Silver Reflections

The night was cool and quiet, the kind of quiet that never lasted in a city like this. From high above, where the steel skeletons of the train yard loomed like ghosts, Nightingale swung between rusted cranes and abandoned boxcars. Her breath formed clouds in the cold air, her muscles taut with expectation.

Thatcher had called in a tip—possible activity at the old freight terminal near the river. No backup. No clear intel. Just one name attached to it: The Supplier.

Nightingale landed softly atop a shipping container, crouched low, surveying the yard. But all she saw were shadows and the faint hum of electrical boxes that hadn’t powered anything in years. She tapped her comm, trying to call Thatcher but it wasn’t working, it wasn’t even turning on.

A voice, smooth and unhurried, cut through the silence behind her.

“I was beginning to wonder how long you’d keep me waiting.”

She spun around, dropping into a defensive stance. There walking slowly towards her was The Supplier.

His silver faceplate caught the moonlight, a mirrored reflection of her own startled expression staring back at her. He wore a black tailored suit and tie that clung to his lean frame like armor. Medium-length blond hair curled slightly at the edges, looking disarmingly casual for a man who had drowned the city in weapons and blood.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I’m here to congratulate you,” he said with a nod. “Of all the city’s heroes, you’re the only one who’s actually affected my business enough for me to get personally involved.. It’s impressive, really. And now, seeing you in person—” He tilted his head. “Wow. You’re really something.”

She narrowed her eyes and pulled out her electrified batons. “I’m putting an end to your operation. You made a mistake coming here.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Nightingale launched forward in a blur of motion, her muscles coiled with precision, every strike honed by years of street-level brawls and rooftop ambushes. Her batons lit with electric charge as she swung—left, right, down—arcing toward The Supplier’s torso with blistering speed. Her boots barely touched the ground as she wove between offense and defence, flowing like a dancer trained by ****.

The first swing was aimed for his ribs, he twisted, deflecting it with the flat of his arm. The next came fast behind it, a crackling jab at his throat. He ducked under it with an almost casual grace. The batons hummed and sparked through the air, moving faster than most eyes could follow.

But his were faster.

The Supplier moved with surgical efficiency, slipping just out of range, redirecting her **** with minimal contact—like he wasn’t even fighting, just... editing her.

Still, she pressed him, every blow a test. Her elbow slammed toward his jaw—he weaved beneath it. She swept low—he jumped. Then she spun into a heavy overhead strike.

Crack.

Her baton struck his chest with full ****, electricity discharging in a furious burst. Blue-white arcs danced across his suit, flaring in the dark. His body seized for a fraction of a second, jerking back a half-step.

Got him.

But as she moved to press the advantage, his hand lashed out and gripped the end of her baton. Sparks erupted between their hands as the current flowed.

Only, instead of recoiling, he leaned into it.

The electricity fizzled and vanished, drawn into him. The blue glow dimmed. Her baton’s charge was gone, completely drained. The metal felt cold and dead in her palm. He raised his other hand, flexing his fingers like he’d just taken a deep breath.

“You’re not the only one with tricks,” he said, his voice calm beneath the eerie, mirrored mask.

Nightingale stepped back, heart racing.

This fight had just changed.