weapon, the pursuer (the Dark Red Dot) would stop to examine the recovered item. Stan would live, leave with the money, and I could see who the enemy was through the hidden camera I had left on the corner.

  But greed is the worst human fw. And Stan was very human.

  Stan found the envelope with the money under the brick. He pocketed it with a triumphant smile... and then clutched the weapon tightly against his chest.

  He looked around, believing himself smarter than the "Ghost," and took off running with both. Money and merchandise.

  He wanted it all.

  "Idiot," I said, without emotion, watching him sign his death warrant.

  The Dark Red Dot on my radar accelerated sharply. A shadowy figure leaped from a neighboring roof, moving with lethal and silent grace, chasing the fool Stan from the heights.

  I stood there, biting the tip of my tongue, thinking at full speed.

  Even though I had just saved myself from an ambush, greed kept whispering in my ear. The Sonic Weapon was valuable, cutting-edge technology I couldn't replicate. My head tried to rationalize the situation:

  "The era of street vigintes in Marvel shouldn't have started yet," I calcuted. "Daredevil is still a kid or training. Spider-Man doesn't exist yet."

  "The only hero who might be making a name for himself is Superman in Metropolis. Batman... according to my memories, Bruce Wayne should appear years ter."

  With that logic soothing my fear, my curiosity and greed won the battle. I needed to know who that red dot was.

  "I have the radar," I murmured. "I can follow him from afar without entering his vision range."

  Determined, I followed the junkie's trail, keeping a two-block distance.

  Stan was a textbook idiot. Instead of fleeing and hiding in a sewer, he had gone into "The Broken Barrel," a dive bar three streets away.

  He probably thought it was a good idea to celebrate his "score" with cheap booze, ignoring that he had high-tech weaponry propped under the table like an umbrel.

  I stopped on a safe rooftop and observed the Dark Red Dot on my map.

  The mysterious figure hadn't entered the bar. It was motionless on a building across the street, surely watching the door. Waiting.

  A chill ran down my back.

  "He's hunting," I whispered, feeling a cold sweat. "He doesn't want Stan. Stan is the bait. He wants to see who he hands the weapon to. He wants the boss. He wants the Ghost."

  If I got close to that bar, I was finished.

  But I wasn't going to let Stan hand the weapon over to that stranger. If I couldn't have it, no one would.

  I went down to the alley and walked toward a phone booth on the opposite corner. I took off the mask momentarily to speak clearly. I needed to sound human, not like a distorted demon that would make the operator think it was a prank.

  I dialed the number with my winter gloves, avoiding leaving fingerprints.

  "911, what is your emergency?"

  "There's an armed man at 'The Broken Barrel' bar on Fifth Avenue," I said, with the deepest and most armed voice I could muster. "He has a high-tech military weapon. He seems drugged and unstable. He's screaming he's going to shoot everyone."

  I hung up before they could start the trace and put the mask back on, feeling the safety of the shadows envelop me again.

  Three minutes ter, on a distant rooftop, I watched as chaos unleashed.

  Sirens wailed, breaking the silence of the night. Two patrol cars skidded in front of the bar, blocking the entrance. The officers got out with guns drawn, shouting orders.

  "POLICE! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

  Stan, drunk and stupid, tried to leave through the back door but tripped over his own feet. The police immobilized him in seconds against the pavement.

  One of the officers took the Sonic Weapon, looking at it with total confusion due to its futuristic design and LED lights, before storing it in the patrol car as evidence.

  I had lost the weapon, yes. Now it was in the hands of the NYPD. But at least I was safe.

  However, I wasn't looking at the police. My eyes were fixed on the roof near the chaos.

  The Dark Red dot on my radar moved.

  The figure stood atop the gargoyle. For a second, the full moon's light cast his silhouette perfectly against the night sky.

  The cape billowing like nightmare wings. The pointed ears. The stance of an absolute predator.

  My heart skipped a beat. The air caught in my lungs.

  I immediately hid completely behind the concrete and darkness, holding my breath until it hurt. I knew my Stealth Level 3.8 was a joke compared to him.

  If he turned around, I was dead. I could only pray that his attention remained on the police.

  "Batman," I whispered with pure terror.

  My calcutions were wrong. The variables of this world didn't follow comic book logic. The Dark Knight was already here.

  And I had just pyed with him.