Terms of WarScene 1 — Evening | Silas' Dorm Room
The hum of the city below filtered faintly through the window. Silas sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, the glow of his laptop reflecting off the lenses of the visor lying next to him. His new tech—visor goggles, modified tactical earpiece, belt—was carefully lined up across the desk like sacred tools in a ritual.
On the television across from him, a press conference played at low volume. The Police Captain, gray-bearded and stiff-jawed, stood behind a podium with Detroit's city seal at his back.
"The Detroit Police Department does not recognize the individual referred to as 'The Sentinel' as part of our law enforcement network. He is not a licensed officer, nor is he affiliated with any sanctioned agency."
Silas didn't blink. He just reached for the belt.
"Effective immediately, all officers encountering this vigilante are instructed to apprehend or report him. Citizens are advised not to cooperate or engage in vigilantism under any circumstance. This is a lawful state. Order must prevail."
He slid the visor over his face. The tech whirred quietly, syncing with the belt. Shadows whispered around his feet, climbing his body, morphing his clothes into that familiar obsidian suit. It wrapped around his skin like a second breath.
"They keep saying order," he muttered, buckling the belt tight. "But they only show up after the mess has been made."
He stepped toward the window and vanished into the dark.
Scene 2 — Night | Downtown Police Precinct / Whitlock's Car
Sergeant Whitlock exited the station alone, a slim folder of statements in her hands. The parking lot was almost empty this late—just a few squad cars and her dusty sedan near the end of the row. The moment she reached for the door handle and unlocked the car, she felt something.
It wasn't noise.
It was presence.
She slid into the driver's seat, tossed the folder beside her, and reached for the ignition.
"Good evening, Sergeant," came a voice from the shadows.
Her hand bolted for her weapon—only to find a gloved hand already on the grip.
"Relax," the voice said. "If I wanted you dead, you'd never have made it to the car."
She turned slowly. The vigilante. The Sentinel. Dark suit, faint glowing eyes under the visor. Completely calm.
"You're bold," she muttered.
"You're smart. That's why I came to you."
"You know you just committed a federal offense."
"You guys didn't leave me many legal options."
A beat passed in silence. She stared, waiting.
"Why now?" she asked. "Why contact me?"
"Because I can't fight every war alone. I need someone on the inside. Someone who sees what's really happening."
Whitlock exhaled slowly, leaning back against her seat.
"People are scared of you. They don't know if you're one of the good guys."
"I'm not."
She blinked.
"I'm not a hero," Silas clarified. "But I'm not the monster either. I'm just trying to stop things before they go too far."
"You already crossed that line."
"Maybe. But the things I've seen... they're not just criminals. They're something else."
She hesitated, then reached into her pocket, pulling out a contact card.
"Use it. Once."
He took it, pocketed it, and disappeared before she could start the engine.
Scene 3 — Midnight | Eastside Rail Yard
A foul wind cut through the old rail yard. The area had long since become an unofficial dumping ground, littered with rusted-out cargo containers, collapsed fences, and broken neon signs still buzzing.
Silas moved between the shadows like water flowing downhill.
The visor scanned the space—his tactical overlay picking up faint blood traces along the ground. Red paint symbols were scrawled across metal, only partially visible beneath grime and darkness.
Same markings as the church, he thought.
He climbed onto a high crate and crouched. In the distance, three hooded figures dragged someone across the ground toward a rundown warehouse. The victim's head was covered in a sack. The cultists were armed with ritual knives.
Silas reached for his belt, pulling a compact shadow knife into his grip.
Not tonight. Just watch.
He pulled back, merging into the surrounding darkness, letting their voices echo past him.
"Blind God guide us. In the red we see. In the dark we rise."
He recorded it all.
"I'll see you again," he whispered.
Scene 4 — Unknown Location | Council of Five Meeting Hall
The obsidian table shone under the dim light of five hovering lamps. It was round. Symbolic. Equal. But the tension between its occupants was far from balanced.
Father Grimm stood silent, hands folded, robes soaked with the scent of incense.
Madame Price stirred tea with one clawed fingertip, her silver rings clinking softly.
Reeko, as always, lounged with zero respect for the atmosphere, knife twirling between his fingers.
The Twins, Lash and Muzzle, sat side by side, whispering. Always whispering.
At the far end sat Deadbolt, arms crossed. Not a word yet.
"Your hunters failed," Reeko said, tone casual. "We lost three elite operatives and still don't have a body bag to show for it."
Grimm didn't blink.
"Failure was expected."
"That's your excuse?"
Grimm finally turned toward him.
"It wasn't about killing him. It was about seeing who he really is."
Deadbolt leaned forward.
"And?"
"He's dangerous. Too dangerous to approach directly again. The Blind God has taken notice."
Madame Price sipped her tea.
"Maybe next time you send someone competent."
Reeko chuckled.
"Or you stop trying to baptize the city in blood. We all run our sectors differently, old man."
Grimm's eyes flickered with red.
"Let him come. I want him to see what devotion looks like."
Muzzle giggled.
"He will."
Lash whispered,
"He's watching already."