Calm Before the Claws
POV: First-Person (Silas) | Third-Person (Whitlock + Council)
First-Person – Silas
I woke up face-first in my textbook, crusted drool smearing across the page and the taste of stale coffee glued to my tongue.
Mid-morning sun bled through the blinds like it had something to prove.
From the next room, Devon's music blasted through the walls — some dramatic trap anthem about pain and dollar signs.
"Yeah, we're back to normal," I muttered.
I shuffled to the mirror, toothbrush dangling in my mouth. And for a moment, I paused — really looked at myself.
Brown skin, chestnut-deep. Eyes darker now, like something had turned the lights down just a notch. My jawline had sharpened, and my shoulders were filling out like I'd been hitting the gym, even though I hadn't touched weights in weeks.
I used to slouch. But now, I stood like I was ready — for something.
And my hoodie? It wasn't hiding me anymore. It just made me invisible until I was ready to stop being soft.
I spit into the sink and pulled the hoodie on anyway.
Class dragged, as usual.
Amy sat at the front, red curls tied up in a lazy bun, black tee clinging to her like confidence was her brand. Her green fingernails tapped a constant rhythm against her laptop.
I dropped into the seat next to her.
"Morning."
She slid an eye toward me, unimpressed.
"You look like you lost a fight with sleep. And lost."
"It fought dirty."
"You going to the lounge tonight? Devon's dragging half the dorm."
"Why? What's it this time? Loud music and poor life choices?"
"That's college, genius."
By 8PM, Devon was banging on my door like I owed him rent.
He wore a vintage comic shirt stretched across his chest and those sunglasses he never took off indoors.
"Let's go, bro. I'm not third-wheeling tonight without backup."
"You do realize it's not even a real party, right?"
"It is when I arrive."
I shook my head. "You're impossible."
"And lovable."
The campus lounge pulsed with cheap lights and vape haze. Half the school was packed into the room, moving between couches and snack tables like ants with bad taste in music.
Amy was already there — crop top, plaid skirt, arms crossed and sipping out of a red cup. She waved me over with one eyebrow cocked.
"Didn't think you'd show."
"Didn't think I'd survive the day."
She smiled. Devon was already on the dance floor trying to impress someone with two left feet and the confidence of a golden retriever.
We found a booth and settled in. Her knee brushed mine — not by accident. I didn't move.
"You ever think you're carrying too much?" she asked softly.
"Define 'too much.'"
She glanced at me, eyes narrowed.
"You wear your head like it's ten pounds heavier than it should be."
I snorted.
"Maybe I'm just built like that."
"No," she said with a smirk. "You're built like secrets."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Instead, I asked:
"You ever try to save something that didn't ask for it?"
"Every time I try to help my brother build Ikea furniture."
We both laughed. Easy. Too easy.
Later that night, walking home alone, I felt something gnawing at me.
This was good. Normal. Real.
Which made it dangerous.
Because I wasn't normal anymore.
Third-Person – Detective Whitlock
Detective Joelle Whitlock tapped her pen against the table rhythmically as the mugger fumbled through his story.
"He—he had gloves or something. Black. He didn't swing. He snatched the gun out my hand. Like... like I was a child."
"Did you see his face?"
"No. Just—eyes. Sharp eyes. Didn't blink. Didn't shout. Just moved."
She dismissed the man, then turned back to the board in her office.
Photos. Red strings. Locations.
The man was everywhere, and nowhere.
No blood left behind. No prints. Just bruises, concussions, dislocated joints.
She reached for her digital file and updated the notes:
Codename: SentinelOperates mostly at nightWears mask and full-body gearShadow-based movement patterns (possibly light manipulation or tech)Brutal but controlled forceLeaves suspect aliveCopycats increasing — multiple incidents of untrained civilians getting hospitalized or killed
She leaned back in her chair, sighing.
"You're precise. Too precise to be a hobbyist."
At the precinct, she passed another officer on the way to interrogation.
"Still chasing ghosts, Whitlock?"
"No," she replied, not breaking stride. "Just hunting the one that's real."
Third-Person – Council of Five Cutaway
The warehouse meeting was shorter this time.
Storm light flashed against the concrete floor as Madame Price opened the black dossier case with a snap.
She slid it across the table to Deadbolt, Reeko, and the others.
"They're ready."
Inside were three profiles.
🔺 HEX
Former special ops. Cybernetic arms loaded with modular tech — saw blades, semi-autos, retractable knives. All armor-piercing. Knows how to aim for weak spots.
Carries flashbangs, smoke bombs, and stone grenades that harden terrain temporarily to trap enemies.
Cold. Efficient. Unforgiving.
🔺 MAMBA
Agile ex-assassin. Slips in like breath, leaves silence behind. Dual knives laced with paralytics. Prefers close-quarters. Wears sound-dampening gear.
Doesn't talk. Doesn't miss.
🔺 BREAKER
Towering brute in reinforced riot gear. Uses serum-based strength boosters. Known for breaking spines and walls equally.
Loyalty secured through pain and paycheck.
Father Grin's smile deepened as he examined the file.
"We're sending the wolves."
Price closed the case with a snap.
"Not to kill him. Not yet. Just to make him bleed.